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και αναπαράσταση των σταδίων.

Ηθοποιός

Και το love her..

Κι άλλα

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Θέσεις και Παροιμίες-Θανάσης Αθανάσιος

Αρκεσίλας- Νίκος Εγγονόπουλος

Παρουσία Αγγέλων εντός Ατμομηχανής-Ανδρέας Εμπειρίκος

Ορέστης- Νικόλαος Κάλας

Εφόνευσε τό γιό της γιά νά μή γίνει άντρας και πήρε τήν κόρη της γιά εραστή
γλάροι κι αετοί φρουρούν τό μέλαθρό της, στόν κήπο μόνο ασφόδελοι
θάλλουν, στα δώματα πνέει μουσική
ζουν όλη μέρα με το σώμα τους γυμνό, κατάσκιοι πέπλοι συγκρατούνε
κάπως τα μαλλιά των
κάθε μήνα τα βάφουν άλλο χρώμα
τώρα η μια τά'χει βαθυπόρφυρα και της άλλης είναι σαν βαθύ σμαραγδί
την νύχτα ξεκινούν για ορθρινές ικεσίες, όταν φτάνουν στον τάφο
του παιδιού ορχούνται με τους ήχους περασμένης ολβίας
η μάνα θρηνεί τον γιο κι η κόρη τον αδερφό
''τον σκότωσα για σένα για νά' σαι πιο δικιά μου'' κράζει εκείνη
''τον έκρυψα για σένα για νά' σαι πάντα κοντά μου'' φωνάζει η άλλη
λυγμοίθ διαλύουν την οδύνη, το σέλας τα παραθυρόφυλλα της βασιλικής
οικοδομής
έβη ο ήλιος, κηρύχνει την ημέρα, φυσά μύρα στα λούλουδα, ανέμους
στους πλοκάμους, σκορπά τα όρνια στον ουρανό
στις δώδεκα μ' όλο το φως του καλεί τον νιο να βγει από αόρατο τάφο
ίστατ΄ εκεί, γυμνός μελαγχαίτης και ωραίος και καλός- ένα θαύμα
πέφτει η μάνα ξερή από την άνομη επιθυμία, κι η κόρη κείτεται κι αυτή
κατόπιν όλα συνεχίζονται όπως ήταν καμωμένα να συνεχισθούν
τα πάντα έρπουν προς την δύση
οι αγαπώμενες καταφεύγουν στις κλίνες των, στα καλλυντικά, στο
δηλητηριώδη χυμό των ασφοδέλων
δεν είναι όμως η αιδώ το αίσθημα που γεύονται
η ντροπή είναι του κόσμου, των γλάρων των αιτών
δεν είναι η τύψη που τις πυρώνει
μετανοούν οι πεθερές, οι νύφες, οι πένθιμοι βράχοι και τα άνθη
δεν είναι αγωνία, η αγωνία είναι για τη μουσική
δεν είναι ή αγωνία ή τύψη ή αισχύνη που αισθάνονται αυτές
αλλά ηδονή Ηδονή ΗΔΟΝΗ
τα άλλα όλα είναι του Ορέστη φαντασιοπληξίες.

Σύντομα Νικόλαος Κάλας!~~

And the Seventh Dream is the Dream of Isis- David Gascoyne

Θεωρείται το πρώτο υπερρεαλιστικό ποίημα στην αγγλική γλώσσα.
Δημοσιεύτηκε τον Οκτώβρη του 1933.
Σύντομα και η μετάφρασή του.


1

white curtains of infinite fatigue
dominating the starborn heritage of the colonies of St Francis
white curtains of tortured destinies
inheriting the calamities of the plagues
of the desert encourage the waistlines of women to expand
and the eyes of men to enlarge like pocket-cameras
teach children to sin at the age of five
to cut out the eyes of their sisters with nail-scissors
to run into the streets and offer themselves to unfrocked priests
teach insects to invade the deathbeds of rich spinsters
and to engrave the foreheads of their footmen with purple signs
for the year is open the year is complete
the year is full of unforeseen happenings
and the time of earthquakes is at hand

today is the day when the streets are full of hearses
and when women cover their ring fingers with pieces of silk
when the doors fall off their hinges in ruined cathedrals
when hosts of white birds fly across the ocean from america
and make their nests in the trees of public gardens
the pavements of cities are covered with needles
the reservoirs are full of human hair
fumes of sulphur envelop the houses of ill-fame
out of which bloodred lilies appear.

2

across the square where crowds are dying in thousands
a man is walking a tightrope covered with moths

there is an explosion of geraniums in the ballroom of the hotel
there is an extremely unpleasant odour of decaying meat
arising from the depetalled flower growing out of her ear
her arms are like pieces of sandpaper
or wings of leprous birds in taxis
and when she sings her hair stands on end
and lights itself with a million little lamps like glowworms
you must always write the last two letters of her christian name
upside down with a blue pencil

she was standing at the window clothed only in a ribbon
she was burning the eyes of snails in a candle
she was eating the excrement of dogs and horses
she was writing a letter to the president of france

3

the edges of leaves must be examined through microscopes
in order to see the stains made by dying flies
at the other end of the tube is a woman bathing her husband
and a box of newspapers covered with handwriting
when an angel writes the word TOBACCO across the sky
the sea becomes covered with patches of dandruff
the trunks of trees burst open to release streams of milk
little girls stick photographs of genitals to the windows of their homes
prayerbooks in churches open themselves at the death service
and virgins cover their parents' beds with tealeaves
there is an extraordinary epidemic of tuberculosis in yorkshire
where medical dictionaries are banned from the public libraries
and salt turns a pale violet colour every day at seven o'clock
when the hearts of troubadours unfold like soaked mattresses
when the leaven of the gruesome slum-visitors
and the wings of private airplanes look like shoeleather
shoeleather on which pentagrams have been drawn
shoeleather covered with vomitings of hedgehogs
shoeleather used for decorating wedding-cakes
and the gums of queens like glass marbles
queens whose wrists are chained to the walls of houses
and whose fingernails are covered with little drawings of flowers
we rejoice to receive the blessing of criminals
and we illuminate the roofs of convents when they are hung
we look through a telescope on which the lord's prayer has been written
and we see an old woman making a scarecrow
on a mountain near a village in the middle of spain
we see an elephant killing a stag-beetle
by letting hot tears fall onto the small of its back
we see a large cocoa-tin full of shapeless lumps of wax
there is a horrible dentist walking out of a ship's funnel
and leaving behind him footsteps which make noises
on account of his accent he was discharged from the sanatorium
and sent to examine the methods of cannibals
so that wreaths of passion-flowers were floating in the darkness
giving terrible illnesses to the possessors of pistols
so that large quantities of rats disguised as pigeons
were sold to various customers from neighbouring towns
who were adepts at painting gothic letters on screens
and at tying up parcels with pieces of grass
we told them to cut off the buttons on their trousers
but they swore in our faces and took off their shoes
whereupon the whole place was stifled with vast clouds of smoke
and with theatres and eggshells and droppings of eagles
and the drums of the hospitals were broken like glass
and glass were the faces in the last looking-glass.

Τι είναι η Εννοιολογική Τέχνη- Sol LeWitt

Sentences on Conceptual Art

by Sol Lewitt


1. Conceptual artists are mystics rather than rationalists. They leap to conclusions that logic cannot reach.
2. Rational judgements repeat rational judgements.
3. Irrational judgements lead to new experience.
4. Formal art is essentially rational.
5. Irrational thoughts should be followed absolutely and logically.
6. If the artist changes his mind midway through the execution of the piece he compromises the result and repeats past results.
7. The artist's will is secondary to the process he initiates from idea to completion. His wilfulness may only be ego.
8. When words such as painting and sculpture are used, they connote a whole tradition and imply a consequent acceptance of this tradition, thus placing limitations on the artist who would be reluctant to make art that goes beyond the limitations.
9. The concept and idea are different. The former implies a general direction while the latter is the component. Ideas implement the concept.
10. Ideas can be works of art; they are in a chain of development that may eventually find some form. All ideas need not be made physical.
11. Ideas do not necessarily proceed in logical order. They may set one off in unexpected directions, but an idea must necessarily be completed in the mind before the next one is formed.
12. For each work of art that becomes physical there are many variations that do not.
13. A work of art may be understood as a conductor from the artist's mind to the viewer's. But it may never reach the viewer, or it may never leave the artist's mind.
14. The words of one artist to another may induce an idea chain, if they share the same concept.
15. Since no form is intrinsically superior to another, the artist may use any form, from an expression of words (written or spoken) to physical reality, equally.
16. If words are used, and they proceed from ideas about art, then they are art and not literature; numbers are not mathematics.
17. All ideas are art if they are concerned with art and fall within the conventions of art.
18. One usually understands the art of the past by applying the convention of the present, thus misunderstanding the art of the past.
19. The conventions of art are altered by works of art.
20. Successful art changes our understanding of the conventions by altering our perceptions.
21. Perception of ideas leads to new ideas.
22. The artist cannot imagine his art, and cannot perceive it until it is complete.
23. The artist may misperceive (understand it differently from the artist) a work of art but still be set off in his own chain of thought by that misconstrual.
24. Perception is subjective.
25. The artist may not necessarily understand his own art. His perception is neither better nor worse than that of others.
26. An artist may perceive the art of others better than his own.
27. The concept of a work of art may involve the matter of the piece or the process in which it is made.
28. Once the idea of the piece is established in the artist's mind and the final form is decided, the process is carried out blindly. There are many side effects that the artist cannot imagine. These may be used as ideas for new works.
29. The process is mechanical and should not be tampered with. It should run its course.
30. There are many elements involved in a work of art. The most important are the most obvious.
31. If an artist uses the same form in a group of works, and changes the material, one would assume the artist's concept involved the material.
32. Banal ideas cannot be rescued by beautiful execution.
33. It is difficult to bungle a good idea.
34. When an artist learns his craft too well he makes slick art.
35. These sentences comment on art, but are not art.

