Life and Existence

I hibernated in my past. 5

Under Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine. 3

We say God and the imagination are one… How high that highest candle lights the dark. 1

Total grandeur of a total edifice, Chosen by an inquisitor of structures For himself. He stops upon this threshold As if the design of all his words takes form And frame from thinking and is realized.

We keep coming back and coming back To the real: to the hotel instead of the hymns That fall upon it out of the wind.

And one trembles to be so understood and, at last, To understand, as if to know became The fatality of seeing things too well.

These external regions, what do we fill them with Except reflections, the escapades of death, Cinderella fulfilling herself beneath the roof.

The inconceivable idea of the sun. You must become an ignorant man again And see the sun again with an ignorant eye And see it clearly in the idea of it.

The death of one god is the death of all.

Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament. It is a world of words to the end of it, In which nothing solid is its solid self.

By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that defeats and dreams The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.

And, capable, created in his mind, Eventual victor, out of the martyrs’ bones The ultimate elegance: the imagined land.

One’s grand flights, one’s Sunday baths, One’s tootings at the weddings of the soul Occur as they occur.

A. A violent order is disorder; and B. A great disorder is an order. These Two things are one.

He is like a man In the body of a violent beast. Its muscles are his own… The lion sleeps in the sun. Its nose is on its paws. It can kill a man.

I am a native in this world And think in it as a native thinks.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death’s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death’s ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Beauty is momentary in the mind— The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.

Beauty is momentary in the mind— The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.

She says, “But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.” Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires.

Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.

Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum.