i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel
the spine of your body and its bones,
and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh. . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

e.e.cummings, i like your body when it is with your

"--¿Sabes, Oshima? ¿Te has puesto triste alguna vez pensando en él cuando estás solo?
--Pues claro --dice Oshima--. A menudo. Especialmente en la estación en que la luna aparece azulada. O en la estación en que los pájaros emigran hacia el sur O...
--¿Y por qué dices 'claro'?-- pregunto.
--Porque, cuando nos enamoramos, todos buscamos en la persona amada una parte de nosotros que nos falta. Por eso, al pensar en esa persona, siempre nos ponemos en mayor o menor medida tristes. Nos sentimos como si volviéramos a pisar una habitación añorada que habíamos perdido hace muchísimo tiempo. Es natural".

Haruki Murakami, Kafka en la orilla.
And Kurt Halsey

You take me here from far
Up to the highest star
You took a part of me
No one else will ever see
And if I gave away
What I'm dying to say
I couldn't give you more than this
I was born and it was bliss
I have died for a thousand years
Tasted salt of a thousand tears
And your kiss was almost gold

You took me near you took me far
Up to the highest brightest star
You're giving back the exchange
We got something going on
And if I ever fell from grace
With every living human state
Well I throw the whole thing down
And I take to higher ground
Cast a spell on my surround
Time to think on what I found
This is almost gold

The Jesus & Mary Chain, Almost Gold

Despair,
I don't like you very well.
You don't suit my clothes or my cigarettes.
Why do you locate here
as large as a tank,
aiming at one half of a lifetime?

Couldn't you just go float into a tree
instead of locating here at my roots,
forcing me out of the life I've led
when it's been my belly so long?

All right!
I'll take you along on the trip
where for so many years
my arms have been speechless

Anne Sexton, Despair

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' or 'how very perceptive' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love.

Neil Gaiman, The Sandman
Art by Mark Ryden

Miro al techo que hoy ha vuelto a gotear; hacía tiempo que no llovía así. Y cada gota golpeando contra los cacharros de metal me hace pensar unas veces en sangre y otras veces en ti. Lo que en realidad viene a ser lo mismo. Lo que, por crueldad, viene a dar igual. O puede ser un ángel que una vez perdió la fe y fue expulsado, y que ha venido a agonizar justo encima de mi hogar y estas gotas sean sus lágrimas. O puede que sea hora de entrar ya en razón y llegar a comprender que dentro de este horror no hay literatura, no, y eso tú lo sabes bien a fuerza de caer en una trampa mortal que en el tiempo dura ya ocho años y medio. Seré muy breve; te quiero, y esto duele.
Y vino un pájaro a posarse en mi ventana. Tenía una ala rota y su plumaje era gris y azul. Y al acercar mi mano y comprobar que no echaba a volar supe de inmediato que lo enviabas tú. Lo tomé entre mis garras y lo dejé morir, y cuando lo hizo aún llovía aquí. Y la sangre al gotear entre zarpas de animal presagió mi suerte, como una ave que voló de Madrid hacia Gijón aun herida de muerte, reescribiendo la espiral de prometer hacerlo bien, cometer un nuevo error, no saber pedir perdón o pedirlo demasiadas veces. Y aunque ahora escupo una oración helado de terror ningún dios responde aún. ¿Soy yo el que no ve o es que todavía no se hizo la luz? Seré muy breve; te extraño, y esto duele.
Y trato de encontrar una salida pero no recuerdo ni por dónde hemos entrado aquí. Y contemplo junto a mí el cadáver del que fui –según tú- en una ocasión, y es la mancha de humedad la de la herida mortal impregnada en el colchón, y ahora que te oigo llorar en lugar de ir hacia ti me vuelvo a anestesiar y me limito a subir el volumen del televisor, o me concentro en recordar, para no pensar en ti, que tendría que llamar y que alguien venga a reparar la gotera de una puta vez, que ya cansé de recoger litros de agua gris, gris como un metal que un día relució y hoy lo cubre suciedad. ¿Qué se hace para amar lo que quise despreciar ya una y mil veces? Seré muy breve; te he perdido, y esto duele.

