Thursday, 31 January 2013

Rilke - The Landscape Of Love

  The Landscape Of Love

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

As Once the Winged Energy of Delight

As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood's dark abysses,
now beyond your own life build the great
arch of unimagined bridges.

Wonders happen if we can succeed
in passing through the harshest danger;
but only in a bright and purely granted
achievement can we realize the wonder.

To work with Things in the indescribable
relationship is not too hard for us;
the pattern grows more intricate and subtle,
and being swept along is not enough.

Take your practiced powers and stretch them out
until they span the chasm between two
contradictions...For the god
wants to know himself in you.

 * * *
(LittLE Rilke )

The Great Question-dynasty: If We Are Continually Inadequate In Love, Uncertainty In Decision, Important In The Face Of Death, How Is It Possible To Exist?

* * *
 At the end of life we will not be judged by how many diplomas we  , much money we have made, how many great things we have done. 
 Hungry not only for bread,  but hungry for love. 

Rainer Maria Rilke
 he Great Question-dynasty: … If We Are Continually Inadequate In Love, Uncertainty In Decision, Important In The Face Of Death, How Is It Possible To Exist?
Rainer Maria Rilke
 “At the end of life we will not be judged by how many diplomas we ... much money we have made, how many great things we have done. ... Hungry not only for bread -- but hungry for love.   
Rainer Maria Rilke

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

The life Penalty - to the enhancement and progressive development of human rights

  The life Penalty- to the enhancement and progressive development of human rights

  I'm support The life Penalty, not "the death penalty", because i'm always support the life and never the death.. opposite  I have a dream , i have a wish, i work and i want kill the death!;D  whole my life  i think how i can kill the  fucking Death!:D;D;D
and Peoples who support the death penalty. i want ask: who give they the inhuman right  kill somebody, under law, or outlaw??...

People close your  eyes and I M A G I N E !* Just imagine whole USA and whole world without the death penalty, I M A G I N E !* ;)  
P.s  i want one beautiful day my dream come true and  abolish "the death penalty"!


  we are our children's example.. don't forget it..

                          Khatia Shiuka

Sunday, 27 January 2013

A Four Messages For All Humanity! :)

How far do you think? ...

1.  Message 

Charlie Chaplin is a  Legend, Icon & most recognizable human being of the 20th Century, and i think it's very greatest speech ever made Charlie Chaplin... it's one of the most inspirational speeches in recorded history was given by a comedian by the name of Charlie Chaplin in the movie "The Great Dictator"....
the speech i watched 100 times, because i  share it and  i really love it....  and i love the great man and truly great name Charlie Chaplin....
P.s  i discovered that  he was not a murder  how J. Lennon, how J. Kennedy, How M. Gandhi, How M. L. king..  oh, really thankful... it's really big hope... for me....
    K. S

(Albert Einstein and Charlie Chaplin) 

2.  Message

 Non Violence!  

 ( Vegetarian friends:)

 Mahatma Gandhi' s The Philosophy of Non Violence

3.  Message 


 4. Message 

Wednesday, 23 January 2013



Early this morning
when you knocked

upon my door (2x)

An I say

Hello Satan

I believe its time to go
Me and the Devil
Walking side by side (2x)
And I'm gonna see my woman
'til I get satisfied
See See
You don't see why
Like you'a dog me 'round
*Now babe you know I ain't do it like that
Say I
Don't see why
people dawging me around
It must be that old old evil spirit
that spirit drop me down in your ground
you may
bury my body
down by the highway side
*I don't really care where you bury me when I'm gone
I'm gone
you may bury my body
down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit
can greyhound
bus that ride
--Bonus part
in the ruins of another black mans life
Or flying through the valley
separating day and night
I am am Death,
Cried the Vulture,
for the people of the light
Caron brought his raft
from the sea that sails on souls
and I saw the scavenger departing
taking warm hearts to the cold
he knew the ghetto was a haven
for the meanest creature ever known
in a wilderness of heart break
in a desert of despair
Evil's clarion of justice
shrieks a cry of naked terror
taking babies from their mamas
leaving grief beyond compare
so if you see the vulture coming
flying circles in your mind
remember their is no escaping
for he will follow close behind,

