bavard

Dans le non dit je suis tellement bavard!

[Daphne Guinness by Alan Gelati | Harper’s Bazaar Russia December 2011]

truth and strangeness

"Tea at the Palaz of Hoon"

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

  by Wallace Stevens

[yes. that's my handwriting. i was about to close my notebook after some 3 a.m. scribbling.]

somewhere

“Somewhere in space hangs my heart,
sparks fly from it, shaking the air,
to other reckless hearts.”
— Edith Södergran, closing lines to “On Foot I Had to Walk Through the Solar Systems,” (trans. Stina Katchadourian, Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women, ed. Jane Hirshfield, HarperCollins, 1994)

[photo: Jonathan Kline, "Ecliptics", Pinhole Camera, Salt Print, 2011, (Source: uvm.edu)]

Atonal noise, and brutal poetry.

COIL

Manifesto

1983

The Price Of Existence Is Eternal Warfare

COIL is a hidden universal. A code. A key for which the WHOLE does not exist. Is NONEXISTENT, in silence and secrecy. A spell. A spiral. A serpents SHt round a female cycle. A whirlwind. A double helix. DNA. Electricity and elementals. Atonal noise, and brutal poetry.

COIL is amorphous. Luminous and constant change. Inbuilt obSOLescence. Inbuilt Disobedience. A vehicle for obsessions. Dreamcycles in perpetual motion. We are cutthroats. Infantile. Immaculately Conceived. Dis-eased. The Virus is Khaos. The cure is Delirium.

COIL are Archangels of KHAOS. The price we pay for existence is eternal Warfare. There is a hidden coil of strength, dormant beneath the sediment of convention. Dreams lead us under the surface, over the edge, to the Delerium state. UNCHAINED. Past impositions and false universals. Reassembling into OUR order.

COIL. Who has the nerve to dream, create and kill, while the whole moves every part stands still. Our rationale is the irrationAL. Hallucination is the truth our graves are dug with. COIL is compulsion. URGE and construction. Dead letters fall from our shedding skins. Kabbala and KHAOS. Thanatos and Thelema. Archangels and Antichrists. Open and Close. Truth and Deliberation. Traps and Disorientation.

Coil exist between Here and Here. We are Janus Headed. Plural. Out of time. Out of place. Out of Spite. An antidote for when people become poisons.

COIL know how to destroy Angels. How to paralyse. Imagine the world in a bottle. We take the bottle, smash it, and open your throat with it. I warn you we are Murderous. We massacre the logical revolts. We know everything! We know one thing only. Absolute existence, absolute motion, absolute direction, absolute Truth. NOW, HERE, US.

"Not Knowing What Is And Is Not
Knowing, I Knew Not"
Hassan i Sabbah

Sin

in awe-full remembrance of a woman that shone ever so brightly a little over 47 years after her death at a mere 32 years of age ... when i think of modern iranian literature she remains my first and sole thought. a real loss of a stunning wordsmith.

"Sin" 

I have sinned a rapturous sin
in a warm enflamed embrace,
sinned in a pair of vindictive arms,
arms violent and ablaze.

In that quiet vacant dark
I looked into his mystic eyes,
found such longing that my heart
fluttered impatient in my breast.

In that quiet vacant dark
I sat beside him punch-drunk,
his lips released desire on mine,
grief unclenched my crazy heart.

I poured in his ears lyrics of love:
O my life, my lover it’s you I want.
Life-giving arms, it’s you I crave.
Crazed lover, for you I thirst.

Lust enflamed his eyes,
red wine trembled in the cup,
my body, naked and drunk
quivered softly on his breast.

I have sinned a rapturous sin
beside a body quivering and spent.
I do not know what I did O God,
in that quiet vacant dark.

Forugh Farrokhzad (1935-1967)

[she was also a budding film director. if you do not know her, here is a brief overview of her, her work and her life: http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/.../i-have-sinned-by...]