Nacho Vegas, Ocho y medio

Ojerosa, flaca, fea, desgreñada,
torpe, tonta, lenta, necia, desquiciada,
completamente descontrolada
tu te das cuenta y no me dices nada
ves que se me ha vuelto la cabeza un nido
donde solamente tu tienes asilo
y no me escuchas lo que te digo
mira bien lo que vas a hacer conmigo

Bruta, ciega, sordomuda,
torpe, traste, testaruda,
es todo lo que he sido
por ti me he convertido
en una cosa que no hace
otra cosa más que amarte

Shakira, Ciega Sordomuda
Hands by Asia Argento

"...¿Y si las pesadillas fueran estrictamente sobrenaturales? ¿Si las pesadillas fueran grietas del infierno? ¿Si en las pesadillas estuviéramos literalmente en el infierno? ¿Por qué no? Todo es tan raro que aun eso es posible."

Jorge Luis Borges, Siete Noches

"I was still wearing Betsy's white blouse and dirndl skirt. They drooped a bit now, as I hadn't washed them in my three weeks at home. The sweaty cotton gave off a sour but friendly smell.
I hadn't washed my hair for three weeks, either.
I hadn't slept for seven nights.
My mother told me I must have slept, it was impossible not to sleep in all that time, but if I slept, it was with my eyes wide open, for I had followed the green, luminous course of the second hand and the minute hand and the hour hand of the bedside clock through their circles and semi-circles, every night for seven nights, without missing a second, or a minute, or an hour.
The reason I hadn't washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly.
I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it".

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Mucha tropa riendo en las calles
con sus muecas rotas cromadas
y por las carreteras valladas
escuchás caer tus lágrimas

Nuestro amo juega al esclavo
de esta tierra que es una herida
que se abre todos los días
a pura muerte, a todo gramo.

-Violencia es mentir-

Formidables guerreros en jeeps
los titanes del orden viril
¿Qué botines esperan ganar?
si nunca un perro mira al cielo.

Si hace falta hundir la nariz en el plato
lo vamos a hacer,
por los tipos que huelen a tigre
tan soberbios y despiadados

-Violencia es mentir-.

Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota, Nuestro amo juega al esclavo

http://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/elmundo/4-77682-2006-12-14.html

"...Back then I wrote in my journal, 'When I'm with him I feel perfectly calm and when I'm not I want to jump off a building so he'll never stop thinking of me'. Now I've added in a steadier hand, 'I couldn't have meant that.'

Dennis Cooper, My Mark
Pic Bernard Faucon

Without you, I'm workin' with the rain fallin' down
I'm half a party in a one dog town
I need you to chase these blues away
Without you, I'm a drummer girl that can't keep a beat
An ice cream truck on a deserted street
I hope that you're coming to stay
I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Waitin' on a sunny day

Bruce Springsteen, Waitin' On A Sunny Day

"...Pero yo no tengo muy claro que yéndote, por muy lejos que te vayas, puedas escapar. Me da la impresión de que no hay que confiar demasiado en la distancia."

Haruki Murakami, Kafka en la orilla

"And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand and go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy's and talk about the day and type your letters and carry your boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you don't listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and complain about the radio and take pictures of you when you're sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee and bagels and Danish and go to Florent and drink coffee at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never be able to find a match and tell you about the the programme I saw the night before and take you to the eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes your lips your neck your breasts your arse your
and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you're late and be amazed when you're early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I'm black and be sorry when I'm wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I'd known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you're angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you're gorgeous and hug you when you're anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend you when I touch you and whimper when I'm next to you and whimper when I'm not and dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don't and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I'm rejecting you when I'm not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I'd ever reject you and wonder who you are but accept you anyway and tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and wonder why you don't believe me and have a feeling so deep I can't find words for it and want to buy you a kitten I'd get jealous of because it would get more attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of the roaches and buy you presents you don't want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don't mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you and wander the city thinking it's empty without you and want want you want and think I'm losing myself but know I'm safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don't deserve any less and answer your questions when I'd rather not and tell you the truth when I really dont' want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it's all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it's a beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you worse and make love with you at three in the morning and somehow somehow somehow communicate some of the overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you."