only promise me a battle

a battle

for your soul and mind
and mine

and mine 

Where Did The Night Go 

Long ago the clock washed midnight away
Bringing the dawn
Oh God, I must be dreaming
Time to get up again
And time to start up again
Pulling on my socks again
Should have been asleep
When I was sitting there drinking beer
And trying to start another letter to you
Don't know how many times I dreamed to write again last night
Should've been asleep when I turned the stack of records over and over
So I wouldn't be up by myself
Where did the night go?
Should go to sleep now
And say fuck a job and money
Because I spend it all on unlined paper and can't get past
"Dear baby, how are you?"
Brush my teeth and shave
Look outside, sky is dark
Think it may rain
Where did
Where did
Where did


( Gil Scott-Heron's music was a mesmerising mix of wry poetry and politics and he became known as 'the godfather of rap' and 'the black Bob Dylan'.)

Monday, 21 January 2013

This is Just to Say

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

This is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and o cold .

 William Carlos William

Sunday, 20 January 2013

Beat Books

  To save America

Fifty years ago this week, a bookshop assistant was arrested for 'peddling' obscene literature - the banned work was Allen Ginsberg's 'Howl'. 

26 Mar 1966, Manhattan, New York, Allen Ginsberg, beatnik poet, wearing a stars and stripes hat, marches with a music group called the "Fugs." At Ginsberg's left is Peter Orlovsky, poet. More than 15,000 anti-Viet Nam demonstrators paraded down Fifth Ave Photograph: Bettmann/CORBIS
Among the first people to whom Allen Ginsberg sent "Howl" for advice and criticism, when he completed the poem early in 1956, were his parents. Louis Ginsberg was a poet of mild manners and modest abilities, whose neat stanzas were often to be seen in the poetry corner of the New York Times. "Howl" was as far from the kind of poetry he admired as it is possible to be, but he welcomed any indication of accomplishment in his troubled 29-year-old son. "It's a wild, rhapsodic, explosive outpouring with good figures of speech," Louis wrote to Allen in February 1956. But he remained uneasy about evidence of dangerous habits. "I still insist, however, there is no need for dirty, ugly words, as they will entangle you, unnecessarily, in trouble." There had been plenty of that already. At the turn of the decade, Allen had spent eight months in the Columbia Psychiatric Institute, New York, as an alternative to serving a prison sentence for receiving stolen goods.

Ginsberg's mother, Naomi, was in a mental hospital when she received her copy. "It seems to me your wording was a little too hard," she scribbled in a letter, practically the last words she ever wrote - she died the same day. "Don't go in for ridiculous things."

Between them, Louis and Naomi Ginsberg encapsulated the tone of the response that Howl and Other Poems would attract - from "rhapsodic" to "ridiculous" - when it appeared at the end of 1956. The little pamphlet, 44 stapled pages, hardly the size of a postcard, was published by City Lights Books, Number 4 in the Pocket Poets Series overseen by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and issued from his famous bookshop on Columbus Avenue, San Francisco. The poet and doctor William Carlos Williams contributed a short preface, lending the collection an air of respectability, but no mainstream publisher would have touched it. Ginsberg's extravagant, free-form verses were aesthetically off-putting to most editors and critics in the mid-50s, but his language - his too-hard "wording" - was simply outside the law.

