Intro (The Midnight Embrace) Akkarell - Tenebrae (6) - The Mist Soften My Sorrow (CD, Album)
Lee Dorrian vocals. Mark Ramsey Wharton drums. Adam Lehan guitar, acoustic guitar, 12 string acoustic guitar. David Bianco recording, production, mixing. Shredded rotting in the face of day In the bones and flesh and in the brain Our shattered soul awaits the death. From the sky all my stars have fell And on my heart and soul a knell They rest in anguish, sorrow and woe In gelati so low. Baked mud is glowing on Bottle top is drowning sound Lonely on the word alone Holds too much, here I go.
Oh so low. Drowning through this linguid maze Slivering path, ancient grail, to the stinging rays Love it fades, jiggleing master, send me on my way On with butterflys in this wriggleing haze Beyond the dead tray. The Ethereal Mirror is the second full-length album by British band Cathedral. It was released in Sous le regard de la lune Elie Lama Sabacthani Epitaph of the Fallen Dances with an Eery Mist Black Roots Like Autumn in Spring Outro The Final Dark Whisper Tags black metal metal Montreal.
Bandcamp Album of the Day Sep 28, go to album. On Bandcamp Radio. It was of Napoleon but saw into the essential. Halloween and everyone had to be in costume to read at the open mike. The following week, we met again at a reading by Philip Whalen and went out afterwards. The poems were written in that year, before we were married. It was the year of Watergate and the Nixon impeachment hearings, which along with Cubs games we religiously watched on a black-and-white television.
Much of the rest of our time was taken up with reading and writing poetry. Neither of us taught poetry for a living. She was also a University of Illinois Fellow. The idea of collaboration was in the air because of Berrigan, whose collaboration with Ron Padgett, Bean Spasms, was so much fun.
There was no special methodology to writing the poems. We simply took turns writing lines, handing the paper back and forth. They are the oldest poems either of us has in our possession, so old that they survived the conflagration when, in the belief that we could transform our work through a purification rite, we tossed our poetry manuscripts we had one each into a drum fire in the alley and solemnly watched them burn.
This was our romantic vow to poesy. Twenty- five years later we collaborated on a double acrostic cento to present to Marjorie Perloff on her seventieth birthday. Then I would do several drafts at the computer before checking again with her. Our transla- tions are our most extensive collaborations by far, and we plan to do more.
At the same time, working with Nguyen Do, I translated the work of seventeen contemporary Vietnamese poets. I know virtually no Vietnamese, but Do is a wonderful poet and we worked well together. My task was to transform his English versions into a poem in English that would communicate the original intention of the work. It has given me the impression that experience and perception are much. Maybe a dawn all the creepy little druids and you should see huddling around the hulky rocks his body melt the ice and Lo!
Eliot remarked about J. What happened to your face? We are Masters of Suspense. Process Notes We snuggle up before a warm fire And begin to get to know each other better.
Anne I think was very into collaborations. I mean everyone was at that time and Snapping logs, roasting marshmallows, it had mainly to do with staying up late and drinking with someone and whether What comes to mind is Paul Newman you would have sex or not unless you were not of the right genders or whatever. Getting his head stuck in a gas oven It was definitely part of drinking or getting high. Having time. Anne I think In Torn Curtain. I give all this history since Anne, different from most peo- ple, seemed to publish her collaborations.
I had seen her do this with others. I We are Masters of Suspense. So we started out writing letters since she was mostly in We are Masters of Suspense. Boulder, or Boulder and NY. Jim Brodey had a reading series at a club called Zu and we were to read there on the day of the winter solstice so maybe the Free at last from the shackles that bind us, collaboration came out of that.
I did want to have sex with her, so And trembling, embrace. I asked her on the typewriter and that was the end of the poem. My trembling increases. Eileen Myles We are Masters of Suspense. I wanted to get to know Eileen better. I loved her dynamics on the page, her We are Masters of Suspense. O sleep- Waiting for your arrival. Greg Masters As you descend the winding stairs did the mimeo edition. Our eyes meet midway. Anne Waldman And beautiful, I think, beautiful. Driven North by Poverty The immediate horror becomes painfully apparent.