Sarah Kane, Crave

I don't know if I'm tired
and I don't know if I'm ill
My cheeks are turning yellow
I think I'll take another pill

Praying for the wave to come now
It must be for the fifteenth time
I've been here for much too long
This is the past that's mine

I want to fly and run till it hurts
Sleep for a while and speak no words in Australia
I want to fly and run till it hurts
Sleep for a while and speak no words in Australia
In Australia

Praying for the wave to come now
It must be for the very last time
It's twelve o'clock till midnight
There must be someone to blame

I want to fly and run till it hurts
Sleep for a while and speak no words in Australia
I want to fly and run till it hurts
Sleep for a while and speak no words in Australia
In Australia

Manic Street Preachers, Australia

I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait

It's been so long
I've lost my taste
Say angel come
Say lick my face
Let fall your dress
I'll play the part
I'll open this mouth wide
Eat your heart

I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait
I can hardly wait

Lips cracked dry
Tongue blue burst
Say angel come
Say lick my thirst
It's been so long
I've lost my taste
Here RomeoM
ake my water's break

In my glass coffin
I'm waiting
In my glass coffin
I'm waiting

P.J.Harvey, I Can Hardly Wait

"-¿No?
--No. No es tu culpa.
--No es tu culpa, eso es lo único que escucho, no es tu culpa, es una enfermedad, no es tu culpa. Ya sé que no es mi culpa. Me lo decís tanto que estoy empezando a pensar que sí es mi culpa.
--No es tu culpa.
--YA LO SE.
--Pero lo permitís.
(Silencio)
--¿O no?
--No hay droga sobre la tierra que pueda darle sentido a la vida.
--Vos sos la que permite este estado de desesperación absurda.
(Silencio)
--Sos vos quien lo permite.
(Silencio)
--No voy a ser capaz de pensar. No voy a ser capaz de trabajar.
--Nada va a interferir tanto con tu trabajo como el suicidio.
(Silencio)
--Soñé que iba al doctor y me daba ocho minutos de vida. Y había estado sentada en la puta sala de espera como media hora.
(Un largo silencio)
--Está bien, hagámoslo, hagámoslo con las drogas, hagamos la lobotomía química, bajémosle la cortina a las funciones más elevadas de mi cerebro y a lo mejor voy a ser un poquito más capaz de vivir. Hagámoslo"

Sarah Kane, 4.48 Psicosis
Pic by Esther G.

No necesito nada más que esta lapicera
prestada por el mozo
ni otro sobre de azúcar para el café
bramando en la resaca
tampoco el pago de una cerveza octava.

Guardo intacto
el coraje de hacer un paga Dios
como en los setenta
por las farmacias de turno
cuando la poesía anfetamínica
se compraba sin receta.

Viajo solo en medio de la huelga
entre panzas vacías
con razón vociferantes
y ningún encontronazo
junto al musculoso estibador
mientras dura la espera
en la protesta augusta
que hasta cortó la calle
con su semáforo
chorreando lágrimas de sangre.

Masacre sin piedad
para los mustios habitantes
de bairestremens.com.
Mientras leo en cerebros
de los otros viajeros.
Ese, de anteojos negros,
va a llegar tardísimo a su cita
con el andrólogo.
El que viaja a su lado
sólo piensa en robar
la corona de oro de la Virgen del Once
pero también
el busto de bronce de algún prócer
para revenderlo
enseguida
a peso plomo,vapuleo.

Así nace esta queja
sobre mi cuaderno Avon
en pleno verano
cuando el hospital de poetas
parece aniquilado
aunque nunca existiera la cura
de sus males
ni siquiera un cuarto gratis y fresco
donde no morir de pie.

Ahora,
destrabada la marcha
con las vitrinas de El Molino
destrozadas a huevazos
es cuando el maldito patrullero
se sube a la vereda
y como a la estatua de Santa Claus
me alumbran
entre dátiles
aunque igual nada vieron.
Mayor fue el miedo
de volverte invisible.

