Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Monday, January 9, 2017
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Friday, March 8, 2013
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Alfred Kubin... Der Asket (the ascetic) ...1910
"When I ventured back into the world of the living, I discovered that my
god only held half-sway. In everything, both great and small, he had to
share with an adversary who wanted life. The forces of repulsion and
attraction, the twin poles of the earth with their currents, the
alternation of the seasons, day and night, black and white - these are
battles..."
from The Other Side A.Kubin
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Gio Colucci... book illustration... The Torture Garden..
illustration from Octave Mirbeaus Torture Garden 1925
from The Torture Garden, written by Octave Mirbeau in 1899
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Unica Zürn... Happy Birthday! ...painting...
click on image to enlarge
Tempera on board 1957
"If only nobody would block my view. This was what bothered me the most.
My new viewpoint was of great importance to me. I would defend it
against all comers, however weary I might be" UZmore > Unica Zürn
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Dave M Mitchell...'Fungi From Yuggoth' ..illustrations
discarded prototypes from a forthcoming book from Paraphilia Magazine - 'Fungi From Yuggoth (and other strange growths)' ~ Lovecraft poems and fragments with illustrations by author, illustrator and one of the editors at Paraphilia Magazine.
you can see more of Dave Mitchells work at Paraphilia's Gallery HERE
and in the new issue of PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE issue 11 out now > HERE
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Mervyn Peake 1911-1968 .... drawing...
Pen line drawing 1957
"We are all imprisoned by the dictionary. We choose out of that vast,
paper-walled prison our convicts, the little black printed words,
when in truth we need fresh sounds to utter,
new enfranchised noises which would produce a new effect."
— Mervyn Peake (Titus Groan)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Harry Crosby... Sun Testament....
SUN-TESTAMENT
(For W.V.R.B.)
I, The Sun, Lord of the Sky, sojourning in the Land of Sky, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all other wills, codicils and testamentary dispositions by me at any time heretofore made.
First, I hereby direct and elect that my estate shall be administered and my will construed and regulated and the validity and effect of the testamentary dispositions herein contained determined by the laws of the Sky.
Second, I give and bequeath absolutely to my wife, the Moon, four octrillion centuries of sun-rays, this legacy to have priority over all other legacies and bequests and to be free from any and all legacy, inheritance, transfer, successions, taxes or duties whatsoever, said taxes or duties to be borne by my estate.
Third, I give and bequeathe the sum of one million centuries of sun-rays net free from any and all legacy, inheritance, transfer, succession, taxes or duties whatsoever, said taxes or duties to be borne by my estate, to my Executors, to be used for the erecting of an Obelisk to the Sun.
Fourth, I give and bequeathe to my beloved wife the Moon my assortment of sunstones, my sun-yacht that for many aeons has navigated the sea of clouds, together with my collection of butterflies which are the souls of women caught in my golden web and my collection of red arrows which are the souls of men caught in my golden web.
Fifth, I give and bequeathe to my sons and daughters the stars, my mirror the ocean and my caravan of mountains.
Sixth, I give and bequeathe to Aurora Goddess of the Dawn a sunrise trumpet and a girdle of clouds.
Seventh, I give and bequeathe to the planet Venus all my eruptive prominences whether in spikes or jets or sheafs and volutes in honor of her all-too-few transits.
Eighth, I give and bequeathe to Lady Vesuvius a sunbonnet, a palace of clouds and the heart she once hurled up to me.
Ninth, I give and bequeathe to the Sun-Goddess Rat the Lady of Heliopolis and a garden of sunflowers.
Tenth, I give and bequeathe to Icarus a sunshade and a word of introduction to the Moon.
Eleventh, I give and bequeathe to Horus (Egyptian Hor) the falcon-headed solar divinity a thousand sun-hawks from my aviary to be mummified in his honor.
Twelfth, I give and bequeathe to Amenophus IV of Egypt my golden gourd that his thirst for me may be assuaged.
Thirteenth, I give and bequeathe to Renofer, High Priest of the Sun, my shares in Electric Horizens and Corona Preferred.
Fourteenth, I give and bequeathe to Louis XIV of France, Le Roi Soleil, my gold peruke.
Fifteenth, I give and bequeathe to Arthur Rimbaud a red sunsail.
