CRAZY ABOUT ART - P1/C1
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La gente è il più grande spettacolo del mondo. E non si paga il biglietto.
Charles Bukowski
People are the biggest show in the world. And you don't pay the ticket.
Charles Bukowski
f00593
For your delight....
Before the shit hits the fan
And we can’t
Go anywhere, remember that
The world is full of malaware
What a nightmare!!!
You clean your silverware, polish your shoes and clean your underwear.
And still shit is everywhere,
When the shit hits the fan
I’ll take my fans
my heavy duty van
And my cyber warfare
I’m going out of space
Even if right now
I cannot go anywhere,
Going to Machupichu
Feed the fish and I’ll be
So aware
Maybe Tiananman Square
And request that they clean their shit, that is now everywhere.
Maria lift up your underwear,
Maria lift up your underwear,
Let’s go to Times Square,
The world doesn’t want me to be
So aware that shit is everywhere,
Politicians are telling me where
The shit has hit the fan,
And that I should prepare
And that I shouldn’t forget
That there is not need for underwear and for us to go
ANYWHERE.
Max Noronha
BUCKEYE, 03/30/2020
C
we are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting..
Dear friends,
Wishing you love, joy, and peace this Christmas.
Bes~
Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence | Ryuichi Sakamoto
MOESJE:
You are so beautiful dear Cornelia!
I'm glad we are friends
I asked Mummy Marian for a picture frame so I can frame your photo. She gave me one and look...I'm always with you even though you live in Australia
I'm sending you lots of snuffly kisses
Thank you so much www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/ for using the picture of Cornelia in my photomontage
each man finally trapped and broken
each grave ready
each hawk killed
and love and luck too
the poems have ended
the throat is dry
I suppose there's no funeral for this
and no tears and no reason
pain's the master
pain is silent
the throats of my poems are dry.
by Charles Bukowski
183 times | Greg Haines
MOESJE:
My dear friend Cornelia. I have something important to tell you. Behind me, you can see a Vogue billboard with a portrait of a beautiful model. I came across this photo in a magazine. I was so excited because I know the model. She is, just like you, a friend of mine. She moved abroad and became a model. I called her and we talked a lot and...and...I told her about you.
She would like to meet you and will visit me soon.
How wonderful! Dear Cornelia, would you like to meet Binini? Let me know. The three of us will go shopping and sit on a terrace and drink tea with honey.
Love and kisses from your best friend Moesje
Moesje has become friends with Cornelia, who lives in Daddy Jesse's house in Australia.
(Charles Bukowski)
*
“Having a bunch of cats around is good. If you’re feeling bad, you just look at the cats, you’ll feel better, because they know that everything is, just as it is. There’s nothing to get excited about. They just know. They’re saviours. The more cats you have, the longer you live. If you have a hundred cats, you’ll live 10 times longer than if you have 10. Someday this will be discovered, and people will have a thousand cats and live for ever. It’s truly ridiculous.”
(Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) German-American poet and novelist in "On cats")
*
(Own work)
this one teaches
that one lives with his mother
and that one is supported by a red-faced alcoholic father
with the brain of a gnat.
this one takes speed and has been supported by
the same woman for 14 years.
that one writes a novel every ten days
but at least pays his own rent.
this one goes from place to place
sleeping on couches, drinking and making his spiel.
this one prints his own books from a duplicating machine.
that one lives in an abandoned shower room
in a Hollywood hotel.
this one seems to know how to get grant after grant,
his life is a filling-out of forms.
this one is simply rich and lives in the best
places while knocking on the best doors.
this one had breakfast with William Carlos Williams.
and this one teaches.
and that one teaches.
and this one puts out textbooks on how to do it
and speaks in a cruel and dominating voice.
they are everywhere.
everybody is a writer.
and almost every writer is a poet.
poets poets poets poets poets poets
poets poets poets poets poets poets
the next time the phone rings
it will be a poet.
the next person at the door
will be a poet.
this one teaches
and that one is living with his mother
and that one is writing the story of Ezra Pound.
oh, brothers, we are the sickest and the
lowest of the breed.