Βασίλης Λαλιώτης

Ουρλιαχτό (Howl)- Allen Ginsberg

Επειδή είναι δύσκολο να κάτσω να πληκτρολογήσω το Ουρλιαχτό
από το βιβλίο
σας το παραθέτω στην φυσική του γλώσσα και όποτε είναι δυνατόν
θα πληκτρολογήσω την ελληνική μετάφραση του Γιώργο Μπλάνα.


HOWL

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

The spirit of American conversation-Γκίνσμπεργκ

The Ballad of the Skeletons- Γκίνσμπεργκ

Rumi- The Body is Too Slow for Me

Toward the gardens,
Toward the orchards,
I am going.
If you want to stay here,
Stay here -
I am going!
My day is dark without His Face,
Toward that bright flame
I am going.

My soul is racing ahead of me.
It says, The body is too slow for me -
I am going.

The smell of apples arises
from the orchard of my soul.
One whiff and I am gone -
Toward a feast of apples
I am going.

A sudden wind won't blow me over.
Toward Him, like a mountain of iron,
I am going.

My shirt is ripped open
with the pain of loss.
Searching for a new life,
with my head held high,
I am going.

I am fire, though I seem like oil -
Seeking to be the fuel of His fire,
I am going.

I appear as a steady mountain
Yet bit by bit,
Toward that tiny opening
I am going.

μετάφραση στα Αγγλικά: Shahram Shiva

Rumi- Close the Language-Door

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives,
the touch of Spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl
to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild Darling!

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine.
Breathe into me.

Close the language-door,
and open the love-window

The moon won't use the door,
only the window.

Jalaluddin Rumi

You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?

Χειρόγραφο του Άλεν Γκίνσμπεργ!

Ο Ίδας- Θανάσης Αθανάσιος

32' 31''

33' 34''

7' 72''

Αποχή στις εκλογές!

Πλήρης αποχή!

Έτσι πρέπει!

Ξυπνήστε!






Η διαφορά της δημοκρατίας με τα άλλα πολιτεύματα έγκειται στον
τρόπο της επιβολής των εξουσιαστών:
μέσω της εκπαίδευσης, της οικογένειας και φυσικά των νόμων.
Όλα αυτά βέβαια από μικρή ηλικία για να μην μπορούμε να τα αποτινάξουμε
ποτέ!



Δεν υπάρχει μεγαλύτερο ψεύδος από την ελεύθερη εκλογή διότι
αυτό που ψηφίζουμε είναι αυτό που θέλουν να ψηφίσουμε.

Η δημοκρατία είναι το πιο συμφέρον πολίτευμα για τους εξουσιαστές.
Και μην θεωρήσετε εξουσιαστές τους πολιτικούς, αυτοί είναι οι τελευταίοι στην
ατελείωτη σειρά των εξουσιαστών.


Κοντολογίς:
Ελευθερία= αυτό που συμφέρει τους εξουσιαστές
Παιδεία= αυτό που συμφέρει τους εξουσιαστές
Εκπαίδευση= αυτό που συμφέρει τους εξουσιαστές
Δουλειά= αυτό που συμφέρει τους εξουσιαστές


Δηλαδή, πράττοντας, υποτίθεται, για την ατομική σου ελευθερία πράττεις αυτό
που συμφέρει τους εξουσιαστές.
Θέλοντας να μορφωθείς υπογράφεις την αργή θανάτωσή σου.

