Category Archives: Poetry
All roads lead to black decay
100 years since the death of Austrian poet Georg Trakl
The jet propelled Antichrist at 100
“Waken, and do what you will”: Occultist/rocket scientist Jack Parsons, born in Pasadena in 1914
The jet propelled Antichrist at 100
“Waken, and do what you will”: Occultist/rocket scientist Jack Parsons, born in Pasadena in 1914
The literary lion in winter
“Where is Oscar? Where is Bosie?”
Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven | poems
The “Dada Baroness” blurs the line between art and poetry
The Riddle
“Rampant within thy podex take this member, stiffer than a mast…”
Arthur Cravan est vivant! (encore)
The pugilist poet pops up in Paris
Louis XI and the stolen umbrellas
“A poor man, but a good fellow…”
Nearness of Death
“O the evening, reaching into the dark hamlets of childhood…”
Circles: Charles Henri Ford
His influence and relationships ranged from the Surrealists and the interwar expat community in Paris through to the Beats and the Factory, connections which he carried right into the 21st century.
Circles: Charles Henri Ford
His influence and relationships ranged from the Surrealists and the interwar expat community in Paris through to the Beats and the Factory, connections which he carried right into the 21st century.
The poet of the bats
“Did he really invent an orchestra of perfumes, an orchestra of liqueurs, on which he could play the subtlest harmonies of the senses?”
The poet of the bats
“Did he really invent an orchestra of perfumes, an orchestra of liqueurs, on which he could play the subtlest harmonies of the senses?”
The Duck-Billed Platypus
“Dirt is matter in the wrong place./Thought is mind in the wrong place./Matter is mind; so thought is dirt.”
The Duck-Billed Platypus
“Dirt is matter in the wrong place./Thought is mind in the wrong place./Matter is mind; so thought is dirt.”
Pearls: Arthur Rimbaud
“Let strange flowers burst forth…”
The Death of Lovers
Strange flowers, evil flowers, mystical blue and tarnished mirrors…
From the cradle to the grave
“Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;/Why must thou wake again?/Thou art but born into a world of woe,/Of agony, unending, deep,/Of long-protracted pain…”
From the cradle to the grave
“Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;/Why must thou wake again?/Thou art but born into a world of woe,/Of agony, unending, deep,/Of long-protracted pain…”
Potocki de Montalk in verse
“And a little boat with lights green, yellow and red,/Is turned into a magical Chinese/Duck, whose long wake is/A right-triangle…”
Potocki de Montalk in verse
“And a little boat with lights green, yellow and red,/Is turned into a magical Chinese/Duck, whose long wake is/A right-triangle…”
At home with Edward James
What wonders this journey brings! James describes the travelling menagerie that was his life in the high, piping voice which contemporaries always remarked upon. His irascible temperament and bitterness are also much in evidence.
At home with Edward James
What wonders this journey brings! James describes the travelling menagerie that was his life in the high, piping voice which contemporaries always remarked upon. His irascible temperament and bitterness are also much in evidence.
Dress-down Friday: Edith Sitwell
Imagine, if you will, an everyday scenario, such as an unusually large albino tapir visiting Hampton Court Palace, rolling itself in glue and through a series of mishaps becoming entangled in the curtains.
Dress-down Friday: Edith Sitwell
Imagine, if you will, an everyday scenario, such as an unusually large albino tapir visiting Hampton Court Palace, rolling itself in glue and through a series of mishaps becoming entangled in the curtains.
Strange Flowers 