ASSASSIN by Harry Crosby

Courtesy of my friend Satanica!

"This is directly from his book which is long out of print and impossible to get unless you find it in a special collection. It is impossible to find the true form of this on the web. (all spelling is as in the book). Please feel free to distribute!"

Assassin
by
Harry Crosby

(voici le temps des assassins)
Rimbaud

I

Constantinople on the Seventeenth of the month of Ramadan.
It is cold and late at night winter darkness with a cold hard wind
hurricaneing across the Bosphorus. Harsh sleet of snow. The
windshield is caked with frost except for the square where I have
rubbed the frost off with my hand. My fingers are stiff with cold.
We have crossed the bridge from Peira into Stamboul. At the
cross-streets the arc-lamps stare sharp and hard like harlots. Walls
on our left loom dark and menacing. We pass under an arch
guarded by a red lantern. We are outside the walls. There is a
feeling of emptiness like a night at the front during the War. A
sharp turn over cobblestones the jarring of brakes and we are
climbing out shivering into the wind. It is even colder than be-
fore and the ground is hard as rock. Stark telegraph poles stand
behind us. We are standing before an enormous tent. A call and a
sharp answer and a hand tearing open the flap as the wind tears
out a strip of camouflage. We bend down and enter the tent. It is
monstrous in size and there are shadows cast from the large oil
lamp swinging from the tent pole. Around this tent pole Kurd
shepherds in a dark circle are slowly stamping their feet
in the hard ground to the harsh discord of a drum. Silent men
squat on their heels. There are no women. I crouch down with
the eaters of hashish. An angular hand offers e a small square of
hard green paste. I bite into it. It has a dry irritant taste. I finish
it as I watch the intense circle never stopping always measured
and controlled pounding on the ground to the harsh discord of
barbaric rhythm. And again the angular hand and again the
eating of hashish. Towards four in the morning we leave the
shepherds dancing and go into the raw darkness and
drove back to the hotel. I remember only the wind because it was
hard as stone.

II

The word Assassin is derived from the Arabic Hashishin,
from Hashish, the opiate made from the juice of hemp leaves.
When the sheik required the services of an Assassin the Assassin
selected was intoxicated with the hashish. It is of interest to note
that the effect of hashish is not instantaneous as is the case with
cocktails or cocaine but its effect is much more violent and of a
much longer duration. The effect of this drug- it is much
stronger when eaten than when smoked- is to produce mega-
lomania ( a form of insanity characterized by self-exaltation) in
its most violent form.
In this poem the Sun-Goddess, or Mad Queen as I shall call
her, has replaced the Sheik and I am the Assassin she has chosen
for her devices. She has intoxicated me with the hashish and I
await her command.

III

The Mad Queen commands:
"Murder the sterility and hypocrisy of the world, destroy the
weak and insignificant, do violence to the multitude in order
that a new strong world shall arise to worship the Mad Queen,
Goddess of the Sun.

IV

I see my way as swords
their rigid way
I shall destroy.

V

Vision
I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen


the mirror crashes against my face and
bursts into a thousand suns
All over the city flags crackle and bang
fog horns scream in the harbor
the wind hurricanes through the window
and I begin to dance the dance of the
Kurd Shepherds

I stamp upon the floor
I whirl like dervishes


Colors revolve dressing and undressing
I lash at them with my fury
stark white with iron black
harsh red with blue
marble green with bright orange
and only gold remains naked

Columns of steel rise and plunge
emerge and disappear
pistoning in the river of my soul
thrusting upwards
thrusting downwards
thrusting inwards
thrusting outwards
penetrating

I roar with pain

black footed ferrets disappear into holes
the sun tattooed on my back
begins to spin
faster and faster
whirring whirling
throwing out a glory of sparks
sparks shoot off into space
sparks shooting into stars shooting stars collide with comets

Explosions
Naked Colors Explode
into
Red Disaster

I crash out through the
window naked, widespread
upon a
Heliosaurus
I uproot and obelisk and plunge
it into the inkpot of the
Black Sea
I write the word
S U N
across the dreary palimpsest
of the world
I pour the contents of the
Red Sea down my throat
I erect catapults and
lay siege to the cities of the world
I scatter violent disorder
throughout the kingdoms of the world
I stone the people of the world
I stride over mountains
I pick up oceans like thin cards
and spin them into oblivion
I kick down walled cities
I hurl giant firebrands against governments
I thrust torches through the eyes of the law
I annihilate useums
I demolish libraries
I oblivionize skyscrapers
I become hard as adamant
indurated in solid fire
rigid with hatred

I bring back the wizards and the sorcerers
the necromancers
the magicians
I practice witchcraft
I set up idols
with a sharp-edged sword
I cut through crowded streets
comets follow in my wake
stars make obeisance to me
the moon uncovers her
nakedness to me

I am a harbinger of a
New Sun World
I bring the Seed of a
New Copulation

I proclaim the Mad Queen

I stamp out vast empires
I crush palaces in my rigid
hands
I harden my heart against
churches

I blot out cemeteries
I feed people with the
stinging nettles
I resurrect madness
I thrust my naked sword
between the ribs of the world
I murder the world!

