You ask, “Where are they finding all these fucked progs?”
Answer via Ozzyman, “They’re fuckin’ everywhere, mate.”
Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Reason will not decide at last; the sword will decide.
The sword: an obsolete instrument of bronze or steel,
formerly used to kill men, but here
In the sense of a symbol. The sword: that is: the storms
and counter-storms of general destruction; killing
of men,
Destruction of all goods and materials; massacre, more or
less intentional, of children and women;
Destruction poured down from wings, the air made accomplice,
the innocent air
Perverted into assassin and poisoner.
The sword: that is: treachery and cowardice, incredible
baseness, incredible courage, loyalties, insanities.
The sword: weeping and despair, mass-enslavement,
mass-torture, frustration of all hopes
That starred man’s forehead. Tyranny for freedom, horror for
happiness, famine for bread, carrion for children.
Reason will not decide at last, the sword will decide.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
— Eliot
The scientists are in terror
and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis chose blindness
rather than have his mind stop.
Night under wind mid garofani,
the petals are almost still
Mozart, Linnaeus, Sulmona,
When one’s friends hate each other
how can there be peace in the world?
Their asperities diverted me in my green time.
A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide’s change
Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.
Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Gerard Van der Leun
Comments on this entry are closed.
Meet you at the bar, mate.
A socialist asked me why I was anti-social.
I punched his ass in the face.
I am so glad that YouTube didn’t exist when I went to destination F.
You made me think, Jewel.
I am glad that I am as old that I am. Imagine being between seventeen and twenty five years old in this age and time. Forget about the masks; imagine that any, and every moment of your night partying out with the gang is going to be on TV. Live. *for the entire world to see*. I don’t have to do any heavy remembering to come up with some pretty cringeworthy moments from those years (and several decades afterwords) Imagine having all your worst moments on somebody’s tic-toc, or twitter. Imagine all your ridiculous conceits at seventeen being preserved in the cloud for the whole world to laugh at. Forever.
JWM
Imagine there’s no privacy. Anywhere.
Are we there yet?
Nori, I have a feeling that “Doctor” Jill’s patient still gets plenty of privacy. For how long, I don’t know, but so far no one’s uploaded any smartphone videos of the Biden family’s private moments hunkering down in Camp David or Delaware or wherever they decide to hide next. They, of course, have sent the whole country to Destination F– Ozzy Man is just too polite to say so.
If someone filmed just a few of the things I did while in college I would either be in prison or be dead.
Sadly those scenes are the most upbeat and positive things I’ve seen on the web so far this morning.
Oh well, the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere, as Casey said, meet you at the bar, mate.
Watching Grandpa beat the living crap out of the liberal-looking manbunfag made my day.
Bravo.
@PA Cat
“…They, of course, have sent the whole country to Destination F– Ozzy Man is just too polite to say so.
Yabut, Ozzy Man is from Oz, and lately they’re their own Destination F____ked.
azlibertarian–
I’ve noticed that Ozzy Man stays strictly away from Destination F in his own country (i.e., the way the government enforces COVID-19 lockdowns) most likely because he knows there would be some kind of official blowback. I should have been clearer about his being too polite to say we’re at Destination F over here; he did remark on one occasion that he got a lot of criticism for his takes on US politics on the grounds that he’s an outsider.
If Ozzy Man want to see a true Destination F just now, he should check out his homeland