Tag Archives: poetry

very short review of new Chuck E. Weiss record…for amazon reviews, really…

ImageGentle readers,

You need to check this out….

Red Beans and Weiss…new LP by Chuck E. Weiss

take a deep trek through american roots music, knuckleheads, pee pee houses, nazi death camps, buddhist teachings and more!!!
sample it and see!!!!!!!!! forget about Tom Waits and Johnny Depp being on the project – Chuck is the Man!
i heard this online before it was released and ordered it. it is almost like a companion to ‘Extremely Cool’…maybe better…
this is such a fantastic record, you don’t know what to be most fascinated by next.
some songs are searing R&R and some, like ‘Shushie’…would be a wonderful soft song for just about anybody to cover…others just blow you away, like ‘Bomb the Tracks,’ which comes on like an all out rock and roller and addresses cultural issues like why we didn’t bomb the tracks the trains used to take Jews to concentration camps in WW2 (which IS a good question)…the lyrics here are unreal…he sums up the basic tenets of Buddhism in two lines of lyrics in ‘Knucklehead Stuff’ …’Kokamo’ comes on so slick and smooth it takes several hearings before you realize it starts out with an oral ‘dismembering’ (my word not his) on Lovers Lane…or how about Stalin drawing futuristic pictures of Huckleberry Hound while Winston Churchill befalls an ill fate???…yep, not only is it all here…it’s all here and more – rocking to the hilt and is an excellent choice for Best Record of 2014 in all classes!!!!!

this is a free blog and, as such, you must put up with the typos….

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Allen Ginsberg, Jackson Pollock, Tupac Shakur and Big Vladdy

putinfishyginsygrantparkputin4Gentle Readers,
With one eye on the wheel and both hands on the road, we do our best to keep abreast of odd things happening around the world.
Fitting this dubious category is the statement made by Universal Bully Vlad (the impaler) Putin. News media this week carried a clip of the blue-eyed dapper dungeonkeeper saying…

“The only things that interest me in the U.S. are Tupac Shakur, Allen Ginsberg and Jackson Pollock. I don’t need a visa to access their work….”

Now isn’t that an interesting statement? It makes us look at him in a different way. Patti Smith recently described him taking the world’s biggest nastiest shit, the worst ever taken or left, in a solid gold commode. He really is not a nice man. He was head of the KGB and many people died under his hand, many literally by his hand.

At this point, Informed Intellects, we feel it necessary to note that this blog has always been a friend and has supported the LGBTQ community. The following statements are merely speculation of the purest form. We seriously wonder if Mr. Putin is gay? We look at his baby blues and they way he just loves his wardrobe, the fact that we never see Russia’s ‘first lady’ (although her meat could be hanging to dry for a future state dinner appetizer). Most world leaders do not have pics like this on their Facebook page, do they?putin3

It leads us down the path of trying to figure out what the brute thinks…we look at his choices. There is a lot to be learned from all three of these artist. Oh my, he likes the Arts…he named a poet, a painter and a poet rapper. We have to admit that we enjoy the work of all three as well.

Jeepers…as odd as it sounds, we made a mistake!

Putin didn’t say that, it was another Big Vladdy, Vladislav Surkov. On Monday, The New Republic said this of Surkov… was the chief architect of Putinism. He reduced the elimination of democracy, civil society, and a free press to a handful of cynically named “technologies.” (Given Russia’s historical and cultural uniqueness, he wrote, it needs something called “sovereign democracy.”) He invented the various ways to control, manipulate, marginalize, and co-opt Putin’s political opponents, always with the deft touch of a chess master.

Most blogs would wipe the mistakes clean, so as to look intelligent but not us…we shall take you along with us the thought process for reckoning this situation out…we think they both suck but we can understand what Putin likes about the Big Guy. Hey, everybody needs to let it loose sometime, yeah? Those big shoulders and swarthy dark looks may be what Putin goes for.putinlovey
For his side, we must admit that although Pollock was sexually ambiguous, we suspect that Vladdy really has a thing for Ed Harris, who could do a good Putin without make-up we bet. And is it Ginsberg that interests him or is it James Franco, who played him recently in a film? Tupac? Well, look at the guy…smooth skin, big beautiful eyes (like Putin!)…put the right doo rag on him and he could look downright sweet! We do not wish to insult Mr. Shakur or his estate, however, since we do respect him for his work and for not being the usual thug, as he was expected to be. He was a good man.

