Burroughs by R. Crumb
William Irwin Thompson,
Coming into Being, 1996, p.145
AHH. AMAZINGNESS.<3
Only love for this man.
Ginsberg.
beautiful, sobbing
high geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
Thats all. -RB
….I love him
(via cosmic-dust)
Me too, forever and ever!
prismcell walkwhilereading W. Whitman.
(via dailydoseofdylan)
Poet via graffiti.org
Some dogs who sleep At night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.
Charles Bukowski
A recent collaboration from Nicolette Westfall and Jeff Crouch
Ezra Pound Velho (via lapalu)
Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton (Nov. 9, 1928 - 1974), brilliant American poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1967, troubled by a bipolar disorder…
From The Double Image, Pt. 1
I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain.
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I’d never get you back again.
I tell you what you’ll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.
I, who chose two times
to kill myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomine
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume.