VII

I the Assassin chosen by the Mad Queen I the Murderer of the
World shall in my fury murder myself. I shall cut out my heart
take it into my joined hands and walk towards the Sun without
stopping until I fall down dead.

VIII

I have cut out my heart and I am walking forwards towards the
Sun I am faltering I am falling down dead


IX

Antidote to Common Poisons. Call the physicians at once.
Give the antidote in good quantity. For hashish cold douches;
ammonia inhaled; artificial respiration : stimulants; watch cir-
culation and respiration; keep patient awake.

Happy Birthday, William!

Haiku (March, 2009)

Soulon did not meet
the birth month of one founder.
Celebration missed!

This month,
SOULON
is

TEMPORARILY ON HOLD


But don't despair... we hope to solve
our technical difficulties in the near future.

Stay tuned for more information
and keep those words flowing.

found poetry

I just came across this bit of "found poetry" given to me via cell phone after my Hippodrome performance last year, by Steve Dandois and Skylaire, who were so cool to be there for me and support me on that crazy bus!!! Anyway, after my performance, they wandered off into the Artwalk evening, and later called me to give me this bit of poetry they had found as they wandered, because as we all know, found poetry like this is important! So I decided to post it here so I won't lose it:

"The purple iridescence of your caftan plays tricks on my mind."

SOULON: ***CHANGE IN PLANS!!!****

*CHANGE IN PLANS!!!*

Disregard our previous email...
This Sunday, SOULON will be meeting
at the same downtown location
we've met at in the past.

SOULON

THIS SUNDAY

Second Sunday at Seven

This one!


When:
Sunday January 11, 2008 at 7pm.

Where:

*Gary Leonard’s OLD Studio Location*

740 S. Olive St.

Downtown L.A. 90014

google map it!

That's right... it's the same spot
we've used for most of our meetings
last year!

Don't get confused, disregard previous emails about this
and come to the SAME OLD FAMILIAR PLACE!

If you get lost or have questions, call
310-405-3306

Where's the American version?

Arab poetry contests vie for a million dollar prize.

Coming to an American channel near you... I'm guessing "never?"

Courtesy of imdb.com Studio Briefing.

Arab Poetry Contestants Stand To Win $1.4 Million

11 December 2008 1:39 AM, PST

Abu Dhabi television launched the third season of Million's Poet Wednesday night, a kind of American Idol for writers of Nabati poetry in which 16,000 poets from Kuwait, Riyadh, Jeddah, Amman and Abu Dhabi entered. A group of 100 competitors selected by the judges was pared down to 48 in Wednesday's first episode. The winner will receive a prize of $1.4 million, with an additional $2.8 million split among the second- to fifth-place winners, making it one of the richest TV talent competitions in the world, if not the richest. Nabati poetry, also sometimes called Bedouin poetry, dates to the 16th century and is written in the dialect of ordinary people in the Peninsula region and reflects their lives. Million's Poet was created by Sheik Mohammad Bin Zayed Al Nahyan, the crown prince of Abu Dhabi, who himself writes Nabati Poetry, some of which he has posted on his website in English and which he reads on camera in Arabic.

This month,
SOULON
is temporarily
SOUL-OFF*
* With apologies to all, but most particularly Messr. B.Z. Duke who provided the original coinage.

Due to the packed holiday schedules of many Soulonites and our recent location difficulties, we regret to inform you of a brief interruption in your monthly poetry & prosody service.

HOWEVER:
(to paraphrase our esteemed Governator)
"We'll be back..."
(with a vengeance, even).


STAY TUNED for an exciting announcement about
the NEW LOCATION this January.

Until Then... Happy Holidays!

The inevitable Thanksgiving post.

"Thanksgiving Prayer" by William S. Burroughs

Deadline 12/15/08: Fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction

This just in (forwarded to me my the owner of the gallery I just showed and performed at, in San Diego):

Lavandería:

A Mixed Load of Women, Wash and Word

seeks submissions. Fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction

and other dirty deeds signifying sorting, washing, ironing,

folding laundry and life.





Maximum 5,000 words or 5 poems.
Include short bio (50 words or less)

E-mail word doc submission only to lavanderiazspot@gmail.com <mailto:lavanderiazspot@gmail.com> .