You fail to understand the uniqueness of our city You Album) so handsome in your uniform, My daring, bold leader of the band. I see, I see You turn your head over your shoulder. Maybe not God. How can you tell? A salesman from Alabama is wearing a red satin gown and blue cape fashioned from peau de soie.
His swarming companions emerge from the reeds to complete the ensemble of historic buildings. How serious those Indians are with their fierce loaves of bread babies. It was only a year ago, by pickup truck. Our decision to write them was about as impromptu as a plan to get together and go see a movie. I certainly remember our glee escalating until we crumpled over the typewriter, too incapacitated by laughter to contin- AG: Kenneth delights him, feels but a flower ue typing at all.
We would then slide the machine back and forth toward each KK: I only think it, though, at a late hour other along the tabletop. Once it flew right off the end of the table onto the floor. I feel really lucky to have belonged to a time, place and community where AG: Evening shadows steal with radioactive shadow sharing such amusements was a commonplace occurrence among friends.
Evening shadows steal with radioactive shade Susie Timmons KK: Full many a tune on this machine is played. KK: And many are the mermaids dancing, singing AG: And the seaweed to their ears and ankles clinging. Both were AG: [inaudible]. The conversation below, in which KK: To get back to the ocean, and its depths Ginsberg and Koch decided what to do next, took place between the poems.
A sestina, in case anyone has forgotten, is a AG: Well, we call that off-rhyme, or pseudo-rhyme poem in which all the lines end in the same six words. Ron has sadistically chosen the six words: hilarious, spirituality, although, gatecrasher, KK: Returning to our story—Wednesday evening slam, and dreaming. And Allen and I will just make up the rest of the lines.
AG: New York City, in the gloaming The lines in the sestina are all set in a certain order and I suppose the New York City in the darks are gloaming person who will enjoy this poem the most will be the tape recorder. Could you AG: I thought I was rhyming at your scheming? Do you want to start, maestro? AG: Being at St. Eternally on the voyage now walking backwards on the AG: Is slamming his voice through the window speeding train descending laterally the yellow plastic escalators leaning and laughing!
Energy you directionless Goose! You have tempted me too far this time I close my eyes prepared to perish for another ideal but when I close my eyes I see you who have become a stranger to me my point of departure. On our one-liners we worked in much the same manner with each of us creating half of the line. We collaborated in person and worked with- out hesitation to keep our ideas moving at a fast pace.
We always drank Japanese Bancha tea out of delicate elaborately painted Chinese teacups while we wrote. Maureen Owen. The vague memory that I do have is a picture: hot summer dayJimmy The sun was shining or the moon at night Schuyler laying on his bed at the Hotel Chelsea, me at the typewriter a few feet smiled shyly behind a cloud. Tom Carey The moon, could it make up its mind? The coins jingled in his pocket. To speak in half sentences is to ignore the three graces.
Let me wash the dried milk from your mug. The distractions distracted me so I turned on the t. Just then Helena arrived with the Hollandaise sauce. The steam rises from a nearby swamp—you are in the shower. The moon came back in a leather jacket he was rehearsing for a part in Orpheus!
The stars were all atwitter. I wish they would come and take me away the moon sighed and put his head inside a sack. The full moon shining on the scintillating city.
Edith Wharton made a cameo appearance, little dance celebrating the desires we do not how she loved the stage! She wore a cloche hat with a long dream of.
And yet we do, we dream of them constantly. We leave the money on the mantle and loose the door. Elegance like exercise has its price. He mopped and mopped and mopped and mopped, A new stanza, a fresh start, the alarm clock rang in then opened the windows to see the minarets of her left ear. Time to be up and doing, so up she got the city more clearly. Like her grandmother before her she had the high heeled boots tonight!
It was a hot As though to prove her point she danced a few day and the heat led her to self-indulgence. Never mind steps then disappeared into the seductive folds what kind of self-indulgence. It was them as they fled along the winding streets of a long soft sigh which turned into a summer breeze. The sun was shining sulkily it had its reasons Helga pretended not to see the monks that were looking for its sulks. A ladder ran up her new silk stockings. The monks broke into a plainsong cost plenty.