So what are we saying here? As usual, we don’t know…we just ramble and throw out thoughts for you to gesticulate upon. We found it to be a strange statement and it was much-overlooked so we had to tell you, Dear Readers, so you could have something to discuss after dinner…speaking of dinner, be sure to dress well!putin

As usual, this is a free bog so if you spot any typos, just put up with them!


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Amiri Baraka, Chris Christie and the Rape of New Jersey

Humble Readers,
When Amiri Baraka passed away on January 9 of this year, we lost a great american.
During his life, Baraka said a number of foolish and incendiary things. He called all white men ‘fags’ and called for the rape of all white women by black men – talking about going for a reaction! As he got older, his racist rants lightened up.
We spoke to him in the year before his death and race division was not the answer to our problems, as he saw it. We are past that and the only way we can save this country is for all people to unite. In fact, the only way we got to interview him was to tell him that his message did not get to enough white people and that most readers of the publication we wanted to interview him for were white. When we first asked for an interview, we were met with laughter but once we explained why we wanted to interview him for Beatdom, he relented.
The movements by the lower and middle class groups cannot be exclusive to race or party. The only way to beat the commercial-industrial-military complex that has most people beaten down is to unite, not to fight each other. Instead of attacking another race, why not join together and go after the rich bastards who you think have all your money? Even Baraka admitted that the election of Obama served to widen the gap between races, which had been a huge focus of civil rights groups. The issue of Civil Rights keeps slipping into the news. Before he died, Mr. Baraka pointed to the Trayvon Martin case, which exploded shortly thereafter. He also called out the Tea Party, a huge racist group.
Another prescient bit that AB (as his staff called him) told us involved a certain Mayor of Newark. This guy got elected by the people of Newark and robbed them for decades by signing a deal with Prudential Insurance to allow them tax-free access to do business in Newark. Corey Booker, the conman in question, has deprived the citizens of Newark countless dollars. One Prudential building is worth ‘about 300 million dollars a year in taxes’ according to the late poet. That is 300 million a year since 1970.
Besides allowing Prudential to usurp city services and plaster its name over all the buildings and landmarks it can defile, Booker (at that time) was trying to sell the water rights belonging to the city, as well as 200 acres of land where water springs from. This does not seem in the best interest of the people of New Jersey.
NO interest in the people of New Jersey???? How can we even use the phrase without mentioning, our Hero Sandwich, Chris Christie?chris1
When the sitting Senator of New Jersey died last year, Governor Christie rewarded Booker for his mis-deeds (and likely payoffs pushed up the ladder) from the Newark scams. Booker has a pretty face and shiny bald head. He is black.
Black or white, he obviously is consumed by greed from the inside out so color doesn’t matter. What matters is – where he is going from Senator? If Christie eats himself through the press and doesn’t get to the 2016 primaries, Booker could carry out his agenda and be counted on to keep kicking the graft up the ladder to the big guy. Another good, thing…he is even whiter than Obama…look!booker
Is he our future? Is Christie our future? Do we want a future?

This is a free blog so do not pay attention to the typos, if you find any.


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The Bob Dylan Challenge (or The Search for Fat Joke Number Three)

