"Comic Strip" por Serge Gainsbourg

♫

Viens petite fille dans mon comic strip

Viens faire des bull's, viens faire des WIP !

Des CLIP ! CRAP ! des BANG ! des VLOP ! et

des ZIP !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

J'distribue les swings et les uppercuts

Ca fait VLAM ! ça fait SPLATCH ! et ça

fait CHTUCK !

Ou bien BOMP ! ou HUMPF ! parfois même PFFF !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

Viens petite fill' dans mon comic strip

Viens faire des bull's, viens faire des WIP !

Des CLIP ! CRAP ! des BANG ! des VLOP ! et

des ZIP !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

Viens avec moi par dessus les buildings

Ca fait WHIN ! quand on s'envole et puis KLING !

Après quoi je fais TILT ! et ça fait BOING !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

Viens petite fill' dans mon comic strip

Viens faire des bull's, viens faire des WIP !

Des CLIP ! CRAP ! des BANG ! des VLOP ! et

des ZIP !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

N'aies pas peur bébé agrippe-toi CHRACK !

Je suis là CRASH ! pour te protéger TCHLACK !

Ferme les yeux CRACK ! embrasse-moi SMACK !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZ !

SHEBAM ! POW ! BLOP ! WIZZZZZ !

♫

De "Howl and Other Poems" por Allen Ginsberg

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!

The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand

and asshole holy!

Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is

holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an

angel!

The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is

holy as you my soul are holy!

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is

holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy

Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-

sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering

beggars holy the hideous human angels!

Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks

of the grandfathers of Kansas!

Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop

apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana

hipsters peace & junk & drums!

Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy

the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the

mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!

Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the

middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-

ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!

Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &

Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow

Holy Istanbul!

Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the

clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy

the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!

Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the

locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-

tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the

abyss!

Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!

bodies! suffering! magnanimity!

Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent

kindness of the soul!

De "Love, Etc" por Julian Barnes

My question is merely this: does our impresario imagine he is staging The Revenge of the Tortoise?

...

As I swooped down the sliproad to mingle with the credulous on the motorway, I decided to idle away the dull furlongs with literary genre. Are you sitting comfortably?

         Realism: Hare runs faster than Tortoise. Much faster. And is smarter. Therefore wins. By a long way. OK?

         Sentimental Romanticism: Complacent Hare snoozes by side of the road while morally worthy Tortoise trundles past to winning line.

         Surrealism (or Advertising): Tortoise equiped with rollerblades, neat black-leather backpack and shades, glides effortlessly ahead while outpaced leveret cacks his scut.

         The Collected Letters: Dear Furry, why don’t you ‘hare’ on ahead and wait for me by the edge? I’ll be there as soon as I can slip away. You don’t Think they’re on to us, do you? Your own ‘Shelley’.

         PC Kids’ Story (written by ex-hippie): Hare and Tortoise, having seen through the social and political structures which incite public displays of competitiveness, abandon their race and live peacefully in a yurt, refusing all media requests for interviews.

         Limerick: There was an old Tortoise called Stu/ Who concurred with that limericks do/ Which is comfort and coddle/ The plain-thinking noddle/ Of the stupidest beasts in the zoo.

         Post-modernism: I, the author, made up this story. It’s a mere construct. The Hare and the Tortoise don’t actually ‘exist’, you realise that, I hope?

And so on. Now you can see what’s wrong with our impresario’s cockle-warming mythette, The Revenge of the Tortoise? What’s wrong is this: it never happens. The world, being constructed as it is, will not allow it. Realism is our given, our only mode, triste truth as it might be to some.

"Lonely dancin' nights" por Eduardo Pinto Basto

Danço contigo, se deixares, dança comigo, se quiseres, 100 passos e 100 músicas… ou sem passos e sem música. Só te quero nos meus braços e os meus braços só te querem a ti. Estava à tua espera e de que a eternidade acabasse, para te aprender de cor… enquanto dançássemos, pois tendo esse enquanto fio de horizonte e o mais subtil dos propósitos, melhor do que a dança não há. Sentem-se as formas na forma que tem o movimento; ouve-se o respirar e experimenta-se a noite a subir-nos à cabeça; posso medir tudo o que em ti há de grandeza, apreciar o que é allure ou perceber o que te veste apertado; eleva-se em leveza o peso que encosta à pele, a roupa e finalmente dá-se pelo bater do coração no alvoroço e arrebatamento do encontro. Prefiro, a todas as outras maneiras de a conseguir, a intimidade da dança, no que ela esconde e revela, ao que nos leva… deixarmo-nos levar. Quando não aprendi a dançar e como não havia porque dançar sem ti, quis apenas seduzir. Não pensei na harmonia, na elegância, no bom gosto e tudo o que a sedução rejeita a favor da impaciência a cru, ofegante e suada. Se não te importas, começo então sem ti, aqui, com as palavras: dobras-te, alongas-te, andas à roda, arqueias-te, inclinas-te, … um salto ligeiro agora, um voltar da saia, o jeito rebelde do cabelo, a alça que descai, uma pausa. Estás cansada. Chegou enfim a hora do silêncio… o da música primeiro… o do olhar a seguir, o teu que se perde no infinito à espera do que o meu silêncio tenha para contar… e conto. Sim, conto contigo, meu amor e quero que contes comigo. Para sempre. Now what? It’s late… is it? Your place or mine? Ou ficamos um pouco mais “so we can dance our never-ending, enchanting, daring, risky, undaunted faithfulness along, the ever quite, subtle and yet lustful lovemaking together, our dreams, our joy, our hope and, definitely, dance our passionate embrace away”. Não dança quem quer. Só dança quem sabe. Eu quero… mas és tu que sabes. O mundo é o estrado. Os passos a estrada. Sem parar. Até entontecer, endoidecer… e ter que ser: I can’t get my thoughts off and if you have no f…ing idea of how much I love you, guess big, huge, cosmic, out of this f…ing world. Dance with me, damn it! Just one more time.