Bailar hasta quemarnos

Pues, esto soy yo (combinación de cosas con aspiración a ser beatnik)

[babeimgonnaleaveu]

Jim Morrison photographed by Frank Lisciandro, 1970.

[jamabushi]

Kazumasa Nagai

[agentdarkb0oty]

These words will outlive Rutger. They will outlive Harrison, and Ridley, and each of us. And even long after the last memory of Blade Runner fades away, these words will be again stumbled upon, and rediscovered by those who are not yet born - whatever their language, whatever their shape. For that which is true remains and recurs.

[italyfunds]

You should love for no reason.

 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via ughpoems)

[theclassicsreader]

Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via theclassicsreader)

[macrolit]

If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.

Jean-Paul Sartre (b. 21 June 1905)

[deadhole]

[macrolit]

Three Novels by Samuel Beckett

[homophoni]

[y-o-u-t-h-s]

[existential-celestial]

but we carry the weight           wearily, and so must rest in the arms of love           at last, must rest in the arms           of love.

Allen Ginsberg, Song (San Jose, 1954)

[thunderstruck9]

Rufino Tamayo (Mexican, 1899-1991), Galaxia [Galaxy], 1977. Mixografia on Arches paper, 50.8 × 119.4 cm.

[theclassicsreader]

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…

Walt Whitman, from the preface to Leaves of Grass (via theclassicsreader)

[existential-celestial]

LII

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman (b. 31 May 1819), “Song of Myself,” in WHITMAN (The Laurel Poetry Series)

[thevaultofretroscifi]

[thevaultofretroscifi]

[theclassicsreader]

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself” (via theclassicsreader)