Words, just words

Monday, 25 April 2011

always and forever

don't you dare
to entertain me
with simple pleasures

I do not share your dreams
of bourgeoisie and cable-tv

there is a world
of passion
love and pain
of devotion
and surrender

it's inside my head
I am inside my head
in my world

looking outside
I see you
I see your easy little dreams
which I don't share

darkness surrounds me
death is present

but I love to live
always and forever

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Why I am Not A Painter

Frank O'Hara

    I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. "Sit down and have a drink" be says. I drink; we drink. I look up. "You have SARDINES in it." "Yes, it needed something there." "Oh." I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. "Where's SARDINES?" All that's left is just letters, "It was too much," Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call it ORANCES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
    (Frank O' Hara explains it, I couldn't find any better words)