--Charles Bukowski
I really enjoyed my visit to The Brick Art and Gifts store
"...a gift shop concentrating on artisan made products original and edition works of art in the heart of Prospect Heights"
I chatted with the manager, who like myself is an alumni of City College. I majored in film, she is a music composer. I had to get a photo of her tee for my #teeshirttales
there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realise this
and most often when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than too late
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that .
wants to get out.
but I'm too tough for him,.
I say,.
stay down, do you want to mess.
me up?.
you want to screw up the.
works?.
you want to blow my book sales in .
Europe?.
there's a bluebird in my heart that.
wants to get out.
but I'm too clever, I only let him out.
at night sometimes.
when everybody's asleep..
I say, I know that you're there,.
so don't be .
sad.
.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
Charles Bukowski The Bluebird
L'anima libera è rara, ma quando la vedi la riconosci: soprattutto perché provi un senso di benessere, quando gli sei vicino.
C Bukowski
“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”
― Charles Bukowski
Ieri sera mi è capitato di leggere un'altra poesia di Charles Bukowski.. e mentre la leggevo, mi è venuta in mente una mia foto, in archivio... ed ho pensato che la poesia avrebbe potuto esserne una perfetta didascalia.
"Non ho smesso di pensarti,
vorrei tanto dirtelo.
Vorrei scriverti che mi piacerebbe tornare,
che mi manchi
e che ti penso.
Ma non ti cerco.
Non ti scrivo neppure ciao.
Non so come stai.
E mi manca saperlo.
Hai progetti?
Hai sorriso oggi?
Cos’hai sognato?
Esci? Dove vai?
Hai dei sogni? Hai mangiato?
Mi piacerebbe riuscire a cercarti.
Ma non ne ho la forza.
E neanche tu ne hai.
Ed allora restiamo ad aspettarci invano.
E pensiamoci.
E ricordami.
E ricordati che ti penso,
che non lo sai ma ti vivo ogni giorno,
che scrivo di te.
E ricordati che cercare e pensare son due cose diverse.
Ed io ti penso, ma non ti cerco."
Non è vero che faccio sempre e solo foto di paesaggi... semplicemente non pubblico il resto ah ah
Buona giornata :)
I dug up some old shots and treated them to the old digital x-pro...
I think it really works well on this image. Much more interesting than the original.
Spesso le parti migliori della vita erano quando non facevi assolutamente niente, stavi solo a rimuginare, a riflettere. Voglio dire, mettiamola così: voi immaginate che niente abbia senso, ma non può essere che tutto sia così, perchè vi rendete conto che non ha senso e questa vostra consapevolezza gli dà quasi un senso. Avete capito quello che intendo? Un pessimismo ottimistico.
Kodak Tri-x film
© All rights reserved Davide Zappettini 2018
Use without permission is illegal
contatti: groovemagic@hotmail.it
www.lensculture.com/davide-zappettini
www.photographers.it/gallery_image.php?id=42811#img
www.facebook.com/david.zappettini
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.....
- Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski had a bluebird in his heart that he never let out except during the deadly forlornness of the night when he and his bluebird would weep together. I am nothing like Charles Bukowski; As a matter of fact my life is pale gray compared to his million rainbows stitched together. Yet, I too have a bluebird in my heart. Quite interesting as it may sound, but I do not often let him out either. I won’t tell you if we weep together, but once in a while he finds a little crack in me and escapes. He did so the other day when trees wore leaves of my favorite color and the world seemed hopelessly in love with the provocative spring. He flew out in front of me, found himself a throne and talked sweet coaxing me to smile and ponder on happy possibilities. The lickspittle almost made me feel like a monarch of an untamed land in the high Andes. When a pauper feels like a king it is then necessary to put the bluebird back in the depths of one’s solitude. So I did. However, the image of him ruining my day has stayed on. Don’t let it ruin yours.
Member of the Flickr Bird Brigade
Activists for birds and wildlife
“My dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
~ Falsely yours”
― Charles Bukowski