Happy Birthday, Bob.
Metaphors
You will forget my first metaphor,
And you will be very gentle with the second.
You will analyze my third metaphor
And say it is very much like the fourth,
And that in itself will be a fifth.
Then, I will take five metaphors
And strap them on my hump
Which fills and empties and fills again
With water, which is not a metaphor at all.
When I step out into the desert,
My visions will be as ghosts of people I already know,
Or I shall have no visions in the constant air.
I will think forward, to the words I might think
Of the last bruised apple,
Caterpillar chewed,
Which hangs on to an autumn tree
Which is not here in the desert.
Truthfully, that apple will be a vision.
Or I will be the apple,
But I will only be one who plays the apple
Until the apple colored curtains fall.
-HF
Dead Reverend, Dead Reverend, Soundcloud, Dead Reverend.
Dead Reverend motherfuckers. On Sound Cloud.
Download our songs for free. We’ll try to scrape up a few ones for burgers and weeds. Get that shit. NOW!
‘Holy Trinity - Lenin, Mickey Mouse, Jesus’
This is Bob Dylan.
Bob Dylan - Dreaming of You
I’ve been listening to this song a lot lately. It was originally recorded during the sessions for 1997’s Time Out of Mind, which Daniel Lanois produced. However, he did not release it until the collection of outtakes, alternative versions, live versions, etc. from the past ten years or so on Tell Tale Signs. I can’t figure this out. The song is one of the “coolest” songs I’ve ever heard Dylan do. It’s so good, I managed to get a friend who typically does nothing but mimic a vague nasal babble whenever Dylan is mentioned to actually sit and enjoy this one. It’s a weird one, has a hip-hop-esque beat, repetition of some of his lyrics (including some from his version of Moonshiner, an old-timey mountain tune), and appears to be pretty autobiographical. Oh, did I mention that it’s awesome? I have to imagine Lanois thought so too, so Bob probably left it off to piss him off. Decent enough reason, I suppose.
Wednesday evening, I went to see Cave of Forgotten Dreams, the 3D film about the Chauvet Cave paintings directed by Werner Herzog. Wow. My head was already messed up from the death of OBL (how does one celebrate that?) but Werner manages to easily restore faith in humanity for anyone who’s paying attention. For one thing, the only other film I’ve seen in 3D was Resident Evil 3D and the 3D effects were enough to actually keep me entertained — a feat the film would have been incapable of otherwise. Therefore, a film directed by Herzog about the world’s oldest known paintings which just happens to be in 3D? Yeah, sign me up. More importantly, though, Herzog manages to not only make this a documentary of one of the most awe-inspiring artifacts ever discovered, but rather an investigation into the mind of Man, past and present, and an illumination of what is called the “modern soul.” His interviews with the scientists and archaeologists and art historians are not only pertinent but also diverge into tangential topics, where Herzog masterfully gets his subjects to reveal their essences without their even knowing it. This should be required viewing for every breathing person. Really.
My brother, Rimbaud, has been with me lately.
Rimbaud’s Ghost
There is no longer anything
except some dream
some wide, flickering plain
which seems empty
and I am an unknown alien
filthy, perceived by nothing
.
What’s left of my memory
is the smell of hash and citrus
in some far country
when the sun was hot
and the breeze was cool
the narrow streets curve
like serpents
until I’ve come around
in a full circle
.
In an alleyway
scoring drugs, fucking
like a faggot
feeling like God
and wanting to die
but I’m high, and it’s alright
.
I don’t know if you noticed
but for a second there,
I was God,
but you didn’t notice,
and there is no God
.
(Dimensions: two, three, four)
in the hospital,
they said I was demented,
that I needed medicine
in the parking lot,
they said I was cemented,
that I was a car
.
It was no longer enough
to be one person,
or even two,
every one must be every one
.
I was you for a while,
until you left
.
When I was first lit on fire,
I did not cry
it was not until later,
when I was really burning,
when my hair was gone,
and my skin was melting,
dripping to the ground,
my bones were charring,
and my eyes were black—
it was then I noticed
something was wrong,
but I couldn’t cry
.
What I did was get fucked up,
really fucked up,
until I put a fire extinguisher
through your window
then I turned into a flying insect
and buzzed off
.
When I woke up as a monk
I was pissed,
I got drunk
and sold my habit
.
I wanted gold and women
I wanted naked limbs
wrapped around my torso,
the sweat of sex
and red lips mashed against mine
I wanted to lay back on silk
and throw paper bills around
I wanted to jump and grab
I wanted noise
and heaving,
to stick against something
to rub against the world
I wanted to wake up inside myself
.
But once more,
I was a bottle,
and the world was golden whiskey
~HF
For some reason, I can’t get enough of Joyce illustrations. Favorite Joyce quote anyone?
Check it! I’ve drawn James Joyce.
From the Argentine edition of Ulysses.
