Editor's Note: Our favorite poets and astrologers have been spinning truth with a twist for almost exactly a year now. They, like us, love the moon, poetry, and Lana Del Rey.
Find them -- and yourself -- on Twitter: @poetastrologers From David Strand: A Halloween Playlist.
If I Had a Heart – Fever Ray King Night – Salem Dark Lady – Cher Hooting & Howling – Wild Beasts I Vant To Suck Your C**k – H.U.N.X Graveyard Girl – M83 Hovercrafts & Cows – Captain Murphy/Flying Lotus Rubber Johnny – Chris Cunningham & Aphex Twin Organ Donor – DJ Shadow Half Man Half Shark - King Krule Attack of the 60 ft Lesbian Octopus – Does It Offend You, Yeah? Baptism – Crystal Castles Lost Girls – CocoRosie Silent Shout – The Knife Reverie – Arca Teeth – Lady Gaga Helena – My Chemical Romance Grimes – Kill V. Maim Spooky – Dusty Springfield Satin in a Coffin – Modest Mouse Sweet Transvestite – Rocky Horror Picture Show Cast October is Eternal – Of Montreal Warm Blood – Carly Rae Jepsen Blood Bitch – Cocteau Twins Blue Velvet – Lana Del Ray Night Time, My Time – Sky Ferreira Lunacy – Swans Listen here. "Well, here we are at Chapter 100. This calls for a little celebration. I am an author and therefore in the same business God is in: if I say this page is a bottle of champagne, it is a bottle of champagne. Reader, will you share a cup of the bubbly with me? You prefer French to domestic? Okay, I'll make it French. Cheers!"
- Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Grandfather stood on the wide front porch like a captain surveying the vast unmotioned calms of a season dead ahead. He questioned the wind and the untouchable sky and the lawn on which stood Douglas and Tom to question only him.
"Grandpa, are they ready? Now?" Grandfather pinched his chin. "Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand easy. Yes, yes, a good supply. Pick 'em easy, pick 'em all. A dime for every sack delivered to the press!" "Hey!" The boys bent, smiling. They picked the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crystal cellar windows and agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun. "Every year," said Grandfather. "They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion." So, plucked carefully, in sacks, the dandelions were carried below. The cellar dark glowed with their arrival. The wine press stood open, cold. A rush of flowers warmed it. The press, replaced, its screw rotated, twirled by Grandfather, squeezed gently on the crop. "There . . . so . . ." The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom. Dandelion wine. The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered. And now that Douglas knew, he really knew he was alive, and moved turning through the world to touch and see it all, it was only right and proper that some of his new knowledge, some of this special vintage day would be sealed away for opening on a January day with snow falling fast and the sun unseen for weeks or months and perhaps some of the miracle by then forgotten and in need of renewal. Since this was going to be a summer of unguessed wonders, he wanted it all salvaged and labeled so that any time he wished, he might tiptoe down in this dank twilight and reach up his fingertips. And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day— the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue. Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in. - Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine “The flower is one of the typical passions of the human
spirit. One of the wheels of its contrivance. One of its routine metaphors. One of the involutions, the characteristic obsessions of that spirit. To liberate ourselves, let’s liberate the flower. Let’s change our minds about it. Outside this involucrum: The concept which it became, By some devolutive revolution, Let us return it, safe from all definition, to what it is.—But what, then?—Quite obviously: a conceptacle.” - Juliet Fleming, Changed Opinion as to Flowers "Perhaps it is becoming clearer why I felt no romance when you told me that you carried my last letter with you, everywhere you went, for months on end, unopened. This may have served some purpose for you, but whatever it was, surely it bore little resemblance to mine. I never aimed to give you a talisman, an empty vessel to flood with whatever longing, dread, or sorrow happened to be the day's mood. I wrote it because I had something to say to you."
- Maggie Nelson, Bluets “Our strategy should be not only to confront empire, but to lay siege to it. To deprive it of oxygen. To shame it. To mock it. With our art, our music, our literature, our stubbornness, our joy, our brilliance, our sheer relentlessness – and our ability to tell our own stories. Stories that are different from the ones we’re being brainwashed to believe.
The corporate revolution will collapse if we refuse to buy what they are selling – their ideas, their version of history, their wars, their weapons, their notion of inevitability. Remember this: We be many and they be few. They need us more than we need them. Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.” ― Arundhati Roy, War Talk Let us space. The art of this text is the air it / causes to circulate between its screens. The / chaining are invisible, everything seems im- / provised or juxtaposed. This text induces by / agglutinating rather than by demonstrating, by / coupling and uncoupling, gluing and ungluing / rather than by exhibiting the continuous, and / analogical, instructive, suffocating necessity of / a discursive rhetoric.
- Jaques Derrida, Glas |
Archives
April 2018
Categories |