Ceux qui ont apparié notre vie à un songe ont eu de la raison...Nous veillons dormants et veillants dormons. -Montaigne
Intro
O full-orb'd moon, did but thy rays
Their last upon mine anguish gaze!
Beside this desk, at dead of night,
Oft have I watched to hail thy light:
Then, pensive friend! o'er book and scroll,
With soothing power, thy radiance stole!
In thy dear light, ah, might I climb,
Freely, some mountain height sublime,
Round mountain caves with spirits ride,
In thy mild haze o'er meadows glide,
And, purged from knowledge-fumes, renew
My spirit, in thy healing dew!
Goethe: Faust I.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Nimrod's Children (almost a palindrome, except more convenient and rearranged)
Once stuck in a song, this hunter's once young, sharp tongue,
Polygluttony, of the touring variety,
Invoked a curse where he was sent babbling
From of the word of worlds, also note well:
From of the worlds of words, and
Douglas Adams made a joke about it.
A royaume ululation, but without relief,
The ceasing and the Inscendental, foreverish.
May as well go live in a cave or pretend
Life as Sophocles plays, and fuck it.
Your mom, Your fucking mom.
This joke has fallen upon my old ears.
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