For more info go to: http://lavanderiahome.net <http://lavanderiahome.net/>



Forthcoming 2009 from City Works Press

http://cityworkspress.org/submit.html <http://cityworkspress.org/submit.html>

I promised you...

I promised you I would write a happy poem about the heart and struggled with this all day Saturday for the show Saturday night. After Soulon writers Thea, Steve and Tory said or wrote sweet things to me in their unsolicited RSVPs, it came and flowed through me on to the page just in time for me and Draco to make it to the show by 9:30ish...kinda late, but it worked. I did the sad heart set about an hour later, and then closed the show at about 2:30 AM with the new one and then a cover of my absolute fav heart poem by e.e. cummings (sweet William pulled this finale together for me even though everyone was gone or pretty tired by then...and the band members all stopped tearing down and came over to listen...and one of them wanted more so I read one of my sad ones for him and he liked it...told me I reminded him of Frank O'Hara or is it Hera...anybody heard of him??? Anyway, here's the happy poems:)

©11/15/08 Nance Broderzen

There is a love I forget about,

maybe because I haven’t been laid in so long

and my heart feels so destitute,

what with the Agape of the universe in its disappearing act

seeming to forsaken me so long that

I forget about this love.

This love is in the heart and it goes to the heart

from outside the heart and the heart sends it outward all the time.

But its easy to forget about it because

it tends to hide a bit,

because it is not really given the status of love.

Calling it love can be a bit of a phopa,

can scare the source of love away.

I have to call it “source of love” because we can’t call it “lover,”

This love confuses issues and make the loved one leery, when

its called love, can make me leery if I am the source of love,

the giver, sender of this love.

Because the “L” word is so Eros

that we forget about Philio,

forget about friendship

and how much L O V E we get from it.

This love might even be bigger than Eros,

has so many more sources then Eros,

so many more hearts sending and receiving it,

so many more hearts hiding what it really is,

that I too often and maybe you forget it is there.

and this next one I practiced reading to Draco Saturday afternoon...needed him to read this because…whenever I read this poem it makes me feel all the hearts I've ever carried, animal, human (because they're all still there and I feel them all)...and then I feel everyones hearts and all the hearts they've ever carried...then then I just feel too much and I start crying...but I love it...and I actually made it through, because I practiced with Draco, to the very, very second to last word Saturday night, or actually it was already Sunday morning:)

i carry your heart

ee cummings

©1958

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

.

Fun TOY for the playful POET

Soulon friend, Steve D, gave me this really cool cutup machine that I've decided to post here so I always know where to find it when I need it...and also because it's a fun toy that you may want to play with sometimes too.

from Steve:

I got yer Jack Kerouac and I'm gonna raise you a William S. Burroughs.... I don't know if you're familiar with the CUT-UP TECHNIQUE that Burroughs explored with his sometime-collaborator Brion Gysin... but it basically involved cutting up various writings into strips and splicing them together randomly, trusting that some external chaotic force would reorder this word salad into a new and revelatory meaning. HERE, Burroughs describes the technique himself... part of his effort to "exterminate all rational thought."

Somebody created a webtool that's essentially a CUTUP MACHINE (which won't work with all web browsers -- firefox can't handle it,but Explorer can) --

Later, when I was doing research on the dada movement, I found this...from around 1918 or 1924 ...

To Make A Dadist Poem

Tristan Tzara

Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though
unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

I hope you have fun playing with this!!!

Nance

SOULON -- This Sunday!

Sweet Quote I just stumbled upon...

When we do something creative we begin to heal in thousands of unseen ways because we are tapping into that original creative source from which we are made.

--Subeth

Behold My Peeps: Junot Diaz

Junot is technically less one of my peeps than either Michael or Frank, but we did both live in Demarest Hall (the "special interest" dorm at Rutgers) circa 1991, when I was the de facto leader of the creative writing "section" to which Junot belonged. My iffy experience as section leader is largely why I haven't volunteered to lead any groups since, but it can't help provoke a bit of retroactive pride (as well as some healthy professional jealousy) to know that Junot would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize for his first novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and perhaps even more importantly, get booked for an interview on the Colbert Report.

Behold My Peeps: Frank Matagrano

Those in attendance last Sunday will recall numerous haiku pertaining to one Frank Matagrano, ruthless contract analyst and former drummer for my NYC-based power trio, The Çhicàgø Máñüal ôf ST¥LE, currently married and living in Chicago. Frank is also a damn fine poet, as evidenced by the following links...

Some poems from his first chapbook Moving Platform.

Excerpts from There is Nothing to Love About Los Angeles.

The title poem from his collection I Can Only Go As Fast As the Guy in Front of Me.

A short interview from Profiles in Poetry.

Behold My Peeps: Michael Kimball

Just wanted to give a few shout-outs to some writerly acquaintances of mine who would almost certainly be attending the live Soulon sessions were they located anywhere in the vicinity...

