I didn't wake up with Pale Saints in my head. A friend emailed two days ago, you don't have to shut the fuck up but please shut the fuck up about shutting the fuck up, he said. Sound advice. I give it to myself every day, ignore it immediately, am ignoring it now. Forgive me, it's trope for everything. We all need a theme. I had posted a poem this morning, a poem about wanting to shut the fuck up via the recent bombings and my sooo-programmed responses to everyone's sooo-programmed responses), I suddenly wanted it gone! I went to archives to find The Clean, who I did wake up with in my head, and found Pale Saints. O, I haven't used this gag in a while, embedding links directly into a paragraph. Immigrant Song. The hypocrisy of Christianity. An important reading list. Purple Line. All aflutter. The difference between believing all truths are lies and all lies are truths. New Julia Holter. What's it like to fly into a thunderstorm? Now I remember why. See, I've rules: once I post into the feed, should I need pull what was posted, I need replace it so you don't get a Post Doesn't Exist message (which should please me - it should fine metaphors abound me) should you be Kind enough to include me on your self-updating blogroll. I've said this before - the songs have been posted before, the Spicer poem below has been posted before - bark. I can't help it.
ORPHEUS IN HELL
When he first brought his music into hell
He was absurdly confident. Even over the noise of the
And the jukebox groaning of the damned
Some of them would hear him. In the upper world
He had forced the stones to listen.
It wasn’t quite the same. And the people he remembered
Weren’t quite the same either. He began looking at faces
Wondering if all of hell were without music.
He tried an old song but pain
Was screaming on the jukebox and the bright fire
Was pelting away the faces and he heard a voice saying,
He was at the entrance again
And a little three-headed dog was barking at him.
Later he would remember all those dead voices
And call them Eurydice.