read his books, the books aren't pure suffering; if you want to publish/help the writer, do it business-like, but don't get into the writer's personal life thinking if you like the books you'll like the writer. A writer's personal life is horrible and lonely. Writers are queer so keep away from them. I live in pain, but one day, Hawthorne said, I'm going to be happy I'm going to be so happy even if I'm not alive anymore. There's going to be a world where the imagination is created by joy not suffering, a man and a woman can love each other again they can kiss and fuck again (a woman's going to come along and make this world for me even though I'm not alive anymore), for the criminals, the agony of being rejected and yet I will keep on being rejected, because I will live only by my dreams for those who being dreamers in this fucked-up society must be unhappy criminals,
the lonely, the royal fuck.
----
Translating
Days or months or years. At one point Janey fell in love with the Persian slave trader because she had nothing else to feel. She had to write poetry to him.
Since she had no idea how to write poetry, she copied down all she could remember every pukey bit by the Latin poet Sextus Propertius which she had been forced to translate in high school.
On the desire for love
Slave Trader first with his lousy me imprisoned eyes diseased by no before wants.
Then my strong he threw down the drain individuality and head forced into the dust LOVE'S feet, until me he had taught undiseased to be evil, him evil, and without to live plan.
And my at this moment for a whole wanting this has been going strong year, although be my enemy I am compelled to have the universe.
Psyche, by no fleeing labours hard times, Love
the ferocity of all-mighty she battled:
Sometimes the castle's her-mind-gone she would wander through shifting
hallways so she was wild meeting beasts; physically beaten up. Worse: rejected burnt in hidden corners she cried her eyes out. In this way fast-changing she controlled the boy: So much against love prayers and enduring help out. Inside me monogoloid WANTING no knows techniques, can't remember known, like before, to go roads. As for you of drawing down who knows the trick the moon and a work in magic sacred things doing, right now one-I-want's mind turn round and make him at the thought become
death-white of my lips even more! Then I'll believe you both the stars and the waters can saying have power over by poems.
As for you who too late me given up told the truth, friends,
Get for not quiet heart help.
Resolutely both the knives burning of my lust I'll accept and fires,
as long as the freedom whatever my lust wishes to say.
Poetry! Poetry!
Take me away
through the farthest races
Through the farthest waves
To where no men know the way.
----
You who're safe 'cause God or Luck lets you
Thirst desire and in always love may you remain safe.
Against me MY LOVE nights bears down sour
never ceases agony wanting Love.
I'm telling you: shun evil: Love fucks up
everyone and never becomes safe.
If any of you to these words don't listen
Too bad you'll return knowing suffering to my yourself poems.
Dying is one cure for love
Just like Ariadne's just dead on the empty shore
'Cause Theseus has abandoned her,
Just like Andromeda who's just gotten away from a horrible green sea-monster
Sleeps on the sharp spikes of rocks,
Just like from endless drinking, drugs, and sex
a Bacchante drops dead on sweet soft grass:
so I see lightly breathing
Slave Trader his bobbing resting on his arms head,
as I mean cruel drag my drunk feet
and outside the night, night becomes everything.
Not yet completely gaga,
I gently crawled up to his bed
to give him head
but the more horny I became,
the drunker I became:
my body was a battle between sex and booze.
Finally I dared my fingers touch his upper arm
kiss him, then breathing his breath my arms
but what if I woke him? I might harm him -
I know how
the lonely, the royal fuck.
----
Translating
Days or months or years. At one point Janey fell in love with the Persian slave trader because she had nothing else to feel. She had to write poetry to him.
Since she had no idea how to write poetry, she copied down all she could remember every pukey bit by the Latin poet Sextus Propertius which she had been forced to translate in high school.
On the desire for love
Slave Trader first with his lousy me imprisoned eyes diseased by no before wants.
Then my strong he threw down the drain individuality and head forced into the dust LOVE'S feet, until me he had taught undiseased to be evil, him evil, and without to live plan.
And my at this moment for a whole wanting this has been going strong year, although be my enemy I am compelled to have the universe.
Psyche, by no fleeing labours hard times, Love
the ferocity of all-mighty she battled:
Sometimes the castle's her-mind-gone she would wander through shifting
hallways so she was wild meeting beasts; physically beaten up. Worse: rejected burnt in hidden corners she cried her eyes out. In this way fast-changing she controlled the boy: So much against love prayers and enduring help out. Inside me monogoloid WANTING no knows techniques, can't remember known, like before, to go roads. As for you of drawing down who knows the trick the moon and a work in magic sacred things doing, right now one-I-want's mind turn round and make him at the thought become
death-white of my lips even more! Then I'll believe you both the stars and the waters can saying have power over by poems.
As for you who too late me given up told the truth, friends,
Get for not quiet heart help.
Resolutely both the knives burning of my lust I'll accept and fires,
as long as the freedom whatever my lust wishes to say.
Poetry! Poetry!
Take me away
through the farthest races
Through the farthest waves
To where no men know the way.
----
You who're safe 'cause God or Luck lets you
Thirst desire and in always love may you remain safe.
Against me MY LOVE nights bears down sour
never ceases agony wanting Love.
I'm telling you: shun evil: Love fucks up
everyone and never becomes safe.
If any of you to these words don't listen
Too bad you'll return knowing suffering to my yourself poems.
Dying is one cure for love
Just like Ariadne's just dead on the empty shore
'Cause Theseus has abandoned her,
Just like Andromeda who's just gotten away from a horrible green sea-monster
Sleeps on the sharp spikes of rocks,
Just like from endless drinking, drugs, and sex
a Bacchante drops dead on sweet soft grass:
so I see lightly breathing
Slave Trader his bobbing resting on his arms head,
as I mean cruel drag my drunk feet
and outside the night, night becomes everything.
Not yet completely gaga,
I gently crawled up to his bed
to give him head
but the more horny I became,
the drunker I became:
my body was a battle between sex and booze.
Finally I dared my fingers touch his upper arm
kiss him, then breathing his breath my arms
but what if I woke him? I might harm him -
I know how
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