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Disney’s Fantasia 2000
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"It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over."- Frank O’Hara -
A Goodnight
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep …
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep …
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes——William Carlos Williams -
Water-Lillies – Claude Monet
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There is an ink stain
on my white bedsheet
left by a pen I’d used to scribble you a note
sometime after midnight
when the dreams and suffering
built to a scream that wouldn’t come
and I could wash it a hundred times
or cut it out
but it’ll never be the same again
nothing will ever be the same again. -
Anything pertinent to say
anything worth it all
anything deep or new
anything poignant and true
anything that moves and shakes
anything with which love
makes real and wet
and raw
like five dollars spent
to sweat on the neck
of a new life
and a new chance to know
imagination’s greatest hope
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you -
Time
I used to
dream of fucking
a tan young thing
on the salty beach
with fruit and rum and the setting
sun.
Now
all I want is to lie
in bed with the shades pulled
and quietly
fart until I fall
asleep. -
The best poetry
explodes the front door
and rips you from your desk,
swirling up, up, up
to clouds so strange
and fine,
soft as silk breasts
tickling your chin
while bands of merging colours
dance past
in an eclipse of
orgasmic glory,
you float motionless,
terrified to blink,
your mind churning to comprehend
all that you see and feel,
and in that moment of discovery
with eyes wider than ever before
it drops you back to reality
and you see everything
you learned to ignore,
the twisted visage
of life’s brutal rage,
a blinding light slicing
through the pitch,
ineffable horror
screaming into your soul
evisecerating your sanity,
and
quicker than you can
die
there is
silence. -
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—-and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—-which is more—-you’ll be a Man, my son!Rudyard Kipling -
I can do what you can’t.
I have been swift and strong,
running the fields. The summer
leaving gloss on chiseled curves
with a set of ribs
the girls loved to touch.
I have played. I have won.
I can do what you can’t.
I have been a bard,
and have let the sounds of wonder
thrill my soul.
I have played and performed
plucking and swinging
dancing and singing
I have heard the applause
and the gratitude of love.
I can do what you can’t.
I have become art,
with almost sexual adoration for the clean white
page. The strokes
and lines,
dots and shades. Colour and tone.
India ink to synthetic algorithm
I have drawn
out my mind.
I can do what you can’t.
I have the opened my eyes,
even if I am still in bed. I have studied
the greats
and the not-so-greats. I have listened
and I have reflected. Nothing passes
through me without leaving a scar.
I have learned to see not only the information,
but the moment,
and the past,
and what’s to come unfurled before me
like a blueprint.
I have started to see the full picture.
So when I speak, you might
think I’m missing the point.
But you see your feet. I see the stars.
Anyone can argue. Few people remember,
and even fewer create.I can do what you can’t.
I have seen the horror, and
I have survived.
I have loved at all odds.
I have forgiven an eternity of treachery.
I have mastered seduction and
have produced explosions of bliss
that have shocked reality. I am a body
electric. I have become beauty.
I have found heaven.
I can do what you can’t.
I have done what I hate. I have earned
discipline through
the mutilation of pain
and failure and humiliation.
I have fucked up
and have been fucked up.
I felt terminal depression and
undiluted happiness,
anger and malevolence, I have been
sneaky and transparent.
I have been a liar.
I have cheated.
I have been a criminal. I have paid my dues.
And I still do. Time after time after time. I pay the price
for this chance and these gifts. I
refuse
to
quit.
I can do what you can’t.
I can do anything. I can change the world. I can lead people
without them realizing.
I have become unique,
and when you carve your own path
you must expect to lost communication
with the masses.
But in the end,
when I’ve reached the mountain top,
all those still lost in the jungle
will look up and know:
He did what we cannot.
