Morning of Drunkenness

Arthur Rimbaud


my good! O my beautiful! Atrocious fanfare where I won’t stumble! enchanted rack whereon I am stretched! Hurrah for the amazing work and the marvelous body, for the first time! It began amid the laughter of children, it will end with it. This poison will remain in all our veins even when, as the trumpets turn back, we’ll be restored to the old discord. O let us now, we who are so deserving of these torments! let us fervently gather up that superhuman promise made to our created body and soul: that promise, that madness! Elegance, knowledge, violence! They promised us to bury the tree of good and evil in the shade, to banish tyrannical honesties, so that we might bring forth our very pure love. It began with a certain disgust and ended—since we weren’t able to grasp this eternity all at once—in a panicked rout of perfumes.

Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins, horror in the faces and objects of today, may you be consecrated by the memory of that wake. It began in all loutishness, now it’s ending among angels of flame and ice.

Little eve of drunkenness, holy! were it only for the mask with which you gratified us. We affirm you, method! We don’t forget that yesterday you glorified each one of our ages. We have faith in the poison. We know how to give our whole lives every day.
Behold the time of the Assassins.


Newborn Awakening

Jim Morrison


Gently they stir, gently rise.
The dead are newborn awakening.
With ravaged limbs and wet souls.

Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement.

Who called these dead to dance? Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?

Was it the wilderness children?

Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?

I called you up to anoint the earth.
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin.
I called you to wish you well.
To glory in self like a new monster.
And now I call you to pray.


Eddie Vedder


It’s a mystery to me
We have a greed with which we have agreed
And you think you have to want more than you need
Until you have it all, you won’t be free

Society, you’re a crazy breed
I hope you’re not lonely without me
When you want more than you have,
you think you need
And when you think more than you want,
your thoughts begin to bleed
I think I need to find a bigger place
Cause when you have more than you think,
you need more space

Society, you’re a crazy breed
I hope you’re not lonely without me
Society, crazy indeed
Hope you’re not lonely without me

There’s those thinking more or less, less is more
But if less is more, how you keepin score?
Means for every point you make your level drops
Kinda like you’re startin’ from the top
And you can’t do that

Society, you’re a crazy breed
I hope you’re not lonely without me
Society, crazy indeed
I hope you’re not lonely without me
Society, have mercy on me
I hope you’re not angry if I disagree
Society, you’re crazy indeed
I hope you’re not lonely without me

Come with Me, Darlin’, Down to New Orleans

Erik Rittenberry


Look at you darlin’, you’re worn out,
pushed and pulled this way and that,
numbed by the screen in the maddening
cubicle of a tethered life.

You’re tired of the limp conversations
with your half-baked generation.
Seems they’re bringing you down,
darlin’, so low that you can’t feel
the flow of your own blood
gushing around.

Your days are rushed and
mechanical. The algorithms
of the daily grind have
you all figured out. You’re
losing that fire, darlin’,
that sense of being madly alive.
I can see it in your exotic eyes,
the way you move, the way
you talk, the way you sigh
when the alarm clock cries
in the early AM.

I know a place that’ll help shake you out of it.
It’s a peculiar place for the exiled, for those
who crave a different taste than the stale
monotony of the typical American life.

We’re gonna descend on down to
a place of poets, and villains,
vagabonds, assassins, and gamblers,
drunkards, artists, pirates,
prophets, and midnight amblers.

When Man Enters Woman

Anne Sexton


When man,
enters woman,
like the surf biting the shore,
again and again,
and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
and her teeth gleam
like the alphabet,
Logos appears milking a star,
and the man
inside of woman
ties a knot
so that they will
never again be separate
and the woman
climbs into a flower
and swallows its stem
and Logos appears
and unleashes their rivers.

This man,
this woman
with their double hunger,
have tried to reach through
the curtain of God
and briefly they have,
through God
in His perversity
unties the knot.

Young in New Orleans



starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, maybe it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the
New Orleans was a place to
I could piss away my life,
except for the rats.
the rats in my dark small room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke
an unblinking

women were beyond me.
they saw something
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my

that was plenty for
me, that was

there was something about
that city, though
it didn’t let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed
the llights out,
hearing the outside
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
as I heard the rats
moving about the
I preferred them

being lost,
being crazy maybe
is not so bad
if you can be
that way

New Orleans gave me
nobody ever called
my name.

no telephone,
no car,
no job,

me and the
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
it was a
of something not to
but only

Mexican Loneliness

Jack Kerouac


And I am an unhappy stranger
grooking in the streets of Mexico-
My friends have died on me, my
lovers disappeared, my whores banned,
my bed rocked and heaved by
earthquake – and no holy weed
to get high by candlelight
and dream – only fumes of buses,
dust storms, and maids peeking at me
thru a hole in the door
secretly drilled to watch
masturbators fuck pillows –
I am the Gargoyle
of Our Lady
dreaming in space
gray mist dreams —
My face is pointed towards Napoleon
—— I have no form ——
My address book is full of RIP’s
I have no value in the void,
at home without honor, –
My only friend is an old fag
without a typewriter
Who, if he’s my friend,
I’ll be buggered.
I have some mayonnaise left,
a whole unwanted bottle of oil,
peasants washing my sky light,
a nut clearing his throat
in the bathroom next to mine
a hundred times a day
sharing my common ceiling –
If I get drunk I get thirsty
– if I walk my foot breaks down
– if I smile my mask’s a farce
– if I cry I’m just a child –
– if I remember I’m a liar
– if I write the writing’s done –
– if I die the dying’s over –
– if I live the dying’s just begun –
– if I wait the waiting’s longer
– if I go the going’s gone
if I sleep the bliss is heavy
the bliss is heavy on my lids
– if I go to cheap movies
the bedbugs get me –
Expensive movies I can’t afford
– if I do nothing
nothing does

End Of The World

Robinson Jeffers


When I was young in school in Switzerland, about the time of the Boer War,
We used to take it for known that the human race
Would last the earth out, not dying till the planet died. I wrote a schoolboy poem
About the last man walking in stoic dignity along the dead shore
Of the last sea, alone, alone, alone, remembering all
His racial past. But now I don’t think so. They’ll die faceless in flocks,
And the earth flourish long after mankind is out.

The Girls of Winter

Jim Harrison


Out the window of the bar I’m watching
a circle of girls stretching and yawning
across the street. It’s late January and 74
degrees. They love the heat because
they are a moist heat. Heat loves
heat and today is a tease for what comes
with spring around here when the glorious birds
funnel back up from Mexico. The girls
don’t care about birds because they are birds.
I recall in high school a half dozen
cheerleaders resting on a wrestling mat
in short shorts in the gym, me beside them
with a silly groin ache. What were they?
Living, lovely, warm meat as we all are
reaching out of our bodies for someone else.