Richard Brautigan's sad death remains inexplicable, and points to hidden meanings even beyond those found in his books. I could put on a Brautigan deadpan myself and say "a great writer decided to transform himself into a dead body."
suicide 1984
Hmmmmmmmm - guess the streams ran out of trout - and the watermelons ran out of sugar.
Sigh.
I'm going to see if I can find any of his books. How did I miss out on him--my kind of writer.
easily described as a Mark Twain on pot
Ha, ha, ha. Nothing on ebay. Know of any oput of print dealers?
Woops! Just found him on Powells.com.
On a sunny afternoon - only, it isn't.
OK! I ordered it. Coming on Monday. Thanks Diane and Dys.
Dear Aunty Lowan,
Did u miss me ? :p
yes! Where were you? debauching yourself?
We all missed you Gautam-whats wrong with a good debauch anyway ?
This is a measure of how debauched I can be:-
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Pablo Neruda
Jeez, in Orstraylia mate that translates as:
"Kylie/Sheila/Dog Face (pick) I'd like to eat coleslaw out of your lap!"
Ooh....meluvs poetry night:
There was a graven image of Desire
Painted with red blood on a ground of gold
Passing between the young men and the old,
And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,
And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.
Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,
The insatiable Satiety kept hold,
Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.
The senses and the sorrows and the sinds,
And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate
Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,
Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.
Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,
Upon whose lock was written 'Peradventure.'
-Swinburne
In modern-speak, I think he is trying to say "Girlfriend, he doggin' you, and I da true playa, not like you notice or nuttin."
oops, believe Swinburne meant 'sins' not 'sinds', lol
go and sind no more........