Gentle Readers,
All the bluster about (and coming from) NJ Governor Chris Christie may seem like bad news for the nation but it is a gift for comedians, many of whom had cut the use of fat jokes, leaving them to rest on a shelf in retirement until the big goon pissed them off.
Even Christie makes jokes about weight, ignoring the diabetes epidemic that is slowly overtaking the USA, as it overtook India when citizens there could afford to eat the same foods as us and we were kind enough to send our fast food restaurants to grace their soil.
In the old days, being fat showed wealth, prosperity. The larger a man became, the more success evidenced itself in blubber.
We prefer not to blubber but to reckon things out.
When in a thinking mood, we often slip on some music by Bob Dylan and let our minds wander to it. Even Dylan says he cannot put a meaning to any of his songs but they have an individual meaning to all of us. One song which makes the mind wander a mite more than others is Visions of Johanna, which we always want to see him perform in concert and somehow always manage to buy tickets for the night he plays Desolation Row in the same slot of his setlist.
In the masterful working of VOJ, we are presented by many characters, like the Nightwatchmen, Mona Lisa, Johanna, Louise and her Lover, a Madonna, the Peddler, the Countess…but then a lot of attention is paid to the fat ladies. He told us he was a ‘song and dance man’ and a lot of people took it as a joke but the fat joke is stock-in-trade for the song and dance man. So, in the landscape of the miracle of beauty that is the song VOJ, the artist ties it up at the end with a joke and sort of blames it on the ‘fishtruck of his mind’ unloading. Nonetheless, we yank ourselves from the mystical, ethereal quality of the song when we hear about the delicate wallflower, who will freeze
“…when the jelly-faced women all sneeze.
Hear the one with the moustache say,
Jeeze, I can’t find my knees.”
When we manage to catch this song live, that line cracks us up everytime.
We usually do not think much past that but recently we needed some upbeat music to ease the drive over the icy ridges into town, so we put on Bringing It All Back Home. This was his fifth LP and the one where he quit leaving the ‘G’ off of words ending in ‘ING.’…hhmmm, was that a ‘sell-out’? You’d have to ask a fan who can explain his songs.
In Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream, again, we hear him use a rhyme which demeans the unproportionate, too…he gets lost upon disembarking from a ship. He meets a variety of characters and, again, near the end mentions that the last he heard of the missing captain,
“He was stuck on a whale
That was married to the
Deputy Sheriff of the jail…”
In later years, we heard about The Clean Cut Kid. He is well-fed and eats at Burger King. That would certainly lead to fat but the implication is not made. It is the closest Dylan came to addressing the war in VietNam in an outright fashion, however, even though his songs were used as anthems when people were trying to stop such injustices here.

In the second movie he penned, Masked and Anonymous, there is a scene (near the end, of course) where he is confronted by Jessica Lange, playing a demented, evil woman. She tries to wound him with words but he replies, “You heard about cellulose? Cows can digest it but you can’t.” It can also be digested by a moose. Either way, insult or not, it brings to mind the ass-lumping scourge of cellulite and, actually, sometimes an insult that is not understood gets you a lot more mileage…


Anyway, back to the challenge…the man has recorded a commercial disc for each year of his life and we think he reaches seventy-three years of age this May. Did he give up the fat jokes after LP number seven? Was he forced to drop them when he had to add the ‘G’s?

WE don’t know! We are not experts. We do not even think the people who take the class at Columbia Unversity in Dylanology (or is that at NYU?…some NY College) have any idea, either, since the artist himself refuses to explain. However, with all the wondering, the pondering, the supposing, the guessing, the plotting-it-all out, we hope that some Dylan scholar will step forth with the necessary information. A few years back, we saw the Dylan/Paul Simon tour, which Dylan highlighted every evening by telling a stupid joke. Perhaps Number Three lies in there…but we would like to know if it exists in song?


This is a free blog so if you see any typos, live with it.

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Kind Readers,
We lifted this from youtube and an unknown source.
Please watch it and read one of Mr. Baraka’s many books!

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From the Beat Cookie Jar…Poetry Corner



     Gentle Readers,

     Today we have a poem, or rather, a song.  It has music but you cannot hear it.  Your Humble Narrator  can hear it in his head, as he could when it was written but the only way to hear it with the melody intact is to have me sing it to you, which usually requires a certain amount of alcohol, which we do not think the Gentle Readers would be able to afford, at our rate of consumption.

     It was the first song to pop out in awhile and, mystically, popped out at a time when all the things we used to love were eluding Your Narrator.  The song seemed to open up a number of doors, from the door to travel to the door to my pens and pencils and paper.  It got the writing started again and it has been snowballing, ending up in various new venues for voice.

     We hope you enjoy.

Lately,  I’ve been thinking
about all the things i used to love.
Lately, I’ve been drinking up
to all the things I used to love and
all the things
I use to love.

Laughing about the fun we had,
so many different things to do.
In smoky clubs and stumbling home
and yelling at the neighbors, too!

Lately, I’ve been looking back
at all the things we wanted then.
Lately, I’ve been wondering
if we could still feel that way again
about all the things we use to love.

These days, I’ve been falling out
with what life has been handing me.
Love is there, without a doubt,
Passion stalks behind a tree.

