(via s*riouswh**ls dot com)

Killing, as if in an adjoining room: this world so small, now. Killing, as if in a far galaxy: how much our crowd minds it.


   "POEM

A man's mortals break over him and
ebb away...love, youth, Naomi.
In femoral jungles, light and shadow
play chess; man is present, judging.
Though foundering, I exhale the fate
of unknown cities and races; in my glance,
poison for future gods. The vines
already are clinging to men: they know who to back.
I live, I burn. My mortals,
my guts, break over me and ebb
away...love, youth, Naomi."

--Saint G*raud


"It's an act of conviction, baby, simply holding on
Keeping forward motion, pretending to be strong,
Listening with all my heart for voices in the wind
That will be singing for us, Baby, when the song begins again." (via wood_s lot)


"For the translator Pindar remains one of the most impossible poets in the world. To render him literally, as Cowley says, can only give the impression that one madman has translated another." --Lucas, op cit

Scandinavian folk music brought back in a big way.


Ungodly sayings.


Floor.