A distraerse ahora
con tu milonga hacia la autopista
Tacos de punta baratos hundidos en la brea
hirviendo aún más que el cuerpo
del que paga
y al finalizar la faena
regresar leyendo esos versos abyectos que has escrito.

Soy el que cree en la avenida Corrientes
acunadora del tango y de Tanguito
que se incendia en el río
justo cerca de la Casa Rosada
ese postre fucsia envenenado
en los cachetes.

Confundo palomas con empleados
de oficina
usan la misma gris corbata
que les impide el vuelo.
Soy quien cantara a Safo
además de encerar los dedos
de la hidra de Lesbos
con ungüentos de acero
pero ahora
ni consigo colarmee
n los recitales de Gal, Chavela
o La Felipe.

Igual
como siempre
el buen clima regresa
tras la huelga a lo lejos
cada vez más ajena.
A causa de ella
me pasé de parada

pero sigo escribiendo.

preferible el asco bien narrado
a la culpa de sobrevivir triunfales.
Sin tener cómo,dónde,cuándo
a quién decirlo.

Fernando Noy, Peso Plomo

"Sí", pensó. "Entre la pena y la nada, elijo la pena."

William Faulkner, Las palmeras salvajes

"--Todo está hecho y terminado, Holly, y ahora en el pasado. Debes guardar las imágenes y los olores y los sonidos en el estante de más atrás del cerebro.
--¿Cómo puedo hacer eso?
Le doy la explicación de cómo pensar en el cerebro como algo que vive dentro de una gran habitación con muchos armarios y estantes y cajas. Y el trabajo consiste en seleccionar una caja, o un estante, de un rincón alejado, para mantener en él todos los recuerdos desagradables. Luego le cuelgas una etiqueta, la de las cosas pasadas, y sólo lo abres cuando quieres. "

Kitty Fitzgerald, Pigtopia
Art bt Laurie Lipton

"Pero cuando se trata de la vida, ¿quién nos ampara? Pues cada uno es cada uno. Y cada vida tiene que ser amparada por esa propia vida de cada uno. Cada uno de nosotros: es con lo que contamos. Como doña María Rita siempre fue una persona común, le parecía que morir no era una cosa normal. Morir era sorprendente. Hablaba y hasta pensaba en la muerte, pero en el fondo era escéptica e incrédula. Pensaba que se moría cuando ocurría un accidente o alguien mataba a alguien. La vieja tenía poca experiencia. A veces tenía taquicardia: bacanal del corazón. Pero sólo eso, y le sucedía desde joven. En su primer beso, por ejemplo, el corazón se desgobernó. Y fue una cosa buena, en el límite con lo malo. Algo que recordaba de su pasado, no como hechos sino como vida: una sensación de vegetación en sombra, hierbas, samambayas, culandrillos, frescor verde. Cuando sentía eso otra vez, sonreía".

Clarice Lispector, La partida del tren

Vivir Sola

Aunque por odiosa casualidad hallara un pelo sobre mi pan con miel, de todos modos se trataría de mi propio pelo.

Katherine Mansfield, Diario

"El insomnio es la única forma de heroísmo compatible con la cama"

E.M. Cioran, Silogismos de la amargura

There was a girl who flew the world from a lonely shore
Through southern snow to Heathrow to understand the law
There was a boy who loved the noise of the underground
He left the coast and overdosed on that London sound

He said,"I don't care if you're black or blue,
me and the stars stay up for you
I don't care who's wrong or right
and I don't care for the U.K. tonight so stay, stay"

And then one day she moved away from those garden walls
She left some flowers, he smoked for hours
She understood the law

Suede, Black or Blue

I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never having
wavered
In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of the
rich or in the presence of clergymen having denied these
loves;
Never when worked upon by cynics like chiropractors having
grunted or clicked a vertebra to the discredit of those loves;
Never when anxious to land a job having diminished them by a
conniving smile; or when befuddled by drink
Jeered at them through heartache or lazily fondled the fingers of
their alert enemies; declare

That I shall love you always.
No matter what party is in power;
No matter what temporarily expedient combination of allied
interests wins the war;
Shall love you always.


