No-One Quotes (page 6)
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I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
Charles Bukowski
I had it together on Sunday.By Monday at noon it had cracked.On Tuesday debrisWas descending on me.And by Wednesday no part was intact.On Thursday I picked up some pieces.On Friday I picked up the rest.By Saturday, late,It was almost set straight.And on Sunday the world was impressedWith how well I had got it together.
Judith Viorst
Inspiration,' the false artist says,'it just comes to me.' And it shows. His pictures are as like as the four walls of his room -- morning, evening, midnight, noon. For myself, I have to search for it. The whole world is your palate, but only if you reach, take hold of what you need and pocket it.
Kurt Schwitters
Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from...
Pablo Neruda
One day, I stopped hating.
I ceased all meaningless activity.
I completed the circle. I
Set my sights straight. Like an
Arrow I flew. I stopped acting.
I got tired of playing with you.
Random violence and destruction
Because my reason for living, my out,
My excuse. What is your excuse?
Destruction.
Without hate, without fear,
Without judgement. I am no better
Than you. No-one knows this better
Than
I do. I just got tired of playing
Parlor Games.
Henry Rollins
No weekends for the gods now. Warsflicker, earth licks its open sores, fresh breakage, fresh promotions, chanceassassinations, no advance. Only man thinning out his own kindsounds through the Sabbath noon, the blindswipe of the pruner and his knifebusy about the tree of life... Pity the planet, all joy gonefrom this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fallin small war on the heels of smallwar - until the end of timeto police th eearth, a ghostorbiting forever lostin our...
Robert Lowell
Don't wait for the muse. As I've said, he's a hardheaded guy who's not susceptible to a lot of creative fluttering. This isn't the Ouija board or the spirit-world we're talking about here, but just another job like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you're going to be every day from nine 'til noon. or seven 'til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he'll start showing up.
Stephen King
Those who turn the day into night, the young, the drug addict, the profligate, the drunken and that most miserable, the lover who watches all night long in fear and anguish. These can never again live the life of the day. When one meets them at high noon they give off, as if it were a protective emanation, something dark and muted. The light does not become them any longer. They begin to have an unrecorded look. It is as if they were being tried by the continual blows of an unseen adversary.
Djuna Barnes