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[i will show you fear in a handful of dust]

January 27th, 2010 (11:36 pm)

the waste land literally gets better EVERY TIME I READ IT. it is UNBELIEVABLE. i can't even control my passion for it. that's why i'm writing on LJ about it instead of burdening someone else who does not share my passion over gchat....

My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

what the FUCK. how can you write poetry this fucking good. you just can't.  unless you're t.s. eliot.

The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

the question is, are the hands divine or are they our own???? we don't get an answer from eliot....

AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains


If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop dro
p drop drop
But there is no water

this seriously sounds like hip-hop lyrics or something. i can hear the beat in my head. THIS is poetry, man. fucking LOVE IT.