Edna St. Vincent Millay, Modern Declaration

"Don't you know it babe
I'm only half a body
Without your embrace"

Shakira, Your Embrace

art by hasama

Oh the werewolf, oh the werewolf
Comes stepping along
He don’t even break the branches where he’s gone
Once I saw him in the moonlight, when the bats were a flying
I saw the werewolf, and the werewolf was crying

Cryin’ nobody knows, nobody knows, body knows
How I loved the man, as I teared off his clothes
Cryin’ nobody know, nobody knows my pain
When I see that it’s risen; that fool moon again

For the werewolf, for the werewolf has sympathy
For the werewolf, somebody like you and me.
And only he goes to me, man this little flute I play
All through the night, until the light of day, and we are doomed to play

For the werewolf, for the werewolf, has sympathy
For the werewolf, somebody like you and me

Cat Power's cover of The Werewolf Song by Michael Hurley

More here: http://www.showstudio.com/project/dontbothertoknock/15218/16454

Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,
so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.

Falling in love
is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin.
Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.
hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me

and I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are
on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.

Carol Ann Duffy, You

That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea.’

W.B.Yeats, A Crazed Girl

"My brief stay at the hospital had already convinced me that the medical profession was an open door to anyone nursing a grudge against the human race"

J.G. Ballard, Crash

I scare myself to death
That's why I keep on running
Before I've arrived
I can see myself comming

"Lucy was frightened, frightened near to death. Her voice choked, she could not breathe, her limbs went numb. This is not happening, she said to herself as the men forced her down; it is just a dream, a nightmare. While the men, for their part, drank up her fear, revelled in it, did all they could to hurt her, to menace her, to heighten her terror. Call your dogs! they said to her. Go on, call your dogs! No dogs? Then let us show you dogs!
You don't understand, you weren't there, says Bev Shaw. Well, she is mistaken. Lucy's intuition is right after all: he does understand; he can, if he concentrates, if he loses himself, be there, be the men, inhabit them, fill them with the ghost of himself. The question is, does he have it in him to be the woman?".

"...Indudablemente había muchos médicos, pensé, que, aun teniendo una mentalidad plenamente científica, no eran otra cosa que hombres de negocios y hablaban y actuaban como tales; mi padre, sin embargo, no era de esos. Para mí, dijo, debía de ser una continua tristeza acompañarlo, y por ello vacilaba casi siempre en llevarme con él a sus visitas, porque siempre resultaba que todo lo que él veia, tocaba o atendía era enfermizo y triste; se tratase de lo que se tratase, se movía en un mundo enfermo, entre gentes y personas enfermas; incluso cuando ese mundo pretendía o simulaba estar sano, estaba en realidad enfermo, y las gentes y las personas, incluso las pretendidamente sanas, estaban enfermas siempre. El estaba acostumbrado, dijo, pero a mi podía transtornarme e inducirme a reflexiones perjudiciales; precisamente yo, en su opinión, tendía siempre a dejarme transtornar por todo y por todos, de una forma que me hacía daño. Y lo mismo le ocurría a mi hermana, de un modo mucho más peligroso aún. No obstante, era un error, creía él, negarse a aceptar la evidencia de que todo era enfermizo y triste --dijo "realmente enfermizo y triste-- y, por esa razón, tarde o temprano "se sentía tentado" a llevarnos a mi o mi hermana en sus visitas. "Siempre hay un riesgo", dijo.

Thomas Bernhard, Transtorno
Art by Helnwein

"Besides some very vivid memories, including the one of the overwhelming desire I felt the day I helped her move, all Sumire left behind were several long letters... I read the letters so many times I nearly had them memorized. Every time I read them, I felt like Sumire and I were together again. This warmed my heart more than anything else could. Like you're riding a train at night across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in a window of a farmhouse. In an instant it's sucked back into darkness behind and vanishes. But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely, for a few moments"

Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you
Its late september and I really should be back at school
I know I keep you amused but I feel Im being used
Oh Maggie I couldnt have tried any more
You lured me away from home just to save you from being alone
You stole my heart and that's what really hurt

The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age
But that don't worry me none in my eyes you're everything
I laughed at all of your jokes my love you didnt need to coax
Oh, Maggie I couldnt have tried any more
You lured me away from home, just to save you from being alone
You stole my soul and that's a pain I can do without