I feel my heart in symphony
– been cutting slack to humanity.
I am related to a bee
and grateful now that I can see
all the things I use to be.

We kicked down the old black doors.
We drove home on rusty rims.
We drank all the wine we stole from church
We woke up to the sound of hymns.

Lately, I been thinking
about all those things I use to love.
Baby, I’m still drinking up
Those crazy drinks we used to love

so many things we use to love.

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In the Poetry Corner With the Metal Machines

     Brilliant Readers,

     We were happily surprised that our last blog from the Beat CookieJar went over so well! We had been trying to think of new subjects, like K2, which would cause a stir but were happy to see that a bit of poetry gets more readers than a rant about our less-than-stellar form of government. The last poem got more views than anything we posted since the one about Obama getting the shotgun blast to the face.

     You may wonder what iambic pentameter is doing in the Beat jar but Allen Ginsberg told me I had a gift for the rhyme and that a lot of my poems would make very good song lyrics. It is on record in the Ginsberg Archives, if you care to see. Ginsberg, himself, had taken an interest in songwriting and rhyming meters at the time, which was during the heady ‘Punk’ days of the mid-1970s.

     All of my poems are open to interpretation since I will never explain them, so take it as you will and this one is titled, Metal Machines.


                                    The metal machines move, mashing,

                                    gleaming, reaming blades all gnashing

                                     – a million daggers slashing,

                                     slicing, tearing, digging, thrashing –

                                     and chains that strike home smashing.

                                      like a billion forearms bashing;

                                      the victim stands alone.

                                      The victim’s skin flies, splashing,

                                       his life before him, passing –

                                       – before his eyes all flashing –

                                       like a flaming film impassioned,

                                       while the machine keeps fiercely crashing

                                       through the skull and finally smashing

                                       dead, bruised skin and splintered bone.


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One From the Poetry Corner

     Gentle Readers,

     As much as we like to complain about the world, give advice, rib the politicians and insult as many people as possible while holding you, Dearest Readers, in the most humble regards, today we put aside the vitriol and dig into the Beat CookieJar to come up with a poem by Michael Hendrick, which is called, simply, Spider.

     We hope you enjoy it.

                                   There is a spider in my bathroom.

                                    I watch him from the toilet.

                                    He has webbed the radiator

                                    but I wouldn’t want to spoil it.

                                    So I roll a ball of tissue,

                                    barely bigger than a fly,

                                    then flick it into the gossamers

                                     just to fool the little guy.

                                     He rushes to the decoy,

                                     hanging from his silky thread

                                     but then he hears me laughing

                                     and shakes his fuzzy head.


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Lord Buckley and Edgar Allen Poe


     Gentle Readers,

     Since my wing is in the sling, allow the great Lord Buckley to hip you up to a cat with a raven. I read the poem so many times as a kid that I really need to revisit it when I become an adult.