Sixteenth, I give and bequeathe to my charioteer Phaeton my chariot of the sun and my chariot-horses Erythous Acteon Lampos Philogeus.
Seventeenth, I give and bequeathe to each of the Virgins of the Sun in Peru, to each and every citizen of Heliopolis, to the Teotitmocars of Mexico who built the giant pyramid to the Sun, to each and every of the Incas, to the Hyperboreans dwellers in the land of perpetual sunshine and great fertility beyond the north wind, my halo, rainbows and mirages, to the Surya-bans and the Chandra-bans of India to each a sunthought and to my lowly subject the Earth ten centuries of sunrays.
Eighteenth, I give and bequeathe likewise to the Japanese Flag whose center is a Red Sun and to the flags of Persia (the Lion and the Sun) and to the flags of Uruguay and Argentine my fiery flames and furious commotion.
Nineteenth, I give and bequeathe to all the inns, cabarets, bars, taverns, bordels whose ensign is the Sun, pieces of brocaded sunlight.
Twentieth, I give and bequeathe sunbonnets to various high monuments in particular the Eiffel Tower, the Woolworth Building, and to an imaginary tower built by the combined height of the phalluses of men.
Twenty-First, I give and bequeathe to Apollo of Greece a temple of the sun to Osiris of Egypt a temple of the sun to Indra of India a temple of the Sun this legacy is over and above any and all commissions to which they may be entitled as executors.
Twenty-Second, All the rest residue and remainder of my estate of whatsoever kind and nature, wheresoever situated, not specifically given or bequeathed hereinabove, including any and all void or lapsed legacies or bequests, I give, devise and bequeathe to Mithra of the Persians and to Surya of the Hindus, or to the survivor with the request that they establish therewith a fund for Sun-Birds (i.i. poets) to be organized and administered by them in their sole discretion and judgement, this fund to be known as the Sun and Moon Fund for Sun-Birds.
Twenty-Third, I hereby nominate, constitute and appoint Osiris of Egypt Apollo of Greece and Indra of India Executors of this my last will and testament.
In witness thereof, I have herewith set my hand and seal to this holographic will, entirely written and dated and signed by me at my Castle of Clouds this nineteenth day of January nineteen hundred and twenty eight.
Signed : The Sun
Signed, sealed, published and declared by The Sun, the Testator above named as and for his last Will and Testament in the presence of us who at his request and in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses thereto.
Hu of the Druids
Ptah of the Egyptians
Vitzliputsli of the Mexicans
Sleeping Together
cry in your sleep and implore
cry autumn’s fire still small
cry as the door to the wind
cry for the touch of the snow upon snow
cry of the things that you fear
cry in the darkness a distant
dream in my ear
(from Sleeping Together, 1929)
previous Harry Crosby
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Justin Lee Brown (Desiderata)... Of Dreams and Madness ...poem&drawing..
Of Dreams and Madness
I am one stutter-step away from the rails, too late for a hail mary pass. I've become an intentionless phen-omega-non, tearing it up in a senseless dynamic, tearing it down in the mine fields of mutilated flesh where the bloody stumps of a futile resistance twitch out before the final paralysis. Flex paradoxical, just for the thrill of it. Pussy, pussy, run. Don't you see? In life birds fly where cats can't follow, towards a seemingly unfathomable destiny; climb towards ferocious heights where tender hope and unmolested sky momentarily erupt into the plausible. But not for me, the untouchable one.
In these final days of absurdity I AM the gravitational pull. I am the freedom that must extend, spiraling downward towards the rhizome, the mechanism of molecular, towards the intention itself in spite of all its pointlessness. I seek out the lowest level of libidinal energy rendered down to its quintessence, deconstructed and abstracted to the point of consummate alienation just to see it rise above terrestrial. I am the only conviction of my own contradictions, in the end the solitary breath that I draw from the collective will be drawn in the isolation of a solipsist consciousness. The journey of ages begins and ends with a solitary gasp.
It took me decades to find my voice, recognize it, flesh out my screams against impartial instruments and enigmatic signifiers, my ferocious investment only partially returned before I flipped the switch of void. Still alive and swollen with the genealogy of rage, I come to merge the violence of the self with the rogue cells of sadistic attraction. I AM blood. The native ancestry of a florid massacre. Against whom do we release our suicide? Who's skulls do we crush with rubric truncheons of dereliction? Step to the center and slide right. Five squares and three circles intersect at madness. The schism of imaginary presence augments a glistening archetypal voidness where the clatter of runes speak but leave no trace. I dissolve into this lush unified field of consciousness, an incandescent surreality of disaster, then cathexis, until I am a ruin of my own imagination. The aesthetic revenge of a simple madness comforts me as I descend.