All I needed was a friend to lend a guiding hand
But you turned into a lover and
Mother what a lover, you wore me out
All you did was wreck my bed
And in the morning kick me in the head
Oh Maggie I couldn't have tried anymore
You lured me away from home cause you didnt want to be alone
You stole my heart I couldnt leave you if I tried

I suppose I could collect my books and get on back to school
Or steal my daddy's cue and make a living out of playing pool
Or find myself a rock and roll band that needs a helpin hand
Oh Maggie I wish I'd never seen your face
You made a first-class fool out of me
But I'm as blind as a fool can be
You stole my heart but I love you anyway

Maggie I wish I'd never seen your face
Ill get on back home one of these days

Rod Stewart, Maggie
And the goddess Anita Pallenberg

"...-- ¿Y quién la pueda ver si aquí no hay nadie? He recorrido el pueblo y no he visto a nadie.
--Eso cree usted: pero todavía hay algunos. ¿Dígame si Filomeno no vive, si Dorotea, Si Melquiades, si Prudencio, el viejo, si Sóstenes y todos ésos no viven? Lo que acontece es que se la pasan encerrados. De día no sé qué harán; pero las noches se las pasan en su encierro. Aquí esas horas están llenas de espantos. Si usted viera el gentío de ánimas que andan sueltas por la calle. En cuanto oscurece comienzan a salir. Y a nadie le gusta verlas. Son tantas, y nosotros tan poquitos, que ya ni la lucha le hacemos para rezar porque salgan de sus penas. No ajustarían nuestras oraciones para todos. Si acaso les tocaría un pedazo de Padrenuestro. Y eso no les puede servir de nada. Luego están nuestros pecados de por medio. Ninguno de los que todavía vivimos está en gracia de Dios. Nadie podrá alzar sus ojos al cielo sin sentirlos sucios de vergüenza..."

Juan Rulfo, Pedro Páramo

But if I live and should you die for Ireland
Let not your dying thoughts be just of me
But say a prayer to God for our dearest island
I know He'll hear and help to set her free

And I will take your pike and place my dearest
And strike a blow, though weak the blow may be
Twill help the cause to which your heart was nearest
Oh Danny Boy, Oh, Danny boy
I love you so.

Sinead O'Connor's original third verse added to Danny Boy

"... What do you believe?
I know how to answer it now. What I believe is that we will kill each other, that we will hurt each other. We will destroy our neighbours and we will exile them. We will sell our children as whores. We will murder and rape and punish one another. We will keep warring and we will keep hating and we will believe that we are just and righteous and faithful. We will keep killing and selling one another and we will believe that we are just and fair and good. We will pursue pleasures and destroy one another in these pursuits. We will abandon our children. We will do all this in the name of God and in the name of our nature. We will create poverty and illness and we will create obscene wealth and the depravities that arise from it. We will think ourselves just and righteous, faithful and sane. We will hate and kill and piss and shit on one another. We will continue to do so. We will create Armageddon. In the name of God or in the name of justice or, simply, because we can. This is what I believe".

Christos Tsiolkas, Dead Europe
Art by Odd Nerdrum

"He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn't need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear."

William Faulkner, As I Lie Dying

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette

dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real

humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

Frank O' Hara, Morning

art by Margaret Keane

"To Mason, a particular sort of male beauty is everything. It doesn't exist in the world, but certain young actors and rock stars come reasonably close. Hence his art, which collages together extraordinary scraps of human matter, each body part carefully ripped from a photo or magazine, then glued down on a white sheet of paper and aligned with complementary fragments in painstakingly casual, Frankenstein-ish constellations. It's instinctive stuff. He can explain it in theoretical terms, but it's completely obsessive. Luckily for him, obsessive gay art is very trendy at the moment, so he makes a decent living. But his art's just about his own loneliness, period, whether collectors and critics understand that or not. He's building imaginary lovers, friends, sons, younger brothers, slaves, gods. It's a vaguely creepy thing, and it means a fucking ton to him, unlike his actual friends and acquaintances"

Dennis Cooper, Guide