 (Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, Barbara Rubin, Bob Dylan, and Daniel Kramer backstage at McCarter Theater, in Princeton, New Jersey, September, 1964. © Daniel Kramer).
  To put things briefly in perspective: at least two out of the last four Man Booker prizewinners (The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst and Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre) could not have been published in their present form before 1960. The same goes for almost the entire output of John Updike and Philip Roth. Some writers devised ways of getting round the prohibition on four-letter words - Norman Mailer came up with "fug" to colour the speech of soldiers in his 1948 novel The Naked and the Dead. Some, such as Henry Miller and Vladimir Nabokov, were content to have their risky books published abroad, usually in Paris, where the Olympia Press and its offshoots rejected books without a high degree of sexual content. Most just avoided the problem.

Ginsberg's book contains the poem "America", which has the line "America ... Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb". Another, "Transcription of Organ Music", practically a prose poem, offers the recollection "When I first got laid, HP graciously took my cherry ..." with the implication that both the speaker and HP were men. But it was the title poem that drew the most attention. The book was printed in England by Villiers, which shipped the first consignment to California without incident. But 520 copies of the second printing were seized by US customs, on the grounds that the writing was obscene. In a remark much repeated in ironical tones, the chief collector of customs said of "Howl": "You wouldn't want your children to come across it." 

The books arriving from England were impounded in March, but in late May the collector of customs decided not to proceed with the case - Ferlinghetti had had a further 2,500 copies printed in the US, to get round the legal technicality of importing obscene material - and the outlook appeared bright for the poet and his publisher. However, within a week, in a sting operation, two officers of the Juvenile Bureau of the San Francisco Police Department entered City Lights, where the "banned" Howl and Other Poems was now the main item on display, and made to buy a copy. When the counter assistant Shig Murao accepted money for the book and a magazine, the Miscellaneous Man, he was arrested on June 3 for "peddling" literature likely to be harmful to minors. (Charges against the Miscell-aneous Man were soon dropped.) Ferlinghetti turned himself in a few days later.

The opening line of "Howl" - "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked" - is among the best-known in American poetry. It has become a catchphrase. In 1997, Anglia Railways used it as an advertising jingle, to plug a special deal on trains from London to Norwich: "I saw the best minds of my generation at Liverpool Street Station ..." (the Ginsberg estate politely put a stop to it). Ginsberg wrote Part I of the poem while living at 1010 Montgomery Street, San Francisco (the house is still there; no plaque). He later recalled that he had not intended to publish it, and therefore felt free to commemorate the various assaults of madness, injury, death and persecution that had befallen the "best minds" of his intimate circle in what they experienced as the repressive atmosphere of postwar America.

(  Bob Donlin (Rob Donelly  in J.K.'s Desolation Angels), Neal Cassady, Robert Lavigne painter, poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Allen Ginsberg in black corduroy jacket) in front of City Lights Bookshop, North Beach Broadway & Columbus Avenue San Francisco late 1955.)

Most of the poem's long lines, or "strophes", begin with "who" - "who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull" - and are traceable to actual events. In this case, "expelled from the academies" refers to Ginsberg's removal from Columbia University for writing "Fuck the Jews" on his bedroom window, in order to provoke the cleaner into washing it. Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, William Burroughs and Herbert Huncke all feature in the poem, in distorted form, as if under strobe lighting.

It may require an act of goodwill on the part of the reader new to "Howl" to stick with it all the way through, so strange are the language, imagery and juxtapositions, many of which are incomprehensible without the author's explanations (Ginsberg provided a set of annotations in 1986, published in the superb Howl: Original Draft Facsimile, edited by Barry Miles), but once you are committed to the poem's unusual presence it becomes easy to like, to wonder at, to read repeatedly in search of new glimpses of meaning or memory pictures from the author's "associative flash" technique.

