»anachronism« typewriter-poems by anatol knotek
unique, handmade book, 16 poems, din a6, with sewn bindings, hardcover;
»usually a book is just a copy - but not this one!
every poem is individually written with one of my typewriters (adler triumph gabriele 10 or olivetti lettera 32), so each single page is unique. out of about 90 poems i chose 16 for each book, therefore also the contents varies and is never the same.«
if you are interested in buying this book just click here (paypal).
for more information or if you have any questions, please send me an email at: anatol[at]anatol[dot]cc
“We need not be the generation who read the signs and did nothing.”
– Robert Montgomery (via soulll)
Best poem on 9/11 I’ve seen in a long time.
i love ira glass. this is from this interview.
and you can buy it here.
considering spending the rest of my paycheck on this…..
THE BLACK PANTHERS I
I will always reblog this…!!!
Write, Young Money, Write!
Write young money write!
From dawn to dusk
In the middle of night
To the peak of sun
Is that not what you do?
What you say?
What you dream about in your backyard of childhood
Where no pressure of the world can find you?
Negro what are you waiting for?
Write young money write!
From tear to fear
From smile to laugh
In every significant touch of second
Each second—make immortal
Make these moments know you noticed
That you hold all their wisdom for ransom..
And don’t tell me you can’t!
Don’t shout your insecurities
Don’t give me your pride
It will not make this war any easier.
This war to find self in the crowd of expectation
To find solace in imperfection
Is this not what you do?
There is no guarantee that you will be a success.
No promise of legacy lulling past every word you piece together
But believe it anyway
Push forth you
Push past them
Push forward this push.
That is what this gift requires if you
This is what your God requires of you
That is what I require of you
What are you waiting for?
My bones spread across the California waters
Still calling you
To love it
To let it love you
Write young money write
Make time you’re companion
Take it’s secrets for ransom
You never know when
You’ll be made to stop
His arms are wide.
And I forgot how right that feels
when the wrong of self
wears like sweater
in this world of always cold
And I am here
always trying to fix
what needs fixing.
always trying to make
light out of darkness like he does.
but I have no supernatural heart.
It breaks into a million pieces
and then a million more
and it will all ways be too tiny and
sharp to clean
but His arms are wide
Hands pierced and stretched out in bloody deliverance
they sweep all the broken of me together.
And I sometimes forget how right it is
How right it feels
To have God be your home.
And They Are Like Family
And they are like family.
they visit all at once.
The cluster of monsters
A legion of my fears
shaking to and fro with glee in
the wake of my slip and falls
Knock on my door
Smiles stretching across the landscape of my bones.
They crowd the bungalow of my heart.
And I always let them in.
than hate of self.
then hate of hope.
"what you got to give us this time?"
Their breathing is always heavy.
Their hands are always open.
They know what to expect from me.
And I am a good host.
I take the good china out of the cupboards.
I set the tea to boil.
I cook the fat of me in the oven
Til I am plump and juicy for feast.
And they dine
they dine and they laugh
The suck out the marrow and lick the plates.
they giggle in excitement and rub their bellies.
"Sing a song!" They always say
And I always sing.
All the worries of my cracked ground
tremble in my throat.
All the fidgeting in this unknowing of how to feel
of who to be
belt out all of me exposed and naked
in this skin of life I wear.
My pretend makes for catchy melody.
And they dance
They rock to and fro
they clap their hands
and hold their tummies.
I am a good feast.
I am a good host
I am good at being bystander
to my own massacre
"Thanks again" is what I hear
as they leave…
one by one.
Each wearing a smile of welcome
that I am too fraid to object.
Each carrying with them
pieces of my joy.
and I let them.
they are my family after all.
they are sometimes all I think
I have that belongs to me.
All I have to belong.
The door closes.
They are gone all at once.
And I am left
with dishes to clean.