Flâneur
Danny
17
New York City
Flâneur
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Mayakovsky
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1
My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.

2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

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Mayakovsky by Frank O’Hara (via rightorder)
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theparisreview:

They are preparing to begin again: Problems, new pennant up the flagpole In a predicted romance. About the time the sun begins to cut laterally across The western hemisphere with its shadows, its carnival echoes The fugitive lands crowd under separate names. It is the blackness that succeeds gaiety, and Everyman must depart Out there into stranded night, for his destiny Is to remain unfruitful out of the lightness That passing time evokes. It was only Cloud-castles, adept to seize the past And possess it, through hurting. And the way is clear Now for linear acting into that time In whose corrosive mass he first discovered how to breathe. Just look at the filth you’ve made, See what you’ve done. Yet if these are regrets they stir only lightly The children playing after supper, Promise of the pillow and so much in the night to come. I plan to stay here a little while For these are moments only, moments of insight, And there are reaches to be attained, A last level of anxiety that melts In becoming, like miles under the pilgrim’s feet.
—John Ashbery, “The Task”Art Credit Jens Ullrich
theparisreview:

They are preparing to begin again: Problems, new pennant up the flagpole In a predicted romance. About the time the sun begins to cut laterally across The western hemisphere with its shadows, its carnival echoes The fugitive lands crowd under separate names. It is the blackness that succeeds gaiety, and Everyman must depart Out there into stranded night, for his destiny Is to remain unfruitful out of the lightness That passing time evokes. It was only Cloud-castles, adept to seize the past And possess it, through hurting. And the way is clear Now for linear acting into that time In whose corrosive mass he first discovered how to breathe. Just look at the filth you’ve made, See what you’ve done. Yet if these are regrets they stir only lightly The children playing after supper, Promise of the pillow and so much in the night to come. I plan to stay here a little while For these are moments only, moments of insight, And there are reaches to be attained, A last level of anxiety that melts In becoming, like miles under the pilgrim’s feet.
—John Ashbery, “The Task”Art Credit Jens Ullrich
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took this somewhere on the west side
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slanting:

untitled by tomaskapitancik on Flickr.
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