       I present, for your pleasure, Lord Buckley~

  Yes, it’s interesting. So many people – Poe had so much depth and so much swing to him, that, well – people, you know, I was going to say another thing. When you start to fool with these classics you have the tremulous stature of a amateur architect goofing in the Taj Mahal. Say now, “There must be something I can do here.” So, it’s very dangerous work to begin with. But, Poe’s Raven, the Bugbird.The Bugbird, of course, is a little something, an idea, or a
fear that you get caught in your mind, and you throw
it out the front door vrrrrrpppttt in comes in the
back. You throw it out the keyhole vrrrrpppttt it
comes in the transom. You throw it left side vrrrppptt
it comes in right side. It’s the Bugbird. And, like I say,
Poe, Poe, Eddie Allen Poe was a swinger. He loved to
enjoy that good whiskey and chase them woody ladies
(?) all over the place, understand what I mean? And
he love to carry on and enjoy.
And he didn’t want that bird. He didn’t send for the bird. He
didn’t dig the bird. He didn’t even know what aviary
the bird came from. If they would have put the bird on
him postpaid he wouldn’t have dug it. But, just like I
say so many times, when you don’t need the bird, when
you don’t want the bird, when you haven’t got the
first possible use for the bird, vrrrppppt that’s when
you get it. And that’s what happen to poor Eddie. I want
you to picture that cat. He’s sitting in his pad. He’s all
spread out. He’s flipped, he’s flapped. He’s had it,
understand what I mean.
He can’t make it. If he had it he couldn’t swing it. So he’s
sitting there goofin’ the cool, you see what I mean. And
so he said, It was a real drug midnight dreary
I was goofing beat and weary
Over many a freakish volume of forgotten score
When suddenly there came a tapping
As if some cat were gently riffing
Knocking rhythm at my pad’s door.Ah, “’tis the landlady,” I muttered
On her broom she flies the rounding
Sounding for her rent
WHICH only this and nothing more.
Yea, so solid I remember,
It was in that wrought December
And it’s swingin’, jumpin’ ember
Blew it’s phantom upon the floor
Groovily I wooed the morrow
Still hung I sought to borrow
From my book kicks
To knock the sorrow
Sorrow for my gone Lenore
For that sweet, square but swingin’ maiden
Whom the fly chicks, that’s the angels, tagged Lenore
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silky wear deturning [?]
Of each upper curtain
Moved me, hung me
With freakish flipples
Never dug before.
So that now to cool the beating of my ticker
I stood repeating, “‘Tis some strange midnight stud
That’s sounding a money beat at my pad’s door.
A deuce to cool the morrow
Or some juice to drown his sorrow
Some lightweight riff this
And nothing more.
Jack!” I said, “Or Jilly, if I’ve crossed you.
Don’t jump sore
For the solid truth is
This cat was napping
And so cool did you come tapping
And so light hip you came rapping
Rhythm at my pad’s door
That I was scarce sure I dug you!”
Here I opened wide the slammer, Jack.
Swhoosh, I dug the breeze
And nothing more.

Now, you see what happen to this poor cat. He’s sitting in
his own pad, minding his own business and some cat is
knockin’ on his slammer. Ding, ding, ding, ding. And
when he go to open the door vrrrrppptt there ain’t
nobody there. So, the cat is subject to flip. He must
flip and he does.
Gone full out
I found the shutter
When with many a flip and flutter
In there stomped a king sized bugbird, Jack
From way back days of yore
Not a minute brought down was he.
Not a minute tipped or hung he.
But with stance of king and queen
He swung above my sweet pad’s door
Lit upon the bust of Palas.
Sat goofin’ there and nothing more.

“Unsolid hip,” said I, “That you’re no craven
Gasser grim and beat up raven
Goofin’ from the night’s Plutonian shore.
Swing hip me to what thy tag is
on the night’s Plutonian shore.”
Flip the bugbird, “NEVERMORE.”
Solid wig me this bird to dig me
Though it copped out not upon the score
For we cannot help it
Being that no single human being
Ever was so sent by seeing a wig like this
Above his pad’s door
With such a tag as: Nevermore

Now, you see, Poe’s trying every way he can to
communicate with this bugbird. ‘Cause this bugbird’s
vrrrpppttt blowing all that heat on him. He even tries
sympathy. He looks at the bugbird and says,
No doubt this single seater has flipped his meter.
He comes on automatic to the core.
Still flipped by some unhappy gasser,
Some unmerciful disaster swung fast and hot hipped faster,
‘Til his lick one verdune (?) bore
So help me God I think he digs it,
This beat up lick of never more!

Now, you see, Poe, like I say, he gets so tired trying to
communicate with this bugbird that he flips and he
goes out and drinks up a lot of that ignorant oil,
understand. And he comes back with a giant king-sized
hangover, see. Well now, he don’t want the bird to
know he’s feeling bad, see, for fear the bird put more
heat on him, see. So, he’s got to come out under the
rock real happy like, a big act. He said,

“Hey, what you say bird?!”

The Bird say, “NEVERMORE!”

Say, “The milkman get here yet?”


Say, “Well, who won in the fifth race?”

Say, “NEVERMORE!!!!”

I think he laid one too many nevermores on Eddie. I don’t
know how much they weigh but it was just enough to
snap that Einsenglas at the end of the fuse, and blow
the whole gig. ‘Cause Poe now wants to divorce the
bird. Before he divorces him, he gets very salty with
him. He looks at the bird and says,
“Hiphead, Hiphead,
Rat wing of bad kicks, hiphead still,
If bugbird of feather devil,
By the heaven’s that swing above us,
By The Nazz we both adore.
Is there, is there somewhere within that destination
I’ll get with that swingin’ maiden
Whom the fly chicks tagged Lenore.”
Flipped the Bugbird, “NEVERMORE!”
And the final bout that Poe has with this black, black bird.
He looks at him and says,
Umm mmmmm, by this lick you have flipped my meter,
You nauseous gasser, you endless repeater!
Split before I blow my red hot stack,
Go back to your Plutonian shore.
Leave no feather on my heather,
Take your black jazz, blow together,
Leave this pad my torch unbroken,
Split from the roost above my door,
Flipped the Bugbird, “NEVERMORE!”


