“It’s a different world in which one must forget the world one inhabits. Villa Santo-Sospir belongs to Madame Alec Weissweiller. It dominates Cape Santo-Sospir, the last point on the map before arriving at Cape Ferrat. The villa is situated on the road to the lighthouse, and its rocks descend to the sea. It looks out on Antibes, Cannes, Nice, and to the right, Villefranche…When I stayed in Santo-Sospir in the summer of 1950 I hastily decorated a wall. Matisse told me that if you decorate one wall, you should do the others as well. He was right. Picasso opened and closed all the doors. All that was left to do was to paint the door.”

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Critics and censors of Leviathan Porthucias, a poor Greek farmer, always argued with proponents of free speech as to how far is too far in literature. Porthucias only wrote one book and spent almost all his entire life in mental institutions. He had one unnamed lover who he was apparently monogamous with, but she was only a hallucination of his rattled brain. He also had a dog who spoke fluent Hebrew and lived under his hat. There is almost no evidence of his existence.

“She came dressed in purple lace….when she levitated toward the white curved moon….a small puddle of her desire was left on the stool….I stood there as a ghost should do….never pretending or making a single sound…her body was white and young…a dress laid on the floor in a perfect rumpled velvet circle…her fingers were like cold glass and glistened after she removed them from her body….I wanted my mouth around them….but knew I would be found….a ghosts lips are always sealed….smoke of pistols last dusk…..twilight in gunpowder……my sweating corpse in a noose.” – From the Erotic Pensées (1924)

Oh princess of mad sleep listen to my horn and my pack of hounds.  I deliver you from the forest where we came upon the spell.  Here we are by the pen – one with the other wedded on the page.

Jean Cocteau

“If I had my way we’d sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes.”

“There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.” G.S.

And you as well must die, belovèd dust

And you as well must die, belovèd dust,
And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
This body of flame and steel, before the gust
Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
Than the first leaf that fell,this wonder fled,
Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
In spite of all my love, you will arise
Upon that day and wander down the air
Obscurely as the unattended flower,
It mattering not how beautiful you were,
Or how belovèd above all else that dies.

I read somewhere that things are never lost; that we just intend for someone else to find it.  Whether metaphorical or material I don’t really know. “Shadows of the Sun: The Diaries of Harry Crosby” is the strange and mysterious canticle of a wealthy bon vivant poet and WWI war veteran with an obsession with the sun. I left the book without realizing at a friend’s house over winter.  I decided that she can keep the book under one condition: that she understand its importance; she will.  We must give every ounce of ourselves away. We are our own paradise. We must understand that time and fate is a fickle sea of illusions.  We are the dust of glass.  We are the oblivion of wind and rain that beats against our necks on a gray ungodly Saturday morning.  We are the gospel of weevils in the rustle of ancient leaves.  We are the shipwrecked moon on a sea of drowned swans.  We are memory trapped in the unconcious gossamer of desire.  We are the lust of dynamite and gun powder.  We are tongues in the backseat of old cars.  We are but mere spectacles in a theater of smoke & mirrors.

“The Sun-God is a harmony of colors which break off into particles to float earthward like colored snow flakes. Each color-flake has a soul. When two of them merge into one, the Sun-God draws them back to like Forever in His Inner Color in the form of a star or a moon or a sun. But the majority of the flakes fall to the ground unmerged and melt without ever having merged. These are lost souls. But once two souls have merged it is Irrevocable, it is for Eternity in the Color-Kingdom of God. In the Color-Kingdom of the Sun.” ∞ Harry Crosby

Happy weekend.  Let the good times roll….

“Let’s murder the moonlight.”

men are traveling these dark roads
their shadows are gambler’s lungs
tiny match sticks dance their flame to life
in this dark and fingers turn to iron scythes
this is the land of dark roads
where your voice escapes to haunt
the esplanades and the witches cabins
this is the land of dark cabins
where I wait for you in the dark
trembling like a dissected heart
on the good doctors stone
this is the dark country
where the horses ride white
through the dark harvest
and the dark men reap
their own dark hearts
portal and wanderlust matter warp
in the wheat black dust of morning
fog and you appear with a dark flag
a symbol of a dark country morning
but with my fingers inside you
searching for my own heart
I feel another hand grab mine
men are traveling these dark roads

by oliver maxwell kupper 1983-2010

“Love, wine, in them lies wisdom.”