As the book was being seized by police, and Ferlinghetti was charged with publishing and selling obscene literature, Ginsberg was in Tangier with Burroughs, helping to type the chaotic manuscripts of Naked Lunch. This work was mentioned in the dedication of "Howl" as "an endless novel which will drive everybody mad" - as if there wasn't enough madness about the place. Burroughs had been briefly incarcerated in a mental hospital in New York, and had cut off one of his own fingers. Later he was detained in a Mexican prison after shooting his wife in the head during a game of William Tell. Kerouac, another of the book's dedicatees, had been discharged from the navy when appearing to exhibit symptoms of "dementia praecox", schizophrenia. The others mentioned in the dedication were Cassady and Lucien Carr, both of whom spent periods in prison, the latter for manslaughter (he later asked Ginsberg to remove his name from the book). This history fuels the poem: images of "madness", together with its cousins "visions" and "hallucinations", feature more prominently than the deviant sex that prompted Captain Hanrahan to position the forces of his Juvenile Bureau as a shield between the book and "children".

When Ferlinghetti and Shig Murao arrived at San Francisco's municipal court on August 16 (the trial lasted until October 3), they must have groaned on discovering that the judge assigned to hear the case was Clayton W Horn, who had lately caused surprise by instructing five female shoplifters to attend a screening of the film The Ten Commandments and compose essays on its moral teachings in lieu of punishment.

The defence assembled a team of witnesses that included Mark Schorer, professor of English at the University of California, and the poets Kenneth Rexroth and Robert Duncan. The prosecution attorney was Ralph McIntosh, a stolid philistine who turned out to be easy prey to the articulate spokesmen in favour of the book. Schorer was particularly eloquent, breaking "Howl" into component parts, explaining the nature of each and how they interacted. McIntosh quoted a line from Part II of the poem, ending "Religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit", and asked: "Couldn't that have been worded in some other way? Do they have to put words like that in there?" At this point, the judge intervened to say that it was "obvious that the author could have used another term; whether or not it would have served the same purpose is another matter". At that moment, Ferlinghetti surely sensed victory.

Horn's verdict was largely reliant on a case that had reached the US Supreme Court in the spring of the same year, in which it was established that literature was protected by the right to freedom of speech enshrined in the first amendment of the US constitution; but the case had involved photographic magazines with titles such as Aphrodite. In applying the new standard to a book of poems, Horn was setting a precedent for obscenity in literature cases to come (including Naked Lunch, which was the subject of several trials). The measure of a book was not whether it was "fit for children to read", but its effect on "the average adult in the community". The test of obscenity was that "the material must have a tendency to deprave or corrupt readers by ... arousing lustful desire to the point that it presents a clear and present danger of inciting to antisocial or immoral action". If a work had "the slightest redeeming social importance" it should be judged "not obscene". Horn summed up: "I conclude the book Howl and Other Poems does have some redeeming importance, and I find the book is not obscene. The defendant is found not guilty."

This was not the most significant of the obscenity cases clustered round the 50s and early 60s, but it was one of the earliest and, as Nancy J Peters writes in Howl on Trial, published by City Lights to mark the 50th anniversary, "over the next decade, a series of court decisions began to remove restrictions". Writing to Ferlinghetti from Amsterdam, on receiving news of the verdict, Ginsberg asked: "Is there chance of continuing the fight and freeing Miller, Lawrence, and maybe Genet? That would be really historic and worth the trouble."
"Howl" still reads well, to a reader willing to be swept along by its apocalyptic imagery and its relentless rhythmic attack. It is an "event" poem, like The Waste Land, like Hugh MacDiarmid's A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle, like, in our own time, Christopher Logue's War Music, entering the language under its own terms. The occasional sloppiness - Ginsberg's annotations reveal that he was willing to sacrifice meaning for show - can be taken to add to the energy of the performance. When he returned from Europe in 1958 to find himself the triumphant author of that ever-popular thing, "the book they tried to ban", as well as the assumed spokesman of the beat generation, Ginsberg gave his first recorded interview to the Village Voice. Why had he come home? "To save America. I don't know what from."
( 'This's the Beat Generation' ) 



Saturday, 19 January 2013

The Tell-Tale Heart

The Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE!-NERVOUS--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to tell how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work!

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked)--I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out: "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;--just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or grief--oh no!--it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself: "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him. had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel--although he neither saw nor heard--to feel the presence of my head within the room. 

