Baudelaire

evil taints your soul

but blossoms charcoal and red

out-run fairies green

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We’re All Degenerates Here

RETCH, you wretch

societal standards so low

read the book and bitch about it

don’t devour the preacher

their laws don’t matter here

all you need is your privilege

lock the door on morals

your love is immoral mine is

my God-given right and

don’t pry on my twisted perversions

I am under God’s grace

waving my banner of exclusion

and giving you hell for your life decisions

if my own show any honesty

then burn me at the cleansing pyre

lest my soul be purified of sin

don’t tear away my mask of honour

plastic and lies wrought it for me

for millions of lives I bought it

my ancestors colonized the world

for I am superior and you are a bane

here to serve me then wither away

dare argue, heretic, degenerate

we’ll beat, batter and bruise your body

and dispose of you in a fashionable way

or simply send you to rot as a warning

to other delinquents who may resist or

revolt against our holy reign

which life deems poisonous and wrong

but you’ll see it’s right in the end

when all that’s left is soot and rubble

I’ll rise a dead, cursed man, but I’ll rise in a

coffin world buried to never be retrieved.

above, stars finally splutter in supernova

glad to turn away from the tyranny,

phlegm, and bile that is man

Yves Klein and Interpretation, Part 2: The Strange Hell of Beauty

Intentio Lectoris

I left off last time with the idea that Klein’s works seek to create a void, to instantiate a nothingness.  Why, exactly, is this such a horrifying idea?

Short answer: anyone can play God; Klein’s trying to become Anti-God.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

Now, the idea of creation ex nihilo is something that drives philosophers batty; to make a very long story short, it’s something only God can get away with.  Of course, creation has a flip side in annihilation; anything that now is, can just as easily not be.

This is the key message of Yves Klein.  To return to the original primal void requires more than simple destruction, but rather an act of God, a true annihilation of being.  Klein, time and again, attempts…

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Bargou 08 Update Tunisian Folk Music for Modern Times

Bandcamp Daily

Bargou 08 Photos by Ahmed Makhlouf

“World music is changing,” says Sofyann Ben Youssef, speaking from his home in Brussels, Belgium. “In the information era, the boundaries between countries and cultures are disappearing, so this old ‘world music’ concept is also disappearing slowly.” The Tunisian musician and producer, fresh from a trip to Nigeria to record music for a documentary, is discussing the heavy grooves of the debut album from his group, Bargou 08. The project dates back some three or four years, when Ben Youssef’s childhood friend Nidhal Yahyaoui asked him to produce a new project named after an isolated village in the Northwest of the country.

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Elderly Care Home In Beirut After 15 Years Of Civil War — Edge of Humanity Magazine

Photographer Jacky Chapman is the Edge of Humanity Magazine contributor of this social documentary photography. These images are from her project ‘Care Home Beirut, Lebanon Late 1990’s“. To see Jacky’s body of work click on any image. Between 1975 and 1990 Lebanon suffered 15 years of civil war accompanied by […]

via Elderly Care Home In Beirut After 15 Years Of Civil War — Edge of Humanity Magazine

The Original Great Gatsby: Petronius’ Satyricon — Interesting Literature

In this week’s Dispatches from the Secret Library, Dr Oliver Tearle considers the ancient Roman novel that inspired James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald Today is Bloomsday. James Joyce’s vast modernist masterpiece, Ulysses (1922), is set in Dublin on a single day, 16 June 1904. Since at least the 1950s, devotees of Joyce’s novel have marked the […]

via The Original Great Gatsby: Petronius’ Satyricon — Interesting Literature

The Woman As A Girl

Dedicated to Nawal Al Saadawi.

You had no idea their claws were retracted

Otherwise you would have already reacted

Sickly green curtains flap slyly against breezes

Unaware the cold penetrating souls freezes

Lego houses built and toy train sets crashed

It seemed so natural until it simply flashed.

Metamorphosing into frail nothingness

The grown-up world like a land of otherness

Little children are meant to be seen not heard

Their conversations became oddly blurred

You didn’t understand adults attempting baby talk

You observed your surroundings with eyes like a hawk

Noticing our infidelities, lies and injustice

And we ask why you so blindly trust us

Because you feared for our overflowing plates

And our shoulders stooping down under weights

Waiting for the world to annihilate and save us

Lest further action and responsibility enslave us.

Your repulsed understanding of gender

Made you create your own agenda

Assured you had no future without man

Your anger and disgust right then began

So early on God forsook you,

How his treachery shook you

Second to your brother so flawlessly imperfect

You were prodded to sit straight out of respect

For misogynistic elders you cared little for

Every inch of your being wanted to roar.

Indignation became your default setting

Even now they talk about your wedding

Like you’re a prized lamb on display

Temporary until their time came to betray

And trade you under the label of moral obligation

Moral? You saw right through that fictional creation.

False deities they worshipped and offered

Their virgins how you despised the word

Like your value was measured by bloody skin

Starving and traumatised you became so so thin

Teeth barked and knees chattered cold

Your blue lips moaned: I’ve been sold

And your opinion never fucking mattered

Not even now that your soul is finally shattered.

A Definitive Self Portrait or Gymnopaedia

dark blue washes over me, blindingly blue paint covers my soul

and wets my irises and penetrates my pores so azure so cyan

my heart is a lump of obsidian rock pumping tar and ashes in indigo veins

chaotic brain so so charcoal with broken pastel scribbles

and Indian ink calligraphy death notes tarnish the white papers and

darkness shrouds my face like a woolly scarf on an asthmatic thermophobe

suppressing and suffocation… I’m suffocating under the weight

It drags me down and I discover the grey that is invincible and

I flail out of control external force metamorphoses to internal anguish

and the floor feels homely or fit for a misanthropic tearful sleep

or do we simply assume to understand each other inconsiderately

when we hide so much from even ourselves for fear of being discovered

and disturbed in our instability and oh that edge looks attractive

but so does the noose so significantly symbolic but I walk a line

and tumble out of acrobatics, circus tent closing in with psychedelic stripes

on my harlequin painted face barely blinking it’ll simply never end and

it snakes around a Modigliani throat like a koala to a tree it holds tight

an Aivazovsky moon beams down on turbulent waters gleaming

and rippling with a flirt so alluring so alluring I gasp in awe

My lies are smashing through to appeal to your traumatic design

My truth your utter destruction and faith’s demise and it lasts

tethered truly and surely like a giant beast you believe tame

but not enough so because it’s impossible to kill all free thought

control is what you want and I laugh in your face like I’m okay

but I just want to dive and float away to some distant land

where ethereal dreams take us to the moon and beyond

freedom no longer an impossible whisper in the dead of night

dare not let the oppressor hear us or see us crack and splinter

spoiled and unsuited for this lifestyle so hollow, plastic and fragile

eternal torture you promised me if I tried but my mortal life alone

fulfills those standards and I’ll tear your heirloom ideals apart

with a rage greater than Jupiter’s unearthly storms and scream

you won’t you won’t you won’t you won’t you won’t

I will leave… through the front door or the bordered back window

I will have my freedom and taste the succulent air of day

not in spite or scorn, that’s so you, I don’t think that way.

I’m not vengeful I think only of the ether

Someday, somehow, today, never but why wait when

there’s such an easy solution that doesn’t involve

moving majestic mountains and burning down inhabited jungles

why wait when it is simply a matter of indifference

the only way out is directly through, no useless foolery

I welcome the sea, the raging ocean, the blistering desert,

the eternal moon over a defiant forest on a glacial mountain peak

Gazing down, staring with concern and never judging

Because what is there to judge but inevitable so-called sin?

(Image not mine)