Dripping she walked up the beach flinching from a twisted ankle. And Helga sat to nurse her little foot and croon. Her heart was like a little chinese box She put on her black mink and swirled around the room.
Now she opened that It was August: funny time to wear black mink: though it one. There was nothing there. And this might be Blackglama.
The late afternoon light shed became her favorite. The little Chinese prettily upon the leaves of the tree outside the window. She told it all her secrets. Is this a poem? She returned were weighing on her mind. Her purple legs to the window and scrutinized the fur.
It was Blackglama. Hetty said skirt. She ran her fingers caressingly Union Square, Nancy had other thoughts. The trouble with over the shiny lacquered top of her little Hetty was that her ideas were too butch, while Nancy was box, a movement soothing to her worried mind.
She knew that if she wanted anything it was but a phone call away. Quod erat factum. Anything that is except She picked a secret out from underneath Italy, and now in this black mink the canals of Venice tugged her tongue.
It shriveled in the light at her mind filled with unrelinquished desire. Then she pulled a petal from the peony. Diet-Pepsi for the great being. Eileen Myles. Like a jovial Album) in the draft of the room, is that silly? Then I flew on a plane where the cocktail menu was hung The modest woman gets her nourishment With all kinds of tiny whiskey bottles both to choose from From Death has no peer.
I dream a woman lies in a crib, how compact Hey when I said wine I really meant beer She is! Your teeth Of the guise one is only the genial host to, do are the size of fingernails and white You think?
I wear a dark blue tee-shirt under a light as paint and the whites of your eyes. His hands hold the gold saxophone. Lovely sleepers but devoid of sleep but shapely sweet The violins are hanging on the wall. A man is holding O earthly lady new lady— a gold sax. He is naked. It was not unusual for an evening of hanging out to include collab- Enfleurage orating on poems.
Someone would put some paper in the typewriter and get a line or two going, then someone else would pick it up. Terence Winch. What I liked about the collaborations was they were sort of like working with verse rules: they started you off with a constraint that made you focus on the language, so the process was often about funny rhymes, perverse turns of phrase, rhythm.
Bernard Welt. Below but as sea bord seen by men sailing Album) between, the beach where even in season the many travelers rested or tossed far apart.
In perfect September I sent them to be alone. Without mission successive ferries, my toy boats, leaf, song, heart. Or again, I step into a street or admonition. Feeling as we did then about each other, already relaxed, how and, commensurate with its width its bazaar breaks into range, wares, voices, would two wed the fall of summer, speechless for three days, how far from steam float distinctly in unequal units closer.
A blur of relations and then the other? Satin shorts and roller skates at night in the streets of the village, synchromesh: rachet, whistle, bulk, cold, scallion bitter, fish heads, city dock. Perrier and pistachio. The fabulous dark divulging day, deliberately Out of the midst of the city the country, forested one by one into many, alert provoked.
Saran wrap and plexiglass about the night and the day, the membrane like the tops of trees with inexact news about an imminent arrival; I tilt until it between them. I thought we might lap and here at the great magnet meet. I becomes time and there she is, most beautiful come upon from behind, where unmade my bed, wind torn from clouds, massaged by distance, and slept. We she is waiting for a moment, discouraged her message never arrived.
And as she pull on cords from the earth where we are joined. We the plural. If the apply first to one and then the other the awkward silences which her colorful sheets were white and the sun glanced on them, blond had more red. Another beauty could be felt to fill, as in panavision, setting a slower mood for the was olive with almond eyes, who liked to wake slowly and fall back. She lay spectator perhaps but quickening her pulse. Sometimes they came for her and woke her, kissing the corners close-up, taking a minute, triggering the free association where every promise of her mouth.