Ό,τι και αν πράξουμε είναι το συμφέρον των εξουσιαστών.



Η ηθική είναι αυτό που κάνει τους ανθρώπους να σέβονται τους νόμους.
Ο φόβος των νομικών συνεπειών δεν είναι τίποτα μπροστά
στον φόβο της ατομικής ,αλλοτριωμένης, συνείδησης.
Εξ ου και η μεγαλύτερη απάτη στην ανθρωπότητα:
ο βάρβαρος ιδεαλισμός της
ηθικής συνείδησης.


Εν πάση περιπτώσει
Μαυρίστε τους!

(που σιγά μην το κάνετε!)

(μήπως όλη μας η πολιτική συμπεριφορά δηλώνει την αγιάτρευτη κατάθλιψή μας;
μήπως η ψήφος μας είναι εκούσια αυτοκτονία;)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoATQO82k-k

Σύντομα κι άλλος Ντεσνός
και
αφιερώματα σε:
Αρτώ!
και
Μπατάιγ!

Αφιέρωμα στον Ρομπέρ Ντεσνός (1).

Σας αντιγράφω αποσπάσματα απ'το έργο του Ρομπέρ Ντεσνός.
Μόνο για σας!

''Δεν υπάρχει μέρα που η γελοία εικόνα του θανάτου να μην παρεμβαίνει στον
κινητό διάκοσμο των ονείρων μου. Δε με αγγίζει διόλου ο υλικός θάνατος, γιατί ζω
στην αθανασία. Η αθανασία, ιδού το πολυτελές θέατρο όπου η ελευθερία
και ο έρωτας συγκρούονται για την κατάκτησή μου. Η αθανασία, σαν τεράστιο
κέλυφος αυγού, με κυκλώνει από όλες τις μεριές, και να που η ελευθερία,
ωραία λιονταρίνα, μεταμορφώνεται όπως της κάνει κέφι. Να την συμβατική θύελλα κάτω από ακίνητα σύννεφα. Να την αρρενωπή γυναίκα καπελωμένη με το φρύγικο σκούφο,
στο βήμα της Εθνοσυνέλευσης και στον εξώστη των Φεγιάν. Κι ως γυναίκα είναι άραγε αυτή
η θαυμαστή, είναι άραγε αυτή η λέξη η εκλεκτή στον Όλυμπο των νυχτών μου,
γυναίκα ευλύγιστη και γητεμένη κι ως έρωτας; Ο έρωτας με τα σφιχτά του στήθη
και τα ψυχρά λαιμά. Ο έρωτας με τις αγκάλες φυλακές του, ο έρωτας με τις ζωηρές
αγρύπνιες ανά δύο, σε κρεβάτι στρωμένο με δαντέλες. ΄
Άλλο τι να διαλέξω δεν θα μπορούσα εξόν από το να μείνω εδώ,
κάτω από το διαφανή τρούλο της αιωνιότητας''.






''Ο Κορσέρ Σανγκλό πλησιάζει στο λιμάνι. Ο μόλος είναι από γρανίτη, το τελωνείο
από λευκό μάρμαρο. Και τι σιωπή. Τί έλεγα; Για τον Κορσέρ Σανγκλό.
Πλησιάζει στο λιμάνι, ο μόλος είναι από πορφυρίτη και το τελωνείο από λιωμένη λάβα...
και τι σιωπή βασιλεύει σε όλα αυτά.''




''Κοινοτοπίες! Κοινοτοπίες! Ιδού λοιπόν το ύφος το αισθησιακό! Να τη λοιπόν η χορταστική
πρόζα. Μακριά είναι το στόμα από την πένα. Έσο λοιπόν παράλογο, μυθιστόρημα
όπου θέλω αλαζονικά να φυλακίσω τις λεβέντικες φιλοδοξίες μου στον έρωτα,
έσο ανεπαρκές, έσο πτωχό, έσο απογοητευτικό. Νιώθω το στήθος μου να φουσκώνει στο
ζύγωμα της λεγάμενης. Θα κάνω έρωτα μπροστά σε τριακόσια άτομα, ατάραχος, μέχρι
αυτού του σημείου έχουν πάψει να με ενδιαφέρουν οι γύρω μου. Έσο τετριμμένος,
αφήγημα πολύκροτο.
Εξακολουθώ να πιστεύω στο θαυμαστό του έρωτα, πιστεύω στην πραγματικότητα
των ονείρων, πιστεύω στις ηρωίδες της νύχτα, στις ωραίες της νύχτας που τρυπώνουν
στις καρδιές και στα κρεβάτια. Δείτε, δίνω τους καρπούς μου στις εύθραυστες
χειροπέδες της εκλεκτής γυναίκας, χειροπέδες ατσάλινες, χειροπέδες σάρκινες,
μοιραίες χειροπέδες. Νεαρέ κατάδικες, είναι καιρός να βάλουμε έναν αριθμό στο
σαγιάκι σου και να δέσουμε στον αστράγαλό σου τη βαριά μπάλα των διαδοχικών ερώτων.''










