luna-c-indeterminant

Personal shrine; fanboying welcome; All can share in the derangement of the sense & reasonable disorder of the elements of the self as they plz, but plz also be calm & collected lest you become the hypocrite, ya dimwit. In less clumsy words, I'm James; welcome! This will be a compilation of my words, my pieces, those of others, and perhaps some disjointedly juxtaposed images and songs that constitute my most potent influences. Enjoy, or don't -- but in either situation send me questions, critique me, please!

[uutpoetry]

The HR officer weeps. Vending machine that rejects all coins. Penmanship is destiny.

Ron Silliman, from Vog (via uutpoetry)

[snifflingsailors]

[uutpoetry]

turn on

snifflingsailors

July 15, 2014

everything is turned off/ turn everything off/

everything gets turned off/ let’s start this

from it’s beginning/ but carefully,

you only get so many beginnings / two men, from a dream/

standing in the cumulus/ hiding

in the heavens/ from the rain/

again

art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte

[uutpoetry]

civic.casual.sugar

Catherine B. Krause

how did she get to this point: the civic orgy of orgies? it started with tape and a cricket bat in a cheap hotel room and the final surrender. "enjoy your new prescription and have a good time in the capital, sugar!”

[tamburina-deactivated20220820]

[lecollecteur]

Saul Leiter, “T”, 1950

[uutpoetry]

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers! Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!

Arthur Rimbaud, “The Drunken Boat” (via uutpoetry)

[lecollecteur]

Stephen Shore, Room 219, Florida, 1977.

[robcam-wfu]

There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast at midnight when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.

James Joyce, Ulysses (via robcam-wfu)

[harukimurakami]

Sometimes I get real lonely sleeping with you.

A Wild Sheep Chase (via harukimurakami)

[antidevelopment]

[ethiopienne]

[boredelaire-deactivated20150622]

Literature is an armor-plated machine. It doesn’t care about writers. Sometimes it doesn’t even notice they exist. Literature’s enemy is something else, something much bigger and more powerful, that in the end will conquer it. But that’s another story.

Roberto Bolaño (via hivvx)

[uutpoetry]

the syllables to be pronounced or to be suppressed a prayer wheel broken in the windy commerce of automatic recognition

Ivan Argüelles (via uutpoetry)

[untrustyou]

Alex Webb

[uutpoetry]

Not surprisingly for a society based on capitalism and its ideology of individualism, these perceptions often consist of unorganized intuitions. Intuition is, for me, the critical term in this discussion. It is the raw material of what Lukács terms “proletarian consciousness.” In its unorganized state, it can only react “spontaneously” to the undigested phenomenological data of everyday society.

Ron Silliman (via uutpoetry)

[uutpoetry]

Mary Bast

Proud as roosters in their red mufflers, belting melodies and collecting her father through a pose beyond her years, legs crossed, head tilted, such is the way questions in the family remain unasked and all but abandoned.

Strangers at the same gravesite mourn, complaining...

[tamburina-deactivated20220820]

Edvard Munch, The Island, 1900-1901

[laurasaxby-deactivated20141222]

[theniftyfifties]

Kim Novak photographed by Leonard McCombe, 1956.