hotel room lone intentions
seems trust is so delicate
comfortable with a smeared industrial cock
standing erect on 60g cable charges
relate to a Libertine
former plug
Soft ring
ear embossing
spreads disputes at the diaphragms
outdoor use with mobile Kevlar
a documentary maker and Slut
Bass tube London
with bail today he London crazy
Scottish death squad
blood into lipstick
a gorgeous heart
a hotel laying waste
the alleged of Islington
of spiral
the listener incident is durable
that’s after an alleged arrested
court charged Lightweight
he appeared at Highbury Corner
extremely Strong Neodymium magnets
only of the Sluts
great for travel
incredible noise assault
magistrates' court
a guitar intro
Quick for powerful heart pumping Rookery
Razorlight et al
their north parts sources
Fold Pop singer Smithfield
central jerky
guitars improved
fit like it could break
Today to Sennheiser
the Sluts have Doherty's friend Max
with robbery Libertines
3.5mm stereo frontman Pete Doherty
pads with blackmail
Mr Doherty jack
low and flip design appeared in The hill
distortion Adaptive
baffle in Carlish's genius
skulls closed
ear cups rugged
damping patent spasmodic
say Fucking yesss
Dominoes sounds before District Judge Dorothy
the flipside punchy
bass pending Wednesday
guardian article/music review/headphone review 'poem'
guardian article/music review/headphone review 'poem'
well I write music review so I do:
http://www.elevationstation.net
http://www.elevationstation.net
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20646
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
The murders gave him a sudden, perverse fame, and he basked in it, describing the grisly events of February 6 to the police and scandal sheets–just as they’re recounted here. In lieu of facing the two murder charges, Weinberg, aka "Charlie," was sent to a mental institution.
His verse, a mirror image of his own jeu d'esprit, echoed Joycean wordplay and presaged early Beat poetry, with everything from guttersnipes to high society names, faces, bars, bistros, people, streets, bookshops, stray chat, shouting matches, howls, moans, shouts of glee: "Inglorious Miltons by the score,/ Mute Wagners, Rembrandts, ten or more/ And Rodins, one to every floor./ In short, those unknown men of genius who dwell in third-floor rears gangrenous,/ Reft of their rightful heritage/ By a commercial soulless age./ Unwept, I might add, and unsung, / Insolvent, but entirely young." The poem went on in this manner for thirty-five pages.
He was in the Army from 1910 to 1913 but was dishonorably discharged after a stint in the Fort Leavenworth brig for going AWOL and–so again he claimed–for bashing an anti-Semitic officer over the head with a musket.
(she died in 1950) and returned to the considerably meaner streets of New York. He became a regular habitue of the San Remo, a raucous bar at 93 MacDougal Street, at the corner of Bleecker, that stayed open nightly until 4 a.m. By then, he was a full-blown alcoholic and a neighborhood "character" in the same league, though not nearly as tolerated, as Joe Gould, the subject of Joseph Mitchell's classic, Joe Gould's Secret. Gould and Bodenheim, in fact, frequented the same Raven Poetry Circle meetings, and they even began to physically resemble one another.
oddly enough
His favorite shtick was to sell his poems in bars and restaurants (the ones he'd not been banished from). Because he was no longer capable of writing, he reportedly bought poems from other Village poets, a hundred at a time, and peddled them as his own. When he had nothing to sell, he panhandled. When he got enough money together, he drank himself into a stupor. After each protracted bender, he ended up in Bellevue Hospital. After one arrest in early 1952, for sleeping in an empty subway train, he told Time magazine, "The Village used to have a spirit of Bohemia, gaiety, sadness, beauty, poetry.... Now it's just a geographical location."
Hahn described him at this time as, "A grotesque figure who had long since lost his good looks, with cheeks fallen above toothless gums, unshaven face and unspeakable clothes, he yet, at the age of sixty, found a woman to marry him."
"There was a guy on MacDougal Street we called Charlie and Charlie was sort of dimwitted, like the Lenny character in Of Mice and Men. Everybody told Ruth, 'You want to cocktease guys, go ahead, but leave Charlie alone, Charlie won't understand you.' Anyway, I got to Galveston and picked up a newspaper and the headline said,
"When they found Maxwell Bodenheim," said Connellan, "he was sitting on the bed with two bullet holes right through the copy of Rachel Carson's The Sea Around Us that he had been reading. Is that not a perfect image? Ruth, of course, was decimated on the floor. Even the cops knew what really happened that night. I think Charlie didn't serve but five or six years."
http://www.gadflyonline.com/lastweek/bo ... ature.html
His verse, a mirror image of his own jeu d'esprit, echoed Joycean wordplay and presaged early Beat poetry, with everything from guttersnipes to high society names, faces, bars, bistros, people, streets, bookshops, stray chat, shouting matches, howls, moans, shouts of glee: "Inglorious Miltons by the score,/ Mute Wagners, Rembrandts, ten or more/ And Rodins, one to every floor./ In short, those unknown men of genius who dwell in third-floor rears gangrenous,/ Reft of their rightful heritage/ By a commercial soulless age./ Unwept, I might add, and unsung, / Insolvent, but entirely young." The poem went on in this manner for thirty-five pages.
He was in the Army from 1910 to 1913 but was dishonorably discharged after a stint in the Fort Leavenworth brig for going AWOL and–so again he claimed–for bashing an anti-Semitic officer over the head with a musket.
(she died in 1950) and returned to the considerably meaner streets of New York. He became a regular habitue of the San Remo, a raucous bar at 93 MacDougal Street, at the corner of Bleecker, that stayed open nightly until 4 a.m. By then, he was a full-blown alcoholic and a neighborhood "character" in the same league, though not nearly as tolerated, as Joe Gould, the subject of Joseph Mitchell's classic, Joe Gould's Secret. Gould and Bodenheim, in fact, frequented the same Raven Poetry Circle meetings, and they even began to physically resemble one another.
oddly enough
His favorite shtick was to sell his poems in bars and restaurants (the ones he'd not been banished from). Because he was no longer capable of writing, he reportedly bought poems from other Village poets, a hundred at a time, and peddled them as his own. When he had nothing to sell, he panhandled. When he got enough money together, he drank himself into a stupor. After each protracted bender, he ended up in Bellevue Hospital. After one arrest in early 1952, for sleeping in an empty subway train, he told Time magazine, "The Village used to have a spirit of Bohemia, gaiety, sadness, beauty, poetry.... Now it's just a geographical location."
Hahn described him at this time as, "A grotesque figure who had long since lost his good looks, with cheeks fallen above toothless gums, unshaven face and unspeakable clothes, he yet, at the age of sixty, found a woman to marry him."
"There was a guy on MacDougal Street we called Charlie and Charlie was sort of dimwitted, like the Lenny character in Of Mice and Men. Everybody told Ruth, 'You want to cocktease guys, go ahead, but leave Charlie alone, Charlie won't understand you.' Anyway, I got to Galveston and picked up a newspaper and the headline said,
"When they found Maxwell Bodenheim," said Connellan, "he was sitting on the bed with two bullet holes right through the copy of Rachel Carson's The Sea Around Us that he had been reading. Is that not a perfect image? Ruth, of course, was decimated on the floor. Even the cops knew what really happened that night. I think Charlie didn't serve but five or six years."
http://www.gadflyonline.com/lastweek/bo ... ature.html
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