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Michaelmas and ‘Featured Abuser’ Arthur Rimbaud

     Hello, Abuserinos!

     As today is Michaelmas, our favorite Feast Day, we are having trouble wrapping our collective minds around a suitable topic for the ever-scintillating subject of abusing ourselves.       

     Michaelmas, not really celebrated in America, honors the Holy Saint Michael the ArchAngel, who gave old God a hand by throwing Satan into Hell. It is the only ‘Mas’ you will find in the english dictionary aside from Christmas. Christ and I have the concession on the Mas business. When collecting free birthday drinks at various wateringholes, I often throw in the fact that me and Jesus are the only two guys with our birthdays in Websters, which usually leads to an argument and results in me getting yet another free drink when I hold my driver’s license up and match the date with Webster.

     In England and Ireland, the Michaelmas Daisy is blooming right about now, a fact that brings me great solace.

     But enough of that. I am nothing. Twenty or thirty years and I will be lost to obscurity, even moreso than I am now. That did not happen to Arthur Rimbaud, though. He became more and more popular after he died.

     Born in 1854, he was a passionate and bright young man who astounded his teachers and, in his teens, set 19th Century French poetry on its ear. He won awards, won acclaim and quit writing poetry before he was twenty, in favor of gaining personal experience – the ultimate goal of the poet. He ended up running guns and slaves in Africa, losing a leg and dying at age 37 – done in by cancer.

     His mother found him trying. He exhibited great genius from an early age but also drank alcohol, stole from shops, cursed and wrote foul, scatalogical verse. He took great pride in having no pride in his appearance. Dirty, disheveled, smelling of drink, one day somebody told him he had lice in his hair. Acknowledging the presence of the itchy mites, he replied that he cultivated them in his scalp and kept them handy so he could throw them on passing clergymen. He ran away from home often, to escape the wrath of his mother. He usually ended up on the streets of Paris.

     Once, he was taken in by Paul Verlaine, a leading Symbolist poet who’s talent was soon eclipsed by that of his young friend. Though Verlaine was married, he entered into a sexual relationship with the boy. He left his wife and the two poets moved into a basement together (as is mentioned in Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up In Blue). 

     They shared a love of hashish and absinthe and shocked the society of poets around them with their frequent indulgence. The relationship, as Rimbaud, was highly volatile and ended with Verlaine shooting Rimbaud in the wrist at a hotel in Brussels. Verlaine ended up in prison for two years and Rimbaud returned home to write A Season In Hell, a book of prose poetry which established him as a master, a pre-eminent writer of the Symbolist Movement. He is also known as a leading writer of the Decadent Movement, the Beauty Movement and subsequently influenced Dadaism and Surrealism, to the extent no other man achieved. He finished writing at age 19.    

      In Rimbaud’s poems, we see the first fusion of word and colour – the absinthian dream that certain sounds lay inert in the Word and had the power to invoke those colours in the mind of the reader, when repeated. This is something LSD users caught onto a hundred years later. Speaking of which, we hear many infuential artists speak of the debt they owe to Rimbaud. If the hippies were “Woody’s Children” (see Woodrow Wilson Guthrie), then who were Rimbaud’s children but Bob Dylan, John Steinbeck,  Patti Smith, Jim Morrison, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, William S Burroughs, Jeff Buckley, Leonard Cohen – his influence is almost too deep to be felt, all these years later, but the fibre of his spirit hides in the cloth of all true art produced today.

     Here are a few good quotes from Arthur Rimbaud. His birthday will be soon, October 20…

     “Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.”

     “I played sly tricks on madness.”

     “Morality is the weakness of the brain.”

     “Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.”

     “I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.”

     Please read more about Rimbaud. This blog was not nearly enough to do him the justice he deserves. He will enrich your life and make you see things differently. He is a drug.


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