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye.

It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And now--have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?--now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. 

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker' and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!--do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out--no stain of any kind--no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all--ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night: suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search--search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:--it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness--until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale,--but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men--but the noise steadily increased. Oh, God; what could I do? I foamed--I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder--louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!--no, no! They heard!--they suspected--they knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror!--this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up the planks!--here, here!--it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

by Edgar Allan Poe


(P. s   Happy Birthday Edgar Allan Poe!)

Sunday, 13 January 2013

Strange Fruit

Strange Fruit 

Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

 by   Abel Meeropol

and Billie Holiday's song 'Strange fruit'  


If you're hungry.. by angry!


  If you're hungry.. by angry!

If you're hungry..  You have right was very angry.! and you can fight for truly justice, for equality,  for truth, for happiness and for freedom.. for truly, simple freedom, which freedom never had our people.
but if you're hungry and you are not angry, i want say you, you are idiot!  you was born idiot and you'll die idiot.
 it's your destiny.. ..
truly life isn't easy! don't forget it!

      K. S

Nobody For President, Everybody For Citizens!   
                   Khatia Shiuka

Saturday, 12 January 2013



Work on one thing at a time until finished.
Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.”
Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
When you can’t create you can work.
Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
Discard the Program when you feel like it—but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience. 

Henry Miller

Thursday, 10 January 2013

When I become Death

                                                                        A Thanks Giving Prayer 

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.
Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.
Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.
Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.
Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.
Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.
Thanks for the KKK.
For nigger-killin' lawmen, feelin' their notches.
For decent church-goin' women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces. 

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" stickers. 
Thanks for laboratory AIDS.
Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.
Thanks for a country where nobody's allowed to mind the own business.
Thanks for a nation of finks.
Yes, thanks for all the memories-- all right let's see your arms!
You always were a headache and you always were a bore.
Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.  

 ( Allen Ginsberg & William. S. Burroughs  ) 


When I become Death, Death is the seed from which I grow…

Itsama, spirit of early mist and showers.
Ixtaub, goddess of ropes and snares.
Ixchel, the spider web, catcher of morning dew.
Zooheekock, virgin fire patroness of infants.
Adziz, the master of cold.
Kockupocket, who works in fire.
Ixtahdoom, she who spits out precious stones.
Ixchunchan, the dangerous one.
Ah Pook, the destroyer.

Hiroshima, 1945, August 6, sixteen minutes past 8 AM.

Who really gave that order?

Answer: Control.

Answer: The Ugly American.

Answer: The instrument of Control.

Question: If Control’s control is absolute, why does Control need to control?

Answer: Control… needs time.

Question: Is Control controlled by its need to control?

Answer: Yes.

Why does Control need humans, as you call them?

Answer: Wait… wait! Time, a landing field. Death needs time like a junkie needs junk.

And what does Death need time for?

Answer: The answer is sooo simple. Death needs time for what it kills to grow in, for Ah Pook’s sake.

Death needs time for what it kills to grow in, for Ah Pook’s sweet sake, you stupid vulgar greedy ugly American death-sucker.

Death needs time for what it kills to grow in, for Ah Pook’s sweet sake, you stupid vulgar greedy ugly American death-sucker… Like this.

We have a new type of rule now. Not one man rule, or rule of aristocracy, or plutocracy, but of small groups elevated to positions of absolute power by random pressures and subject to political and economic factors that leave little room for decision. They are representatives of abstract forces…

who’ve reached power through surrender of self. The iron-willed dictator is a thing of the past. There will be no more Stalins, no more Hitlers. The rulers of this most insecure of all worlds are rulers by accident…

 inept, frightened pilots at the controls of a…

A[h Pook puts the shotgun into its mouth, and its voice continues]:

…vast machine they cannot understand, calling in experts to tell them which buttons to push.

(Carl Solomon, Patti Smith, Allen Ginsberg & WilliamS. Burroughs) 

(LIve )