And I'll dance with you in Vienna,I'll be wearing a river's disguise.The hyacinth wild on my shouldermy mouth on the dew of your thighs.And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,with the photographs there and the moss.And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,my cheap violin and my cross.
... i didn't fall in love of courseit's never up to youbut she was walking back and forthand i was passing through
It was a dance of masks and every mask was perfect because every mask was a real face and every face was areal mask so there was no mask and there was no face for there was but one dance in which there was butone mask but one true face which was the same and which was a thing without a name which changed andchanged into itself over and over.
I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.
so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos...So ring the bells that still can ringForget your perfect offeringThere is a crack in everythingThat’s how the light gets in.
I heard of a manwho says words so beautifullythat if he only speaks their namewomen give themselves to him.If I am dumb beside your bodywhile silence blossoms like tumors on our lipsit is because I hear a man climb stairsand clear his throat outside our door.
I walk through the old yellow sunlightto get to my kitchen tablethe poem about melying there with the booksin which I am listedamong the dead and future Dylans
I've forgotten most of what I've read and, frankly, it never seemed very important to me or to the world.
DEAR DIARYYou are greater than the BibleAnd the Conference of the BirdsAnd the UpanishadsAll put togetherYou are more severeThan the ScripturesAnd Hammurabi’s CodeMore dangerous than Luther’s paperNailed to the Cathedral doorYou are sweeterThan the Song of SongsMightier by farThan the Epic of GilgameshAnd braverThan the Sagas of IcelandI bow my head in gratitudeTo the ones who give their livesTo keep the secretThe daily secretUnder lock and keyDear DiaryI mean no disrespectBut you are more sublimeThan any Sacred TextSometimes just a listOf my eventsIs holier than the Bill of RightsAnd more intense
Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in.
This is the most challenging activity that humans get into, which is love. You know, where we have the sense that we can’t live without love. That life has very little meaning without love. So we’re invited into this arena which is a very dangerous arena, where the possibilities of humiliation and failure are ample. So there’s no fixed lesson that one can learn, because the heart is always opening and closing, it’s always softening and hardening. We’re always experiencing joy or sadness. But there are lots of people who’ve closed down. And there are times in one’s life when one has to close down just to regroup.
A teacher I once had told me that the older you get, the lonelier you become and the deeper the love you need. Loneliness creates an appetite for deeper love, and the entire predicament deepens. And as a result of suffering, your capacity to love deeply increases.
And may my bronze name / touch always her thousand fingers / grow brighter with her weeping / until I am fixed like a galaxy / and memorized / in her secret and fragile skies.
How quickly pettiness returns, and that most ignoble form of real estate, the possessive occupation and tyranny over two square inches of human flesh, the wife's cunt.
Blessed is the covenant of love, the covenant of mercy, useless light behind the terror, deathless song in the house of night.
Blessed are you who circled desire with a blade, and the garden with fiery swords, and heaven and earth with a word.
Though I love your company, your instructions are wasted her. I will always choose the woman who caries me off, I will always sit with the family of loneliness.
You should gofrom place to placerecovering the poemsthat have been written for youto which you can affix your signature.Don't discuss these matterswith anyone.Retrieve. Retrieve.When the basket is fullsomeone will appearto whom you can present it.
The RemoteI often think about youwhen I’m lying alone inmy room with my mouthopen and the remotelost somewhere in the bed.
Dear friend, I have searched all nightthrough each burnt paper,but I fear I will never findthe formula to let you die
Everybody knows that the dice are loadedEverybody rolls with their fingers crossedEverybody knows the war is overEverybody knows the good guys lostEverybody knows the fight was fixedThe poor stay poor, the rich get richThat's how it goesEverybody knows
It looks like freedom but it feels like death, it's something in between I guess. It's closing time.