Dragged Fighting From His Tomb

"Thank heaven I never was sent to school,
To be flogged into following the style of a fool.”

—William Blake

"comfort me" - sparklehorse

with rocks in my dress
and smoke in my hair
I walked into a lake
to get some sleep down in there

won’t you come to comfort me?

with minnows in my belly
and deep in my veins
the breath-robbing lightning
was making diamonds of rain

won’t you come to comfort me?

dreamed I was born on a mountain on the moon
Where nothing grows or ever rots
I dreamed that I had me a daughter
who was magnificent as a horse

won’t you come to comfort me?

Saint Michael
Master of Belmonte
(Spanish, Aragon, active ca. 1460-90)

Saint Michael

Master of Belmonte

(Spanish, Aragon, active ca. 1460-90)

Dark stars, dark stars of whom I’m ashamed
and in which I cannot

believe, come out
as you have always come

out, in splendor.

—Joseph Fasano, from “Heraclitean”

We all have names we don’t know about.
Martin Amis (via thesemightysecrets)
"The Old Dragon" - William Blake

"The Old Dragon" - William Blake

Summer – Georg Trakl

At evening the complaint of the cuckoo
Grows still in the wood.
The grain bends its head deeper,
The red poppy.

Darkening thunder drives
Over the hill.
The old song of the cricket
Dies in the field.

The leaves of the chestnut tree
Stir no more.
Your clothes rustle
On the winding stair.

The candle gleams silently
In the dark room;
A silver hand
Puts the light out;

Windless, starless night.

"For me poetry comes from here." (He points to his sternum.) "If not, it doesn’t mean anything—it don’t mean nada. You can’t sneak the miracle. There is no way that you’re going to write a better poem just because you want to be remembered for it."

—Gregory Corso

"May I suggest that writing itself is freedom from consciousness as much as a stimulant to it. That writers are not always the most vital people in the room, but often nearer ghouls sniffing at the trough of other living blood. That they are malingering vampires who never got the hang of life, really. That they are narcoleptics so enchanted by their inner dreams that only the act of writing itself can shake them into sullen awareness, and then they sleep again, having stolen something from the house of old chaos and time."

-Barry Hannah

"Horses At Midnight Without A Moon" - Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.