Michael Kimball, in addition to being an all-around kick-ass wordsmith and clandestine card-counter, will also write your life story on the back of a postcard at your request...

Nance against Wolfdog

For those of you who missed tonight, WE MISSED YOU!!!
For fun, I put together this edited rendition of my read via my favorite messenger, the fertility bunny:

http://www.yahoo.americangreetings.com/ecards/view.pd?i=313647241&m=3698&rr=y&source=yahoo999

xo and see you next Soulon!

Nance

SOULON! This SUNDAY!

To paraphrase Mark Twain...
"Reports of our death are greatly exaggerated."

SOULON is alive, well and shambling your way....

THIS SUNDAY

This one!
This very one!

BRING YOUR WORDS

When:
Sunday October 12, 2008 at 7pm.

Where:
Gary Leonard's Photography Studio
740 South Olive Street,
Downtown Los Angeles

MapQuest

WOODY SEEMS APT

I haven't been to the last few gatherings, but I still feel very much part of the Soulon family. And here's a gift of some Woody Guthrie as we teeter on the brink of the next Great Depression. -- Mick Farren

forgive me father for i have sinned
i don't know where i'm standing
i don't know where i've been

today resembles yesterday
tomorrow has no inviting space
the color of Saturday
the mutation of leathered lace

it forges an unsigned check
kisses a rosy cheek
bundles in sticks and twigs
the loudest voice i seek

forgive me father for i have loved
unwarranted and necessary
in the round so little and
yet so many

dirty by the hands that cannot touch
accepted by a two-tone rainbow
taken to heaven
and dropped to the earth once again

cleansed from the root of the tree
i renamed each leaf
i chewed the bark
smiled with dirt between my teeth
but never spat it out.

Literary Linx

Please note the Literary Linx section in the sidebar (to your right). Currently we're linking to Arnal Kennedy's new poetry blog (arnalpoetry.blogspot.com). But we'd love to add more.

If you have a site featuring your writing, please add a comment to this section with the URL and we'll check it out.

-Steve Dandois-
(alias the Ink-Stained Wretch)

Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "Dog"

I once read Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "Dog," at one of our Soulon sessions. Here are the links that inspired me --first to Bob Dorough reading it ...and then, Lawrence Ferlinghetti reading it himself. The first site prefaced it with:

A rare treat! Jazz-and-poetry was all the rage during the Fifties. Here’s Bob Dourough with a perfectly nuanced reading of Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poem “Dog," originally released during that period on a Pacific Jazz anthology entitled Jazz Canto. As you'll hear, the meaning of life is succinctly explained in just under four minutes.*

And here is Lawrence Ferlinghetti himself...

audio: Ferlinghetti reads "Dog"

*Jazz Canto was never re-published on CD, and completely out of print, so keep your eyes open for for the used vinyl...and if you ever find it, let me know! I'd LOVE to experience the whole LP:)

xo,

Nance

Recently Published

Marne Carmean, a poet/author, friend to Soulon and one-time attendee, just recently published an autobiography of Emily Dickinson.
"The Rape and Recovery of Emily Dickinson. In her words: Poems of Witness and Worth. An Autobiography of Emily Dickinson Through Her Poems."


This is her first work of non-fiction. In the eighties Marne's poetry was published in Plainsong and she has three completed manuscripts of poetry. This new book was published through Xlibris - an arm of Random House which helps authors self-publish their work.

I saw Marne yesterday at the West Hollywood Book Fair at which she had been selected to appear by the West Hollywood Writers group. We reconnected and I had a chance to purchase a copy. Though the title may seem grand the book is a manageable length and Marne makes the idea clear and succinct from the beginning. I am really looking forward to reading the book in it's entirety and hope to have Marne pay a visit to Soulon next time it gathers - possibly to read an excerpt or some choice Dickinson poems.

please visit www.amazon.com for the book: Support a fellow writer and get closer to a legend in poetry at the same time......

Ocean Invitation by William Mitchell

Come join me at the City by the Sea
And we'll see how great life can be

Come and live with me by the Pacific Ocean
And I'll coat your flesh with suntan lotion

Or we'll look out our window at the sun rise
And I'll see the world reflected in your eyes

You may gaze deep into my adoring face
Perhaps to be reminded of some other place

This is even better than the internet
We're about as close as two can get

We'll wake at dawn and go back to sleep
And later we'll swap secrets to keep

Later still we'll walk among the sands
And I will hold your trembling hands

We'll keep on picking up those good vibrations
While engaging in erotic collaborations

What have we to worry about?
We have what we can't do without

So we'll dwell beside the sea
And we'll let what must be, be.

(with a tip of the cap to Christopher Marlowe's Passionate Shepherd.)