The Case is Ideas ain`t bulletproof either: lutego 2010

20100227

Papercuts

Zaciskamy słabe piąstki
wielka chiromancja
przed oczami przelatują strony
papierowy chłopczyk z nożyczkami w ręku

kolory, kolory, desenie
w deseniach

odcinamy pępowiny,
zakopujemy zwłoki
to wszystko się dzieje z uśmiechem na twarzy
papierowy chłopczyk z nożykami w ręku

Ten brak wiary jest dość zaskakujący
można wierzyć w zapomnienie
ale opuszczanie gardy w tak decydujących chwilach?

krystalizacja
menstruacja
wypływamy
z
siebie
papierowych
chłopczyk z nożyczkami w ręku

Ciach!

20100213

The great white return

There goes the great refusal to think, to feel, to run and appreciate the abstratct.
There goes the great infernal machine, billions upon billions upon billions dead city centres.
There goes my right leg.
There goes my left arm.
There goes my right mind.

With all hatred, purity and lack of compassion what shall the bloodseeds bloom into?

Finland red.
Germany black.
Egypt white.

Destroying personnel.
Destroying personnel.

The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz — he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

20100227

Papercuts

20100213

The great white return

The Hollow Men

Archiwum bloga

Obserwatorzy

O mnie