The long hairs in the bed, the very curly, the weighty and the lost or denied finds its place. Blue skies, tawny beach, sea-green and berry stain. Excited, the candle burned like cry-breath. Who the manner of the Japanese masters, the arrangement of dots in disorder. She reached for the Impressionable and expressive, she lined the corridors with butcher paper, lucky pitcher sailing across the sky. Tissue, tissue, kiss you. She would hide sea, sand and boat by hanging the sheet upside down.
Told to watch water boil, stray rain, to unrehearse them, she did it many times and in her mind, until by ear first fathomed disarray. Peaches and rose. Solstice of pins, of verticals, two aunts and an uncle into the haunches of horsehills. Tongues in puddles. Hours in twos and threes, avocado vinaigrette hours in elongated seconds, thick sentences taut and thinning into words and a bath with no hot water finally breaking into alphabet, moments without shadow, the long spaces a spoon and a fork between lights in a countryside going to sleep in even daylight from the rain, illuminated hands of a clock on its side and the different lamps meeting in the evening making gold the gray, buttering the hidden side of an arriving Album) the houses in small swatches as if they were children holding out their pieces Paris at night of bread, watching the last light perforate the darkness and not admit to it, no a face appearing at different windows of a big house it shall never, happy soul, winter.
Wooded plains underwater, seaweed, urchin, seahorse, and the Since I dreamt of a lion with a cat on its back, the tear which is glass which is gelatinous os implanted on the rock. Its rose madder flowered—the myth of the stone in a ring in its eye, I lay on the beach dimly and therefore elementally, toothed—a sunrise of tresses to cilialike ease in its prey.
The rose flash sweeps taking the pearl from her mouth back into the mussel, irregular, tearlike, breaking the waterwind. And when the mouth puckers, cordovan, doorless, it confounds. Dissolve the pearl and remove the irritant carefully to the sea floor Smoke-moon enamel from a distance, traversed by speedboat the sea jells into where the crystalline, faceted, rocks and fits.
The whole bar shifting clouds membrane, petrol green on descent. We thought silverfish until the boat in the water. Deeper, a sun-ray shower plummets to a plateau below which, stopped and we saw seaweed reflected as silver-leafed poplars.
Cricket island. Nimble light we crack diving. The horn of the troubadour is forced outside the Fantastically weeps the eye of fire. Allowing someone else to panic where I was playing, taking the whole hillside for a friend from far asea, the sea grapes, emptying its vacuum of charged bubbles from a double- prowed cruiser, both wakes. Day necklace, night glass unwobbling. The first inch is forgiveness. The noun that is cleaned disappears.
Putting up with their manifestations like smoke in our faces already turned from that elegant perfume, like flamingos who wandered north from the tropics, we concentrate on abiding.
Our body casts out a cypress root as logos while the unharnessed gray whale escapes the muffle of the ocean wash: fattest cows and youngest heifers, beautiful electronic images, the loneliness of their small good hearts. All the nights go on by hand, journey of a thousand knots, milk again learning nothing. Red lamp poles, muscadet sky: upside down.
Parakeets in the afterlife, silverpious, pass to slope the world. Pre-Alps, perched villages, memories, as when you fall asleep god exists. Some visible keeping still, opium, oyster, the unswirling of the smoke unswirling the mollusk, signals us to daily with the frail. The sound of a nut opening, brain-wake. How much? Blue of rainforest green, of moss, ultramarine of closed eyes, evening pearl, Are you married? Where are we going? He will let you go? You are my kind recorder, one meditated and the other wrote in her aura.
We put the first draft of guy. I am the lucky one. I am away for two years, and then, in a dramatic two-week period, performed a drastic awaiting one sign, or this romanticized look in my eyes final draft. The longer I wait, the more I want you. She really introduced me to, and guided me through, the wonderful world of self-effacement. Very liberating! I suppose it works when the collaborators are emotionally disposed toward such a project. Our goal was to Process Note come up with a voice that sounded like neither of us, so that the pages Olga wrote were indistinguishable from mine.
In allowing apartment on Twelfth Street just off of Second Avenue. I now revise more freely, and the process tion. I remember collaboration is the place where I began to trust myself as a writer, but in fact, that we alternated lines, and that Dennis was responsible for the ending, which at least part of the confidence I have comes from trusting the creation of a third I liked, which I still like.
