An American Prayer / Hour For Magic / Freedom Exists

Do you know the warm progress
Under the stars?

Do you know we exist?

Have you forgotten the keys
To the kingdom

Have you been borne yet
& are you alive?

Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
Of the ages

Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests

(Have you forgotten the lessons
Of the ancient war?)

We need great golden copulations

The fathers are cackling in trees
Of the forest

Our mother is dead in the sea

Do you know we are being led to
Slaughters by placid admirals

& that fat slow generals are getting
Obscene on young blood

Do you know we are ruled by T.V.

The moon is dry blood beast

Guerrilla bands are rolling numbers
In the next block of green vine

Amassing for warfare on innocent
Herdsman who are just dying

O great creator of being

Grant us one more hour to
Perform our art
& perfect our lives

The moths & atheists are doubly divine
& dying

We live, we die
& death not ends it

Journey we more into the
Nightmare
Cling to life
Our passion'd flower

Cling to Cunts & cocks
Of despair

We got our final vision
By clap

Columbus groin got
Filled w/green death

(I touched her thigh
& death smiled)

We have assembled inside this ancient
& insane theatre

To propagate our lust for life
& flee the swarming wisdom
Of the streets

The barns are stormed

The windows kept

& only one of all the rest

To dance & save us

W/the divine mockery
Of words

Music inflames temperament

(When the true King's murderers

Are allowed to roam free

A 1000 Magicians arise in the land)

Where are the feasts

We are promised

Where is the wine
The New Wine
(dying on the vine)

Resident mockery
Give us an hour for magic
We of the purple glove
We of the starling flight
& velvet hour
We of arabic pleasures's breed
We of sundome & the night

Give us a creed

To believe

A nightr of lust

Give us trust in

The Night

Give of color

Hundred hues

A rich mandala

For me & for you

& for your silky

Pillowed house

A head, wisdom

& a bed

Troubled decree

Resident mockery

Has claimed thee

We used to believe

In the good old days

We still receive

In little ways

The things of Kindness

& unsporting brow

Forget & allow

Did you know freedom exists
In school books

Did you know madmen are
Running our prisons

W/in a jail, w/in a gaol
W/in a white free protestant
Maelstrom

We're perched headlong
On the edge of boredom

We're reaching for death
On the end of a candle

We're trying for something
That's already found us

Jim Morrison

Katerina Gogou, the anarchist poetess of Exarcheia

Don’t you stop me. I am dreaming.
We lived centuries of injustice bent over.
Centuries of loneliness.
Now don’t. Don’t you stop me.
Now and here, for ever and everywhere.
I am dreaming freedom.
Though everyone’s
All-beautiful uniqueness
To reinstitute
The harmony of the universe.
Lets play. Knowledge is joy.
Its not school conscription.
I dream because I love.
Great dreams in the sky.
Workers with their own factories
Contributing to world chocolate making.
I dream because I KNOW and I CAN.
Banks give birth to “robbers”.
Prisons to “terrorists”.
Loneliness to “misfits”.
Products to “need”
Borders to armies.
All caused by property.
Violence gives birth to violence.
Don’t now. Don’t you stop me.
The time has come to reinstitute
the morally just as the ultimate praxis.
To make life into a poem.
And life into praxis.
It is a dream that I can I can I can
I love you
And you do not stop me nor am I dreaming. I live.
I reach my hands
To love to solidarity
To Freedom.
As many times as it takes all over again.
I defend ANARCHY.

http://libcom.org/history/katerina-gogou-athens-anarchist-poetess-1940-1993

Sem Título

Sempre é desnunca
Nada é destudo
Ser é deslocado de mim mesmo
Poesia está em não estar
Não na significância das palavras
Mas na insignificância das despalavras

Raimundo Beato

Ser ou não Ser (não poema)

O mistério diz e cala

A dúvida pode ser tudo ao mesmo tempo

O nada primordial era tudo integral

Esse é o mistério da metafisica

Cada coisa que digo
Não diz nada
mas quer dizer tudo

É o desejo de existir

Sei que eu não hei de permenacer
Retornarei ao pó

Daí o horizonte
A despalavra
O não estar

Tudo que se fala só pode ser negado
Nada afirmado
Tudo desconfirmado
A a-linguagem do dizer não fala
Não cabe sentido no absurdo

O ser de Sartre não é para o budismo
Budismo fala que não somos
O eu como ilusão do ocidente

Mas ao mesmo tempo caminham paralelos Sartre e Buda
Como as retas paralelas que se encontram no infinito
O horizonte estica o olhar para o desnunca
Até que o nada se aproxime do tudo
Impermanecer é caminhar além, ou aquém do ser
O nirvana de Sartre é enfrentar o nada com a consicência da liberdade imposta
Para o budismo abraçá-lo, desafiando-o passivamente
Para o budismo o nada é tudo


Raimundo Beato

Poetic Terrorism

WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they believed in something extraordinary, & will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence.

Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc.

Go naked for a sign.

Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty.

Grafitti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public momuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement...

The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails.

PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now.

An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE.

Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you.

Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.

Hakim Bey

Fleas in my beard

I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools; for these are more easily acquired than got rid of. Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they were called to labor in. Who made them serfs of the soil? Why
should they eat their sixty acres, when man is condemned to eat only his
peck of dirt? Why should they begin digging their graves as soon as they are born?

Henry David Thoreau

So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will
not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.

Chris McCandless / Alexander Supertramp

Such is the way of the world

You can never know

Just where to put all your faith

And How will it grow?

Gonna rise up

Burning black holes in dark memories

Gonna rise up

Turning mistakes into gold

Such is the passage of time

Too fast to fold

Suddenly swallowed by signs

Lo and behold

Gonna rise up

Find my direction magnetically

Gonna rise up

Throw down my Ace in the Hole

Eddie Vedder

Entender é parede

Iniciação no manoelês archaico.

“Poesia não é para compreender mas para incorporar
Entender é parede: procure ser árvore.”

"Melhor jeito que achei para me conhecer foi fazendo o contrário."

"Meu fado é de não entender quase tudo.
Sobre o nada eu tenho profundidades."

"Poema é o lugar onde a gente pode afirmar que o delírio é uma sensatez"

"O olho vê, a lembrança revê, a imaginação transvê
É preciso transver o mundo"

Versos de Manoel de Barros