Bathed in quiet rings of latern light, the figurative darkness of cognition divides me until I am scattered, only lonliness remains intact. Pushed along by cool atomic winds while pursued by consumptive assassins with cold enamel eyes, I sing ludicrous ballads while choking on shards of ivory bone. Three obsidian figures from childhood aberrations appear beyond the rumor of distant cries. Their starling smiles encode death and empty me of fractal infinites. Have you come here to dream code with me? How long will you stay before the Machinic explodes? Suddenly I am elsewhere in this discursive amalgam, sequencing dread through involuted time. Its symbolic order expressed through ripples of multilevel perception searing its way through waxy axon terminals, mindflesh, and the endless paroxysmal twitching of my eyeballs. I begin at last to see.
I AM become the manipulations of the paranoiac as I plunge through strata of cosmic drift. I float naked in its ether above Byzantine gardens, through a sudden burst of metallic rose petals quivering like dragonfly wings, float further down across pools of cobalt blue tipped with jade quantum foam. An ensemble of grey stone herrings suddenly take flight, flood my synapse with a cultivated integration of pain. The sound of wingbeats rushing around me, a soft static noise of cruel.
Voltaic penetration as an act of malice invades my dreaming with disquieting dialog of subatomic consciousness trapping me between layers of earth and stratosphere. The smell of seared flesh wraps around me to the point of suffocation. I struggle through emptiness, cryogenic tears pound like hail against my skull. Illumination and exposure bind me. Am I still dreaming? Who has come to judge my emptiness? I say, bring me the sweet enigmatic growl that I can adhere to. I much prefer the sun when obscured by cloud and your mouth when sewn tightly shut.
Justin Lee Brown /aka Desiderata
more poetry featured in The Plebian Rag & Clockwise Cat
previous post here
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Birthday greetings...Aleister Crowley...
Aleister Crowley Self portrait 1920
October 12th 1875 - December 1st 1947
from Magick Without Tears 1954
"Lift yourselves up, my brothers and sisters of the earth! Put
beneath your feet all fears, all qualms, all hesitancies! Lift
yourselves up! Come forth, free and joyous, by night and day, to
do your will; for "There is no law beyond Do what thou wilt."
Lift yourlseves up! Walk forth with us in Light and Life and
Love and Liberty, taking our pleasure as Kings and Queens in
Heaven and on Earth."from my favourite Crowley book!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Hans Christian Andersen's Paper Cuts...SCISSOR WRITING...
Things that quicken the heart...The magical paper cuts of Hans Christian Andersen
I had the pleasure of seeing some of these wonders at an exhibition shown here in Dublin= Cut-Outs and Cut-Ups: Hans Christian Andersen and William Seward Burroughs.
”Det hele er Andersens poesi
i klipperi!
Broget, løjerligt alleslags,
alt med en saks!”
(In Andersen's paper-cuts you see
His poetry!
A medley of diverting treasures
All done with scissors.)
The fact that Andersen could create such delicate patterns and gossamery, graceful dancers out of a thickly folded piece of paper with the help of a crude, heavy pair of scissors was pure magic in the eyes of children. The eldest of the daughters at Holsteinsborg Manor remembered in particular, later in life as a grown-up baroness, the light, delicate dolls Andersen had cut for her out of white paper and which she afterwards had placed on the table and blown at carefully so that they fluttered back and forth: “He always cut with an enormous pair of paper scissors, and I simply couldn’t understand how he could cut such pretty, delicate things with his big hands and this enormous pair of scissors.”
This was Hans Christian Andersen’s own explanation of a highly spectacular page in Astrid Stampes Billedbog from 1853, where seven or eight little cuttings from twice as many pieces of paper in all sorts of colours and patterns merge into one big picture. And this is also how we must regard Andersen’s paper art: as something colourful, diverting and poetic that is extremely closely linked to his lyric poetry, drama, fairy-tales, novels and travel books. Andersen’s paper-cuts cannot just be separated from his written oeuvre and placed beside it.
