Underworld Dirty Epic

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWuAc4pnYFc&NR=1&feature=fvwp

Sylvia Plath

Daddy You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Lady Lazarus I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?- Yes yes Herr professor, it is I! Can you deny The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand in foot - The big strip tease. Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, I may be Japanese Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I under estimate your great concern. Ash, ash- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

The essence of sadomasochism is not so much "pain" as the overwhelming of one's senses - emotionally more than physically. Active sexual masochism has little to do with pain and everything to do with the search for emotional pleasure. When we understand that it is pain only, and not cruelty, that is the essential in this group of manifestations, we begin to come nearer to their explanation...." --Havelock Ellis

ascetic

Accepting self-made squalor mess of a man. From one eye they saw you fall and brought the whole world down with you. But not the real world.

Fire escapes outside your gloomy melting window and beds that pull down from hidden in the papered walls provide you secret respite when you're playing miserable, pacing hallways soaking up those dark voices others put their velvet hearts in boxes to avoid. Delicate wooden forms which were always meant to sweetly rot, to change form in erosion of touch and return to block, and to decay and to be loved to slime, you have found the relentless, ignorant will to petrify. Dreaming modern ascetic, you have only delusions until those magic words you suffer for, day in night others suffer, pleading, to search you out are finally enlightened in dusk, by a lifetime for a line, paintings of a thousand eternal ideas that were already tangible somewhere outside.

Your pants are rolled up. No love poem.

Windows opaque, after all.

The keys are turned to dust.

Cote D'Azur before Dawn

Yesterday morning I woke up before dawn and took a sort of dip into the Mediterranean. The waves of night were had fury in them. Though not large compared to the destructive waves of the the deeper sea or the ocean, they pulled and sucked at the stones, the air and themselves with a persistent intention. The water kneaded itself into angry little curls, crashing and spraying several meters into the air. The sky and the sea were different shades of black and grey that blended at an invisible horizon creating the appearance of an endless darkness; the earth was flat and I was looking into nothing.

But there is no malice or anger in the sea. Its power simply overwhelms a tiny body, taking away any significance I give myself, making me want to crumble before such strength and incomprehensible size. I want it to swallow me whole, and in a stupor like a kind of vertigo I can only shake in the cold.

This was not what I expected of the azure coast. In the daylight, never had I seen bluer water and the sea stretched out calmly in my view until it met the horizon, the sun sparkling on the still surface all the way. Children bounced around naked on pebbly beaches. Setting out the morning I expected a semi-tranquil pool, somehow blue in the dark. I expected I could walk on the stones without great pain to my feet.

I took pictures. Karolina got all the way in and tossed around a bit. The waves moved up on the beach every minute we were there. Of the two weeks I spent in Southern France, this event was most important. It made an impression on me much stronger than any of the artistic man made works I had seen during that time. Men continue to try to capture the beauty and power of the forces of nature in their own creations, to imitate it, to mimic it, to invoke it. Men can do no justice to their inspirations. We have never succeeded.

Soul and Body

Anyone whose goal is "something higher" must expect some day to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? Then why do we feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the empitness below which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.

-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.