1. |
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... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.
It's just the same - a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.
That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died
(Oh, most unpleasant- gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds...
(Words: Dorothy Parker)
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2. |
Dreams of Rage
02:21
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A grunt.
A moan.
An exaggerated sound of released compressed air.
Your sweet lips parted,
And I heard your last breath.
Forever in my wildest daydreams I won't forget,
For I don't regret my actions,
But I do regret your blood on my shirt.
(Words: Edward James)
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3. |
El Desierto de los Niños
03:52
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Nuestro primer sueño es una muchacha
siempre una muchacha
que camina por las calles de cristal
de la clínica donde nació.
Dossier de niños tiritando
de tanto viajar. Dossier de lunas en la ventana.
de parejas fugaces, utópicas,
besándose las manos.
Nuestro primer sueño es una muchacha, etcétera,
que camina por bodegones murmurando para sí misma
la locura nos apartará del centroizzquierdismo,
la esperanza electriza a los más desesperados:
ideas retráctiles, suaves como la colección de fotos
que un adolescente guarda
para las improbables noches a campo libre,
pero que le ayudan.
Nuestro primer sueño es un horóscopo divertido, pesimista,
una muchacha leyendo el periódico
una tarde de verano,
las nubes que pasan por encimita del mar
(te creo, te creo, llueve interminablemente),
y otro que piensa: "la dureza de mi mirada"
mientras se lo sacude
después de mear sobre el muro.
(Words: Bruno Montané and Roberto Bolaño)
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4. |
The Window
05:06
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you are my bread
and the hairline noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea
you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands
this kind of bird flies backwards
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks
this is not the time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)
I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground
(Words: Diane di Prima)
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5. |
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
(Words: Robert Frost)
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6. |
Bali' Hai
03:39
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7. |
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Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.
Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.
(Words: James Joyce)
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8. |
Rasmunssen
04:22
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Rasmunssen era um pândego
Cantemo-lo, a uma só voz
Desde os tempos da encefaleia
Ou quando navegava no mar de Aral
Enquanto recitava o jornal
Lendo notícias do MLK
Enquanto recitava o jornal
Lendo notícias do MLK
Varrido a ácidos e geleia
Pelo círculo mântrico jovial
Rasmunssen era um pândego
Cantemo-lo, a uma só voz
Praguejavam as velhas mulheres do atol
Fugindo das novidades do mercado abastecedor
Embaladas por tiros de metralha do vento norte
Praguejavam as velhas mulheres
De tanto ler as notícias do jornal
Varrido a ácidos e geleia
Pelo círculo mântrico jovial
Fugiam de todas as novidades
As mulheres do atol
Rasmunssen era um pândego
Cantemo-lo, a uma só voz
Chegam notícias dos sindicatos mecânicos
Dos amigos messiânicos
Ou dos poetas de urinol
Nos tempos com faculdade
Partia copos a tiros de comando
Perante o riso de indigentes
Sacro-impérios e decadentes
Os matulões do além Karma
Semicerravam os olhos
E não era espuma o que viam ao fundo
Dos retábulos de ornamento
Como tu bem sabias naqueles tempos
Dos cântaros de cimento
Das casas, muradas de maus predadores
Perante o riso de indigentes
Ai Rasmunssen
Como tu bem sabias naqueles tempos, Rasmunssen
Rasmunssen era um pândego
Cantemo-lo, a uma só voz
(Words: João Zagalo)
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9. |
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This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:
"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . The meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men was not sufficient... The cerebrum with cerebellum weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively small."
On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the evening of June 29, 1824.
Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the Big Wood River.
(Words: Richard Brautigan)
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Blaze & The Stars Portugal
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