Let's Fill This Town

Would you?

In The Museum

Michelangelo Buonaratti. 1475- 1564; It. sculptor, painter, architect & poet.

Ambiguous Picture Postcards

"yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,..."
(excerpt from Howl, A. Ginsberg)

Green Tree Cemetery

"Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefrontboroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, ...."

(excerpt from Howl. A. Ginsberg)

Machinery of Night

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,....."
(excerpt from Howl. A. Ginsberg)

Steamheat

"....who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-ment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium..."
(excerpt from Howl. A. Ginsberg)

Superimpose

Palimpsest. n. 1. a parchment or other surface in which later writing has been superimposed on effaced earlier writing. 2. something bearing visible traces of an earlier form.

origin via L. from Gk palimpsestos, from palin 'again' + psestos 'rubbed smooth'.

Truth?

There's really nothing I am able to say about this..... I leave it to you, colleagues and bloggers to add something appropriate.......

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine's Day Everyone..... hope y'all get a decadent piece of yummy cake or chocolate!

State of Mind

"East End. No end. Grey streets, grimy streets, streets without number, streets without meaning, streets that spread on and on under the dull, dreary eastern sky until, somewhere out past the miles and miles of docks they dissolved like an estuary, into a sea of nothingness. East End. Dead end. The East End was not a place, it was a state of mind."
(London. E. Rutherfurd)

Streets of London

"Have you seen the old man in the closed down market,
Kicking up the papers with his worn out shoes?
In his eyes you see no pride, hand held loosely by his side,
Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news.
So how can you tell me you're lonely
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand
And lead you through the streets of London.
I'll show you something to make you change your mind."
(Streets of London. Ralph McTell)

London

"It was four o'clock when he came to Hanover Square. He was wearing his best brown coat, which was too hot for the day, and he was sweating under his hat. With trepidation he approached the big door fronting the square, noticed briefly that the house was protected by the Sun Insurance Company and rang the bell. A footman answered. But before he could even ask if his lordship or her ladyship were at home, that liveried personage, seeing at once that he was a tradesman, told him to go to the back entrance of the house and slammed the door in his face."
(excerpt London. E. Rutherford)