About 1,000 paper-cuts of all sizes still exist to this day – primitive figures and simple tableaux as well as more ornamental, sophisticated cuttings. They belong to a world of their own, but they all have their roots in precisely the same rich, widely embracing creative imagination which in the nineteenth century revolutionized world literature with a long series of fairy-tales told for children and for the child in every adult. This is why Andersen’s many paper-cuts cannot be dismissed, as they often have been in Andersen research, as mere diversions and little games or just be regarded as funny, entertaining illustrations of what is really at stake and essential: Andersen’s fairy-tale world in writing.
more papercuts at the Royal Library
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
D'AUREVILLY Barbey...What never dies ...
from D'AUREVILLY Barbey — What Never Dies. A romance. Translated from the French by Sebastian Malmoth (Oscar Wilde). 1928. Privately Printed
illustrated by Donald Denton
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Andrew D. Chumbley... The Azoetia... excerpt...
The Assumption of the Azoetic Magical Self - Andrew d. Chumbley
By Arte enchant and fascinate the Portals to open, revealing those whom
the Stars veil. Sing out their Passion in the War and Feast that is Thy Self!
Taste ye of the sweet and secret wines of Heaven - the Ocean of Ichor
spilt from the broken idols of Gods and Demi-gods. Carouse ye with my
Satyrs and embrace the Succubi raised from Thine own Desires; swoon
ye in rapture, in the nimbus of fever billowing over the lily field of the
Night. Yet be not overcome! Fall not! Tire not of Pleasure, but seek ye
the Ever-virgin Joys that hide beneath Medusine Veils.
Amidst these blossoms cavort and dance!
1 cap! Your skin aflame in peacock-iridescence!
Your eyes like black fire at the heart of the storm!
For these are the Splendours of the Infinite, wrought in the Images and
Effiges of I
"Speaking for myself, books like Azoetia are mystical love-letters to stangers whom I would not otherwise meet. "ADC
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Season in Hell...Arthur Rimbaud & Robert Mapplethorpe
....
A Rimbaud
A SEASON IN HELL [Une Saison en Enfer] (1873)
SECOND DELIRIUM: THE ALCHEMY OF THE WORD
I only find within my bones
A taste for eating earth and stones.
When I feed, I feed on air,
Rocks and coals and iron ore.
My hunger, turn. Hunger, feed:
A field of bran.
Gather as you can the bright
Poison weed.
Eat the rocks a beggar breaks,
The stones of ancient churches' walls,
Pebbles, children of the flood,
Loaves left lying in the mud.
* * *
Beneath the bush a wolf will howl,
Spitting bright feathers
From his feast of fowl:
Like him, I devour myself.
Waiting to be gathered
Fruits and grasses spend their hours;
The spider spinning in the hedge
Eats only flowers.
Let me sleep! Let me boil
On the altars of Solomon;
Let me soak the rusty soil
And flow into Kendron.
It is recovered.
What? - Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of the sun in the sea.
O my eternal soul,
Hold fast to desire
In spite of the night
And the day on fire.
You must set yourself free
From the striving of Man
And the applause of the World
You must fly as you can...
- No hope forever
No orietur.
Science and patience,
The torment is sure.
The fire within you,
Soft silken embers,
Is our whole duty
But no one remembers.
It is recovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of the sun in the sea.
from LIMITED EDITIONS CLUB- A. RIMBAUD & R. Maplethorpe A Season in Hell. 1986
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Harry Crosby...
*Harry Crosby*
(June 4, 1898 – December 10, 1929)
IN SEARCH OF THE YOUNG WIZARD
I have invited our little seamstress to take her thread and needle and sew our two mouths together. I have asked the village blacksmith to forge golden chains to tie our ankles together. I have gathered all the gay ribbons in the world to wind around and around and around and around and around and around again around our two waists. I have arranged with the coiffeur for your hair to be made to grow into mine and my hair to be made to grow into yours. I have persuaded (not without bribery) the world's most famous Eskimo sealing-wax maker to perform the delicate operation of sealing us together so that I am warm in your depths, but though we hunt for him all night and though we hear various reports of his existence we can never find the young wizard who is able so they say to graft the soul of a girl to the soul of her lover so that not even the sharp scissors of the Fates can ever sever them apart.
from Sleeping Together 1929
other Harry Crosby links... more
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