THE PHEONIX glimmer; my one from hell i worship you youre like that mirror i observed in you it is not him who roams the lonely road his own face to rise above my abode We take the days and smash them down on you You scatter perfumes on each heart you slew we the master of you filthy rabble barred I open my mouth speak of Babel we lose your eyes in blindness to our gift come intricate design to bridge the rift destiny bewitched follows along quite lame answer for nothing. travel not in shame wakefulness is another crime of ours You walk upon wine and turn back the hours The caravan passes a rumor still that death dreaming hastens in for the kill what horror is not poetry to cause come immortal and poor neglect your laws gaze divine and of a mirrored pheonix ------------------------------ REMIXED WITH lazaruscorporation.co.uk/cutup/links FROM CHARLES BAUDELAIRE Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss, Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal, Pours out confusedly benevolence and crime, And one may for that, compare you to wine. You contain in your eyes the sunset and the dawn; You scatter perfumes like a stormy night; Your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora, Which make the hero weak and the child courageous. Do you come from the stars or rise from the black pit? Destiny, bewitched, follows your skirts like a dog; You sow at random joy and disaster, And you govern all things but answer for nothing. You walk upon corpses which you mock, O Beauty! Of your jewels Horror is not the least charming, And Murder, among your dearest trinkets, Dances amorously upon your proud belly. The dazzled moth flies toward you, O candle! Crepitates, flames and says: Blessed be this flambeau! The panting lover bending oer his fair one Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb, Whether you come from heaven or from hell, who cares, O Beauty! Huge, fearful, ingenuous monster! If your regard, your smile, your foot, open for me An Infinite I love but have not ever known? From God or Satan, who cares? Angel or Siren, Who cares, if you make, — fay with the velvet eyes, Rhythm, perfume, glimmer; my one and only queen! The world less hideous, the minutes less leaden? JORGE LUIS BORGES To look at the river made of time and water and remember that time is another river, to know that we lose ourselves like the river and that faces go by like the water. To feel that wakefulness is another sleep that dreams it is not dreaming and that the death that our flesh fears is that death every night that is called sleep. To see in the day or in the year a symbol of the days of mankind and of his years, to change the outrage of the years into a music, a rumor, and a symbol, to see in death sleep, in sunset a sad gold, such is the poetry that is immortal and poor. Poetry returns like dawn and sunset. Sometimes in the evening a face looks at us from the bottom of a mirror; art should be like that mirror that reveals our own face to us. They tell that Ulysses, tired of wonders, wept with love at the sight of his Ithaca, green and humble. Art is that Ithaca of green eternity, not of wonders. It is also like the endless river that passes and remains and is the mirror of one same inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same and is another, like the endless river. JAMES ELROY FLECKER At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden time THE MERCHANTS : Away, for we are ready to a man! Our camels sniff the evening and are glad. Lead on, O Master of the Caravan: Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad. THE CHIEF DRAPER : Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine, Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils, And broideries of intricate design, And printed hangings in enormous bales? THE CHIEF GROCER : We have rose-candy, we have spikenard, Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice, And such sweet jams meticulously jarred As Gods own Prophet eats in Paradise. THE PRINCIPAL JEWS : And we have manuscripts in peacock styles By Ali of Damascus; we have swords Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles, And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN : But you are nothing but a lot of Jews. THE PRINCIPAL JEWS : Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN : But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way? THE PILGRIMS : We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little further: it may be Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea, White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lives a prophet who can understand Why men were born: but surely we are brave, Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. THE CHIEF MERCHANT : We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away! ONE OF THE WOMEN : O turn your eyes to where your children stand. Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay! THE MERCHANTS in chorus : We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. AN OLD MAN : Have you not girls and garlands in your homes, Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command? Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams! THE MERCHANTS : We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE : Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells When shadows pass gigantic on the sand, And softly through the silence beat the bells Along the Golden Road to Samarkand. A MERCHANT : We travel not for trafficking alone: By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned: For lust of knowing what should not be known We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN : Open the gate, O watchman of the night! THE WATCHMAN : Ho, travellers, I open. For what land Leave you the dim-moon city of delight? THE MERCHANTS with a shout We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. The Caravan passes through the gate THE WATCHMAN consoling the women What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus. Men are unwise and curiously planned. A WOMAN : They have their dreams, and do not think of us. VOICES OF THE CARAVAN : in the distance, singing We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.
Posted on: Sat, 11 Oct 2014 16:29:11 +0000
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