When I lived in my imagination, I held vainly to a code a hit by the Chiffons. I also remember that I had a big ultimately unrequited about creation: that it took place in a silence that was private. Art is stubborn, and says David Trinidad what it has to say. I stand naked in front of you tonight, a star in my own right, about to go out. And guess who talks back? Rock Hudson? Far from the hollowness of Hollywood, the larger-than-life image that flickers before me is a projection of my own secret dream of immortality.
Not to mention the pain and the drama: boy meets girl; girl beats boy; boy gets hard-on; boy sticks hard-on up ass of other boy; the end. In the meantime, the real meaning of this underground film remains hidden between the lines of these silly actors. Jayne Mansfield reclines in her pink mansion. She follows me out to the parking lot. It looks like blood. What a sap I am to be so careless, especially with something this precious: the confectionary embodiment of the dumb blonde—another sex goddess fallen prey to my insatiable lust.
I suffer from entropy and a mal odor. I myself am an eyesore and should be treated far worse than the Elephant Man for I am not even a human being. I am the God of Hellfire and I bring myself into every conversation about sex and death. Instead of lies, you now gag on a prick— Bob and I alternated lines.
We wrote one poem a month for a year, ending up the biggest lie of all. Now you see it with a chapbook of twelve poems, A Taste of Honey. And it was often a But see it you will, and taste it too, each tug of war, each of us trying to pull the poem our own way, only to have it glorious inch of stiff, uncut Godhead! I remember we purposefully tried to irritate each other, in an You need it!
Thus would we goad each other along. David Trinidad. I have In high school when you crack your front tooth bending down too fast over typed on a hassock pushed around the room at Actualist parties in Iowa City. That was precisely what we were doing as the knuckle Blackout in New York City slowed the record of Jimi and stopped.
Most or step off the kitchen Cabinet ladder on the ball of your foot hear the fun were the collaborations done in the office of the Poetry Project to create piercing meow of a soft kitten Caveman, a mimeo scandal sheet always edited by Simon Schuchat although he or sit on a rattling subway next to the woman scratching the sores on her was never there.
Most of Caveman was written directly on the stencils leaving no legs, thick pus on her fingers possibility of revisionism. Occasionally Allen Ginsberg had a universal idea or put your tongue to a winter-frozen porch door, a layer of frightening about the groin area. In the deliquescence of the year came Christ the tiger A pair of reading glasses coming up, not just Wearing a robe the color of the River Niger.
Then John Ashbery became John Ashbery and everyone else flew up into niches in the weird pantheon of New York what-do-you-call-it cultural life? And the way, as Pat remarked, all my collaborators altruistically Hokku. On winter nights when the temperature drops below freezing, my little tried to end this poem for me. I think the passage of links from 15 to 19 are as room is a source of heat. It was inspiring to to get your attention. It reminded me of a really tight jazz ensemble passage.
Standing in the yard as a storm moves in. The roiling clouds in ten thousand Keith Abbott shades of gray. Basic Celestial Navigation. It seemed appropriate for a renku the true understanding. Also the difference of the view the East takes vs. First moon stanza. Thinking of an old friend, a kind of woodsman in his own Maureen Owen right, who had an old leather strop, well-oiled and gorgeous, as I watched the moonlight fall full-faced on the hemlocks.
Saw him shaving the moon off the Keith is right about the jazzlike quality of the links; those were some of the trees, his razor strop snapping in the cold night airs. Each stanza linking with the following stanza created a unique five-line poem.
There is no plot, only narrative, The problem with shaving is that it always grows back. Romance is a very important aspect of scrape. Stanza 18 and 35, the second flower stanza, speak for themselves. When I opened the front door to go back in the house, nothing like this happened, but I imagined that it did, so I wrote it that way. The sudden death of my younger sister. His father now long dead.
Doors slamming —MS open instead of shut. One of our luxuries my son, Kyran, and I is to get our hair Perhaps the mildness of the day and the birds, harbingers of spring, can lighten cut at this rather expensive salon in New Haven, Galaxy.
