hiddenmoth

kathleenjoy:

Distance is money just out of reach,
a kindness like rain-laden clouds
that never drops its coins. Epochs
of fossilized trees crawl rusting hillside
strata: they smell like somewhere else
I’ve never been, an Anatolia
just outside the mind. Geometries
of travel and desire (from here to want
and…

From the streets of the cutthroat Belleville district of Paris to the dazzling
limelight of New York’s glamorous concert halls, Edith Piaf’s life was a constant
battle to sing and survive, to live and love. Raised in abject poverty, surrounded by hookers and pimps, Edith’s magical voice made her a star on both sides of the Atlantic. Her passionate romances and friendships with the greatest names of the period — Yves Montand, Jean Cocteau, Charles Aznavour, Marlene Deitrich, boxing world champion Marcel Cerdan — made her a household name as much as her memorable live performances and beautiful renditions of songs she made famous internationally, “La Vie en Rose”, “Milord”, “Hymn to Love”, “Non, je ne regrette rien” and many more. But in her audacious attempt to tame her tragic destiny, the “Little Sparrow” — as she was nicknamed — flew so high that she could not fail to burn her wings.

- featuring Marion Cotillard.

I’ve got a decent proposition to all the “artists” of Silverlake
The deal is all stop singing when you stop making the music you make
We’re part of a dying movement
But at least we’ve got something to say
The words are, “we’re in shambles, due to those who lost their way”
Now I understand there’s a lure to fitting a certain mold
But bands dropping off the conveyor belt is getting fucking old
So tell all the Lo-Fi rockers, this is a Hi-Definition resent
And tell Karen O herself to get on her knees and repent.

kathleenjoy:

A state becomes statement, Petrarch
trips on a pile of laurel bones, severely damaged
except for two lines. The body absorbs
all kinds of things, a useless brilliant nothing
guarding the borders of witness
where the metaphors start, and the snow.
Petrarch doesn’t dream of snow, except
in silver bowls with syrup
mixed into it, pomegranate or persimmon
chasing summer somewhere next to lost,
and then the brilliant birds
fly from his mouth, perhaps
just one, a bird of paradise with no
legs, no feet, a lifetime’s inability to land.

Petrarch whispers leaves into my ear,
thinks Boys smell nice, boys smell
like spring preserved in a December jar, open
the lid and it escapes me just now, haunts
the room all day: stains air, stains
nostrils, cedar-pressed seasons sweetbitter
somewhat like eros, like crushed laurel
leaves stain fingers. He loves me nowhere
but in words (another of the several things
which I refrain from mentioning), boys’ names
on trees or boys named after trees:
fixing beauty in the wind, fixing hunger
in the eye, the x of it. (I miss the men
midnighting Lakeview streets.)

Wind only visible in what it touches
leads astray, disturbing to discard;
trees shed their way toward nakedness
leaf by leaf until the bough has been broken.
A spatter of small nameable wings
takes to the wind, takes care not to wake
Petrarch, who’s dreaming rain’s
refrain, fall down, fall down,
but he’s already one with grass.
And then a hero comes along
with birds flying out of his mouth:
one of the old verbs might be true,
park paths of wind-polished pebbles
lead one astray, into the snow.