Category: ▹collaborations

Playthings, dead things

The agony is exquisite, is it not? A broken heart. You think you will die. But you just keep living. Day after day, after terrible day. – Charles Dickens – Great Expectations –

Les Champs léthargiques II

La foule des vivants rit et suit sa folie, Tantôt pour son plaisir, tantôt pour son tourment ; Mais par les morts muets, par les morts qu’on oublie, Moi, rêveur, je me sens regardé fixement. […] Moi, c’est là que je vis ! — cueillant les roses blanches, Consolant les tombeaux délaissés trop longtemps, Je […]

Les Champs léthargiques I

La foule des vivants rit et suit sa folie, Tantôt pour son plaisir, tantôt pour son tourment ; Mais par les morts muets, par les morts qu’on oublie, Moi, rêveur, je me sens regardé fixement. […] Moi, c’est là que je vis ! — cueillant les roses blanches, Consolant les tombeaux délaissés trop longtemps, Je […]

You’d speak my name in tongues

You’d speak my name in tongues, you’d holler out in spades Oh, how I wish you could love me again Into the darkness my baby flies, Into the darkness I say goodbye – Kind Dude – Black Butterfly –

Pale, beyond Porch and Portal

Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; […] She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn – Algernon Swinburne – The Garden of Proserpine –

The Empty House

See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! […] “Secrets”, sighs the night-wind, “Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wails a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy.” […] – Walter de la Mare – The Empty House –  

La Petite Danseuse

Even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes. – Edgar Degas –

When on a Summer’s Morn I wake

When on a summer’s morn I wake, And open my two eyes, Out to the clear, born-singing rills My bird-like spirit flies. […] And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, Back in my room alone, My heart has many a sweet bird’s song And one that’s all my own. – William Henry Davies –

Wreathing a band to bind us to the Earth

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth […]

I don’t want to run to no Hills

I don’t want to run to no hills I can’t seem to summon of the will To recall how to administer the sign I’ve built – without you – King Dude – Silver Crucifix –