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Ebook Alcools: runovalikoima by Guillaume Apollinaire read! Book Title: Alcools: runovalikoima
The size of the: 15.68 MB
Edition: Otava
Date of issue: 1977
ISBN: No data
ISBN 13: No data
The author of the book: Guillaume Apollinaire
Language: English
Format files: PDF

Read full description of the books Alcools: runovalikoima:

I've lived like a fool and I've wasted my time
You dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the time Zone

Everyone is old but you. They were here first and are still here in their stale after life. But here on this new street they are young and you are their young. Their bed time piety, your staying up late to old, Jesus is the walking away beauty of parents pedestal. He's the cool older girl with the who you want to be. Pray into everybody's age. Out of their mouths the breath to ascend. Mechanical flight plans court the birds. Time forgets the fish in the lower. Automobile biographies, concrete wombs hide the sky. I wanted to watch the rosebug apart of the rose's heart too. I know the shame and the sick in big picture too big for me. Real life, the kind inside calendars and the history book kind. The face of crocodiles history and the rosebug history. I feel ashamed in both kinds but the second kind is when I feel like real life is real (even if I don't feel real).

My pity aches along the seams of her belly
I humble my mouth to her grotesque laughter
It's always like that. On one shoulder that's not for the devil but just for them.

The night is a clock chiming
The days go by not I Mirabeau Bridge

Love isn't going to come back. You're not in Australia where the water flows backwards. The river under Mirabeau Bridge is gone, is night. Others will come and go. But not you. You're night inside day. This would be great sung to a Johnny Marr guitar riff. I loved the "and expectation always violent".

I void my heart and head
Into barrels of Hades
I shit the entire sky
I'd rather be happy
I'd rather be a child Reply of the Zaporogian Cossacks to the Sultan of Constantinople

Horny animal flesh natural. Whore sweat and cheap. He's still waiting for her.
I have read different translations than Donald Revell's. I guess there are debates on best versions blah blah blah. But 'misery doubles destiny' is freaking great. Sometimes someone else would have turned a better phrase but it's all on phases of fire of Apollinaire. I can't read french either. I don't believe in you misery and I will wait in your empty kingdom. I haven't imagined myself in love/or was in love but if so it happened to someone else so I don't remember it. So I don't take the love poems on my shoulder for angels in the same way as I do other Apollinaire poems. I'm like an insect studying humankind for what it is like and this would be a head biting off/cutting off head and then you're an insect from outer space anyway, because it isn't love anymore. It's a wound infestation. So it worked for me like that.

In dust for eternity
My shadow my snake-in-the-grass
In sunlight because you loved it
There I drove you
My shadow spouse remember I love you
Being nothing you belong to me
And my shadow mourns me LES SEPT EPEES

This was my favorite in wallowing in the was it worth it happiness misery table top spinner.

The ground is poisonous but pretty in autumn Saffron
Cow eyes slow eyes mute mouth thoughtlessly eating seeing mouth eyes. The Saffrons are underfoot and heart mouth eyes in bellies they eat saffrons. The color of eyes of mothers and daughters loved who were not loved back like the yellow purple irises don't see you back. I still love saffrons. They don't have to love me back. But it's a haunting, that cow grind in what isn't for them.

My barefoot brain inclined for the evening
Like a naked king the walls are waking
Beaten flesh and fresh-cut roses Palace

Bellies are deaf and dreams blinded by the false sun prophets. King's hardened lap holds a woman's face echoing better dreams of the Orient. 'Palace' made me think of (written later) Zone's cave discoveries of last year last centuries no hope come to life in today's cold unease. Apollinaire's imagery is a brain meat. I love that when your thoughts are the you are what you eat can't save yourself. I'm going back to a lot what you made happen like that paranoia ladder to hell and what is the environment nudging the odds. I'm finding cases for both sides in these poems. The love poems that don't want to remember how to give love's empty arms another name. But the homesickness when your brain is simmering an else. I love Apollinaire's humor. His tongue is in mouth and butt cheeks. It's that curious sense of humor that doesn't chase the ghosts in the eye windows. That's my favorite kind. I'm good with that kind. It leaves a space for the homesickness.

The corpses accosted me
With otherworldly looks
Until their faces
Became undismal
Earth and sky losing
Their fantastic look The house of the Dead

Apocalyptic memory. If everyone who has died stood up at one time. Shadows themselves, ghost themselves. Present themselves. Whenever a bell rings another corpse gets their earth flight. The living make friends with corpses and memory must remember friendships echo. If they died they only have to wait.

Nothing is so ennobling
As having loved dead men and women
You become so pure that you attain
Glaciers of memory
You are strong enough to live
You need no one

The dead cannot remember them but the living can remember the dead. What if they weren't afraid of death, if they were afraid, going to these friends. This way the death and the life must be much the same. Loving is a memory. It's sad, though, like scrying for an answer to a headstone or Alzheimer's patients or a child who doesn't know what you're talking about when you tell them about something you shared when they were much younger. If they are beyond (and so above) it all will you care about what you cared about less. Then when they leave you you've only got silent shells. 'Clotilde' says it about a "craving for shadows". I love the risk in following the living brain wants. The sun is ended and your hiding place is an incurable appetite. Maybe the past is a door that only opens some of the time. It's like a magical world in a novel. The way back that worked one time is a stranger now. You could feel like shit about it and it still won't budge. The future is a looming sky painting kind of door. It's just a picture unless you look at it in the right way or right time. If they knew you they would be with you a little. I wish they would.

Monster of my hearing you pule and roar
Thunder is your hair
Your talons sing like birds
Monstrous touch perforates poisons me
My eyes wash far away
The virgin stars are my unproven masters
The beast of stinks has a lily-head
And the loveliest monster
Tasting of laurel must despair The Betrothal

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Ebook Alcools: runovalikoima read Online! Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki, known as Guillaume Apollinaire (in French pronounced [ɡijom apɔliˈnɛʁ]) was a French poet, writer, and art critic born in Italy to a Polish mother.

Among the foremost poets of the early 20th century, he is credited with coining the word surrealism and writing one of the earliest works described as surrealist, the play Les Mamelles de Tirésias (1917, later used as the basis for an opera in 1947).

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