True, there are many who think of the aftermath;
Weeping, yet filled with a sense of adventure,
Bold curiosity—that sort of thinking.
I've long considered death by disaster:
The bullets, explosions—friends who've gone mad—
And never thought that goodness could survive
Hunger or loneliness; much less the panic.
Everything happens—must happen—and moments
Simply are judgments confirming the worthy
And worthlessness, based off one's actions
With graves to assort us, by faction.
"The last of the Kennedy old guard, Sorensen was a tireless defender of his legacy. Never, privately or publicly in the years since, did he take credit for the words or actions that made the 35th President an icon of the office."
— Adam Sorensen, Time, Sunday, Oct. 31, 2010
http://www.time.com/time/politics/article/0,8599,2028527,00.html
"The relationship between the atomic bomb and postwar popular culture is as intimate as it is complex. It stretches right back to the almost contemporaneous invention of the teenager, in the winter of 1944, as the new model of youth: this product-hungry, pleasure-seeking individual was the perfect person to inhabit the new psychology of a world that could be blown up at any moment."
—Jon Savage, guardian.co.uk, Sunday 31 October 2010 21.31 GMT
http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2010/oct/31/pop-music-atomic-bomb-jon-savage
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jackszwergold/sets/72157621722066256/
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1 comment:
FUCK! I hate it when I post these too fast. I can't believe that last line has been on here, unedited for days.
Don't be afraid of speaking your mind. Let me know when I've fucked up. It drives me crazy when I see two little tiny errors that wreck the whole poem.
Anyhow, it's fixed now and flushed down the internet memory hole (mixed metaphor).
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