I Don't Care

poe the raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Alan Moore 1

Mars:Game of Thrones Treatment

Arguably the Mars colonisation opus by Kim Stanley Robinson is the greatest trio ever written.  As a devoted consumer of meaty science fiction I became completely immersed in this world. Now its coming to the screen.(January 2017) Yahooo! Cant wait.

The News is Fake

Everthing is fake, reality is what humans make it. Therefore our greatest dreams could be realized if only we thought properly.

Ralph Ring

Fragrant Recall

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I lay my pulse

on the soft swell

of your belly.

Your taste drips from my tongue.

I watch your spine

bend like the horizon.

Orchid lips open

petal sweet in pink flush.

I rise upon your heady fragrance.

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Flying Saucer

Passaic, New Jersey 1952

The Friendship Case

MKULTRA

Robert Crumb

Confessions of Robert Crumb - Clip 1 of 3

Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari

The Gamma People

The Gamma People trailer

RADIO DADA

The Goons

Rommel's Treasure

My Little Gaia

I googled expecting planet pictures and this is what I got so I went with it

my little girl
is  six feet tall
she could sweep
you so hard
into a hospital
you would fall

she loves me
and hates me
because I am
so tall

We fit together like
Lego
but not like
plastic
people age
from different 
bricks

mind games
know no centre
there is no
steam available
for download
we write our
own program
daily
and its a pleasure
to observe

long before
the tomahawk reactor
was ever conceived
we sparked nuclear fission
in a celestial laboratory
creating a reality distortion field
that Steve Jobs
would love to emulate

every moment with her
is a millinium in the human
memory
looks like my time
will last at least 
a billion years
with her in
my life

Human animals 
are consuming the planet
my nihilism is to
enjoy the meal
the sustenance
the connection
that makes
all the destruction
meaningless
in my life 

Tallulah Bankhead

"They Live" is a Documentary !

The Archons

The Art of Noise with Max Headroom

Paranoimia

Max Headroom Season 1 Episode 1 Blipverts

"Cat Boat"

Edward Hopper

Will Work For Free

Paradise or Oblivion

Guernica

“The monumentality of Michelangelo and the High Renaissance cannot exist in our age, for ours is one of disillusionment, despair, and destruction. Guernica is a monument to destruction – a cry of outrage and horror amplified by the spirit of genius. Not only Gernika, but Spain; not only Spain, but Europe, is symbolized in this allegory. It is the modern Calvary, the agony in the bomb-shattered ruins of human tenderness and frailty. It is a religious picture, painted, not with the same kind, but with the same degree of fervour that inspired Grunewald and the master of the Avignon Pietá, Van Eyck, and Bellini. It is not sufficient to compare the Picasso of this painting with the Goya of the “Desastres”. Goya, too, was a great artist, and a great humanist; but his reactions were individualistic – his instruments irony, satire, ridicule. Picasso is more universal. His symbols are banal, like the symbols of Homer, Dante, Cervantes. For it is only when the widest commonplace is infused with the intensest passion that a great work of art, transcending all schools and categories, is born; and being born, lives immortally." Herbert Read

Alan Moore interviews Brian Eno

UFO Flown for BBC by John Searl

zzz

Civilian Spacecraft

"I'm the Slime" - Frank Zappa

Richard Burton

Hammersmith is Out

Close Proximity

Into Perpetuity (Re-Write)

it's the same old drama
it's the same old scene
but the nightmare won't stop
no matter how hard we scream

July 1st, 1916.
in a matter of minutes, 20,000 British soldiers were killed with a further 40,000 wounded.
This was one day's battle that would ultimately slaughter 500,000 British and an equal number of germans.

A grand total of 37, 508, 686 died during world war one.






in the muds of Europe
or some distant plain
man kills man
again and again

February 13th and 14th, 1945, somewhere in the region of between 30,000 and 130,000
innocent civilians were massacred when the British bombed the city of Dresden. There was a grand total of 55,014,000 casualties during world war two.






and even in dreams, the same
hideous scenes keep flashing
across our global screens

Then there was Afghanistan. And then there was Iraq.
And next?
Iran?
Korea?

We are capable of composing music to make angels weep, of writing plays to make audiences laugh, poetry to steal the breath from your lungs and still man's madness continues.....

Now Syria.

...with an alarming regularity, the brutal nature of man surfaces with a violence that is both random and terrifying and ultimately evil. how can any priest, cleric or holy man explain away this utter and total blasphemy?

No US
No THEM
JUST US

one life.
one heart.
one kind.
one world.

STOP WAR NOW

Artful Youth

This is the slate roof,

Me beneath its flat depression.

I sigh into silent relapse

My mind on tilt.

Here is the corner exit,
The world lies adrift in terror.

See all the people.

There's the church, there's the steeple

Groans heave them blighted

Like shivering rabbits all.

Watch that pendulum fall,

Watch the Trumpeter trump as all.

Confound the tight circle,

Rigid in its claustrophobia,

A dispatch from the high house
High on High Hill.

Like Maud and Mable,

Drones to the killer Queen,
The truth takes a nasty turn
As it comes out perverted.

I spit on the greasy palm

Cool fingered, steel fingers
That binds no promise for it's

Deaf to reason, blind to treason

Like stillborn babies

Each rivals to the other,

Twins in comic combat,

We are that awful truth.

Who is the artful youth?

Where is the artful youth?

Keith Emerson Death by Gunshot Rest In Peace Lucky Man