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Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
FSA/8d22000/8d224008d22491a.tif
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
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
Van der Leun: The Normblog Bio of Your Host
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
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
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
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Good to know that if YOU require ivermectin or hydroxychloroquine, you’ll get it immediately. Not so for the proles, right Puddinhead? Let’s go, Brandon!
You caught that, yes? Biden has “a grandson who like to kiss his pop. And he’d been kissing my pe…anyway…” Biden is said to have showered naked with young—as in very young—girls who were members of his own family. He is on record and on camera kissing, fondling and sniffing young boys and girls. Look up the video evidence yourself.
In this he resembles Obama. That foreign born Muslim sodomite wrote a poem about his real father, Frank Marshall Davis.
“Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me…”
Sodomy, pedophilia and infanticide are the unholy trinity of the ruling elites of the US—and of the world. From these they will not be dislodged. So they believe.
Ah yes I remember that fine bit of poesy so well…
American Nightmares: The Poetry of the Young Barry Obama @ AMERICAN DIGEST
This item was from March of 2013 but there were others even more ancient.
Because the child is father to the man. Or, in this case, the man might have been the….
POP*
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass. I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.
*A poem by Barack Obama published in the Spring 1981 issue of “Feast,” a 51-page student literary journal that described itself as “a semi-annual journal of short poetry and fiction collected from the Occidental College community.” The journal is no longer published, according to a college spokesman.
You got there long before I did. But I arrived. After reading the entire “poem”, I need to find a vomitorium.
Sodomy, pedophilia and infanticide are the unholy trinity of the ruling elites of the US
======
I just don’t get it. Never have.
How are any of those things attractive to sane people?
I’m starting to believe that demonic possession is real.
I’m not going to church enough.
“Out of Shadows”, a documentary about pedophilia in Hollywood and “The Fall of the Cabal”, long documentary about the “unholy trinity”, mentioned above. What really happens to the aborted baby parts that women seem to want so bad? A lightening bolt and meteorite are on the way.
We’ve sunk lower than even the most base of the Ancients. They just killed their children; we chop up their dead bodies and sell them off. Look up “Senomyx”. The aborted baby parts were used as “flavor enhancers”. These were used in a variety of popular foods. Probably every one in America has eaten human tissue.
We have become as Moloch. Worse even. A nation of murderers, of cannibals—all of us as Saturn devouring his young.
Margot: Pedophilia in Hollywood? Say it ain’t so!
https://www.crazydaysandnights.net/2017/11/todays-blind-items-molesters-killed-her.html
The little girl was Heather O’Rourke.
Sometimes I think there are two Bidens. One has a little more hair than the other. We’re being duped.
Sounds like he caught a mild case of gonorrhea of the throat from talking to Hunter’s baby mama.
I read once that the very first item of business after the inauguration parade, when Barry sat down behind the big desk, he signed an executive order forever sealing his history. Supposedly he attended Colombia at NYC but no one ever saw him there. Trump used to be quite loud about the birth certificate but he put a cork in it eventually. Folks actually vote and endorse these weasels. Bill Hicks explains the official story of November 22nd…. believe what you’re told…. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LcvNM7oc7k
I always thought it odd that Obama had no friends—neither in his present nor in his past. No one who remembered him: no male buddies, no old girlfriends, no classmates, no professors. He just…appeared. I came to understand that Obama was nothing as he seemed, nothing at all what he and the media claimed he was. Even his “family” was entirely confected.
So who after all is this creature, Obama? The list of those around Obama who came to bad ends rivals that of the Clintons.
The only friends Barry & Big Mike can claim are the Blanchards, both involved in the medical field. VERY good friends, indeed. I’ve heard many times Barry is gay, and “Michelle” is a tranny. Not one photograph exists of “her” during a pregnancy. Compare this photo of the Blanchards to the two Obama girls and consider the gift of giving.
https://ifunny.co/picture/obama-s-kids-i-think-not-obama-friends-and-supporters-wyhZVQFV7
I wondered who the real parents of the two “Obama girls” were. Now I know.
Ruling “elites” are such a weird degenerate bunch. Nothing they say is true, not even their parentage. Take Canada’s Trudeau. His true father is Fidel Castro. Trudeau’s mother Margaret was a world-class whore who slept with lots of men, including Mick Jagger. Look at Chelsea Clinton. Her real father is Web Hubbell, who slept with—believe it or not—Hillary.
As far as “Michelle” Obama being trans: Joan Rivers admitted it, and ended up dead.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Al_Wa-haozo
Sounds like Biden has a good throat infection. Those cause swelling in the vocal cords which leads to changes in pitch-usually to a lower register- and a change in resonance of the voice. His overlords have decided that it’s time for him to exit stage right, so we will see him getting more colds, bronchitis, and flus. Who knows how they plan to do it? My bet is something like what he has that will just somehow get the best of him. Then he will have the grand exit with a giant funeral spectacle, memorial service, eulogy marathon, nation in mourning, and full lying in state dog and pony show. But first the overlords have to take care of that little CommieLah problem. Odds are being rumored that Hilary will be up to bat, but I believe it will be MooShell. Then she can become the Prez to fill in the rest of Biden’s term, and serve two more terms. Nine to ten years with another of Barry’s puppets in place. If anyone dared to criticize her, a black woman, they would immediately be labeled a racist. Their plan is working out quite well so far, except for those pesky patriots that won’t go away.
He will get the medication that he needs, unless it is a way to get rid of him without anyone being to blame. I read that the cowards left Stalin on the floor until he died. I wonder who Biden’s replacement will be.