''Ας μη σκεφτεί κανείς ότι η δουλειά του λογιστή και του ποιητή αφήνουν τελικά τα ίδια
στίγματα στο χαρτί, κι ότι μόνο το διορατικό μάτι των τυχοδιωκτών της σκέψης είναι
ικανό να καταλάβει τη διαφορά μεταξύ των αράδων χωρίς μυστήριο του πρώτου
και της σολομωνικής του δευτέρου, της προφητικής και ίσως θείας, εν αγνοία του,
γιατί οι πανούκλες είναι φοβερές δεν είναι παρά θύελλες καρδιών αλληλοσυγκρουόμενων και
είναι δέον να τις αντιμετωπίζουμε με ατομικές φιλοδοξίες και πνεύμα αποδεσμευμένο
από την ηλίθια ελπίδα της μετατροπής του χαρτιού σε καθρέφτη χάρη σε μια γραφή μαγική
και αποτελεσματική''.


''Υπάρχουν στιγμές στη ζωή όπου η λογική των πράξεών μας μάς προκύπτει με όλη της
την αδυναμία. Ανασαίνω, κοιτάζω, δεν μπορώ να ορίσω στις σκέψεις μου μια παλαίστρα.
Επιμένουν να χαράσσουν διασταυρούμενα αυλάκια.
Πώς θέλετε το στάρι, κύρια έγνοια ανθρώπων που περιφρονώ, να βλαστήσει εκεί;''.

''Τί κάνουμε όταν είμαστε τρεις; Γδυνόμαστε''.



''Αίνιγμα.
Τί είναι αυτό που ανεβαίνει πιο ψηλά από τον ήλιο και κατεβαίνει πιο χαμηλά
από τη φωτιά, που είναι πιο ρευστό από τον άνεμο και πιο σκληρό από το γρανίτη;
Χωρίς να σκεφτεί, η Ζαν-Ουράνιο Τόξο απαντάει:
-Μια μπουκάλα.
-Γιατί; ρωτάει η σφίγγα.
-Γιατί έτσι θέλώ.
-Καλώς, μπορείς να περάσεις, Οιδίπους ιδέα και τομάρι.''




''Καλλιεργείτε λοιπόν τις αισθήσεις σας είτε για την υπέρτατη ευδαιμονία είτε για την
υπέρτατη φουρτούνα, ζηλευτές κι οι δύο καθόσον υπέρτατες και στη διάθεσή σας.''



''Ήταν η ώρα δύο το απομεσήμερο. Μισάνοιξε ο ήλιος και βροχή πυξίδων έπεσε στη γη:
πυξίδες υπέροχες από νίκελ που έδειχναν όλες τον ίδιο Βορρά.''






''Ο μύλος του καφέ γουργούριζε στα χέρια της μαγείρισσας. Έπειτα μες στη σιωπή του
κήπου ακούστηκε η ξαφνική και περιπαθής φωνή του θυρωρού: <Η κυρία πεθαίνει! Η κυρία πέθανε>! Η άμοιρη γυναίκα ήταν πράγματι νεκρή, και πολυτελώς μάλιστα:
με καρότα για μαξιλάρι και άνθη ροδακινιάς για σάβανο. Και από τότε, μες στο σπίτι
που πενθεί, ποτέ δεν έπαψε να ακούγεται το γουργούρισμα του μύλου του καφέ στα
τραχιά χέρια της αόρατης μαγείρισσας με την μπλε ποδιά, και ποτέ δεν πέρασαν ατιμώρητοι
μπροστά από τα κλειστά παράθυρα ο εραστής ο άτολμος και ο γρουσούζης παπάς''

just for fun ;)

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Σύντομα το νέο βιβλίο..

από γυαλί φτιαγμένη..

Ο Εθνικός Λόγος- Θανάσης Αθανάσιος

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