Posted 1:29 AM by sport

The Five Stages of Death You Can't Say On Television:

DENIAL:
"No motherfucking way I'm dying."

ANGER:
"God, you miserable cunt... NOW I'm pissed!"

BARGAINING:
"Whose cock do I have to suck to get out of this predicament?"

DEPRESSION:
"I'm crying my tits off over here."

ACCEPTANCE:
"Oh well... shit happens."

Posted 2:56 AM by sport

A familiar chunk of the Pisan Cantos by Ezra Pound
(I know, I know...)


What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

The ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

"Master thyself, then others shall thee beare"
Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst'ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing
This is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
this is not vanity.
Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . .

("Paquin" was, evidently, some kind of fancy dress designer.
"Blunt" was an old fashioned poet. Poetry is a pain in the ass and I don't really get it, but this piece from the old psycho/fascist always got me.)