Then the people in suits carrying briefcases show up. Also, the scene alone is worth the price. My What a mess. The Cairo earthquake. The news video. What at first I thought was stanza was originally experienced on a rainy day in a pensione in Venice over- a background noise of machinery was the huge roar of voices all across the city. Number closer to ten million, I suppose. Its connection to the previous stanza being entirely Second moon stanza.
In this link, the moon is alluded to. And there I was in my bare feet! He has beautiful cream arms. The Japanese in the second line reads, A domestic argument, where I had screwed up.
Suzuki says there is no equiva- into a poem. And then goes on to say much, much more. It was raining. She felt bad that she had paid the bills and memory. The business card I wrote it on migrated as a bookmark through a few now there was no money. A year or so after that, I was researching the tea ceremony and rediscov- Hearing laughing voices.
A survivor of Pearl Harbor. Lifted verbatim from a sticker on the windows of what he would have thought of the Military Honors. A found two-liner. After the funeral, we returned to his house. No one felt comfortable sitting in his chair at the head of the kitchen table.
Thinking about dogs ing but just honking. She linked with herself them. The Feast of the Nativity has a much deeper, powerful meaning. She had loud in her lines so I had to have quiet in supercedes the prerogatives even of the modern world. On a sunny day in Berkeley while riding my bike very slowly and sibilities for further links, acts as a conduit for new themes, and yet maintains carefully to work, the new asphalt seemed remarkably friendly and active, show- its own character.
Basho excelled in them. The Ghost of. Apple Blue: Quasi dye, answers ripen in Routine, surprise, Album) morning light Comeback land. Lariat Forest White Afternoon erasure Evening sole Traces map Thrashers without sight the underpinning, Passerine its allure. Repeating Canny seen the password. Ballistic metaphrast. Resting in Second chance the chaos of the Found where it was left Middle Ages. Eye carving Enshrined in Catalpa behavior.
Trumpery Blackboard work. Enlarged Times Motion Stance Anecdote Neck I rote The poetry was in the gore, but in the American version the gore was cut Mutual out. How could these wet souls not love seeing through the specular glass? Compulsion The blood, spattered over the kitchen cabinets. Daria Nicolodi, a woman with a flip and a face as long as California, her Swing in an raincoat flapping in the dark wind.
What happened? The beach becomes I want to write a poem as long as California. A thousand holes like seeds, here in the seedy part of Rome. She takes a dagger in a darkroom, O heart of mine. October September Revision. Victims emerge from the bath, unsane. The three of us all used to regularly attend a lively Saturday afternoon poetry reading series at the Ear Inn, a bar in New York. Process Note Renga is a form of Japanese collaborative poetry dating back to the twelfth century.
It is made up of linked stanzas of set syllabic structure with a different I Kevin wanted something a little tonally different for one of the poems I was author responding to the previous stanza. Martine wrote the first haikai, Elaine the second, Melanie the third, Dodie agreed to help out, even though we have rarely collaborated or even tried with that order repeated consecutively throughout. On this often wrote either thirty-six chains or one hundred chains.
We decided to go poem we pretty much made a list, like David Letterman, of the aspects of with thirty-six. Then we rewrote the poem upon a one month deadline. No one ever felt pressured and the poem completed to disguise the fact Intro (The Midnight Embrace) Akkarell - Tenebrae (6) - The Mist Soften My Sorrow (CD two different people were writing it. Jack Spicer—or Eleni itself in exactly a year. I braided that hair into a housecoat, for you to wear on trips in your roadster— I gave my love a cherry, without any stone.
That was but a pretty toy, your cherry, not unlike the emerald green Z3, a nice I walked through the desert to bring you a marigold taste without a very long memory. And all you did was complain about your allergies. I saw you at the end of your rope, dangling down the cliff of my great love. I But I thought you said that the more we fucked the better you felt.
And then drove you anywhere you wanted, but mostly, you moaned, to distraction. The sounds, the sounds! Sight does not matter. Yes, I had become that black-haired boy, pungent with musk and bleach, but I I was a puppet in love.
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