bad seeds

- Where does all this come from?

- Where do you think? Genes, Dad, heritage. Rotten seed. We're all bad seeds. Subhuman.

- Go on and have some babies. Maybe they'll turn out different.

- Different from everyone else? There's no such thing as 'different'. And I don't feel like experimenting in that area: it's painful, and expensive, and pointless.

- What is it with you and 'pointless'? Dumb excuses. You're just trying to avoid being responsible.

- Dad, it's irresponsible to produce offsprings that - you know - are going to be sick and doomed, since the parents are just as sick and doomed. And only because cosi fan tutte; because there is some apparently 'higher meaning' to it all, which is not ours to comprehend. After all we are merely the executors of this higher purpose. Shit's gotta be tasty, millions of flies can't be wrong. And, anyway, the world will end soon enough, in case you haven't heard.

- You know, it's strange, but listening to you, I feel a lot better.

- See, that's exactly why you breed: to suck the life from your children. And then you're surprised: "Where does all this come from?"

- Katya, you're such a twit sometimes.

- Thanks.

- I love you very much.



in Elena

So many constellations

So many constellations that
are held out to us. I was,
when I looked at you - when? -
outside by
the other worlds.

O these ways, galactic.
O this hour, that weighed
nights over for us into
the burden of our names. It is,
I know, not true
that we lived, there moved,
blindly, no more than a breath between
there and not-there, and at times
our eyes whirred comet-like
toward things extinguished, in chasms,
and where they had burnt out,
splendid with teats, stood Time
on which already grew up
and down and away all that
is or was or will be -,

I know.
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not knew, we
were there, after all, and not there
and at times when
only the void stood between us we got
all the way to each other.



by Paul Celan

nunca mais é abril

preciso de mais faixas dos The Knife para intercalar com a

Tooth For An Eye, man. 

já lá vão 7 anos...

Stopocalipse Now

the ugliness completes reality

We all think a thousand thoughts every day that aren't our own, live out narratives not of our own invention, inhabit bodies preloaded with behaviors not of our choosing. Those bodies depend upon social and economic structures possessed of a psychology to which we either submit or suffer the life of an invalid. That's all pretty banal, boilerplate I'm-a-modern-human stuff, but its banality doesn't alleviate its problemness.

That said, I find the prospect of being alive, of having a life, cripplingly beautiful. The girl who bagged my groceries tonight at the Hy-Vee had a face that arrested me for a full second, long enough to provide the sufficient beauty for a great deal more suffering at my own hands or by the grip of history. I'm not indignant. I'm a little in love with how fucked up and strange everything is e.g., America, the Hy-Vee, its plastic bags swirling in the great Pacific garbage vortex. The ugliness completes reality, makes it worthy of love.

I think it's my nature to reject any prescriptions to tidy it up. I'm repulsed, on some level, by preciousness, by ploys to anesthetize the experience of life via beauties that aren't also very cruel. I guess the book was a love letter to experience, a thank you for not taking it easy on me.


Dylan Nice numa entrevista à Bookslut

Let Us Consider

Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall....

Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in
vanity....

Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner,
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....


by Russell Edson