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Friedrich Nietzsche

Quotes about Friedrich Nietzsche, page 2

To Allen Ginsberg

I have been listening to you, Allen Ginsberg
I can still hear you whistling a radio tune
I can follow you through history thoughts of yours
flow into mine
I follow you past WWI
and through the Battle of Versailles without a second glance
Past Hitler Mao Nietzsche Reagan Gogol
past Whitman Kerouac and Carson
I watch as you nod to Ghandi
And converse with Pope Paul VI and Nelson Mandala
We drift past Central Park quickly changing seasons
past Chicago streets and cute little back country California homes
I watch the death of many a thing beside you
i watch you connect you think you
Writing Howl, writing America, writing Death & Fame
I watch yourself deteriorate in body
but flourish in mind
and as you flourish i flourish
And we grow together and I follow you
and then you vanish

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History Stuff

Magical Mystical history and mystery,
Painted and woven on tablets and tapestry.

Cave painted hunts and sand script on tombs,
We dig for our history then fill in the wounds.

The secrets of Stonehenge and Silbury Hill,
That tapping and digging will never reveal.

See Picasso and Van Gogh, read Byron and Shelly,
Then watch the war on a plasma screen telly.

Chipped marble statues partly destroyed,
The wisdom of Nietzsche and ramblings of Freud.

Thank Romans for wine and Columbus for tea;
Thank genetics and Science for deciphering me.

History is stuff that lives in the past,
Historical characters the sets and the cast.

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Poets of the Shadows

Peripatetic waters a volatile knife
Prodigy of violent words
Poetry of silk madness
Caustic like a mad river
Rimbaud shelters the tragic
A night of hallucinations
Dark fame like a snake
No respite for Verlaine

Some deny the dark paths
Some act like fields of lilies
We are the satyr man
We are the sphinx of deserts
Split and gnarled with thorns
Wrestling with lions of lust
Some embrace the edge
Dark cloaks thick eye make up

Joyce cryptic as a Gaelic cemetery
New language rises from the crucible

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Do Some Good

Visit the soul in abandoned grottos
Recluse universe where philosophy hides
Psyche and symbol guard the corridor
Nietzsche sleeps like a raven
Way back where Aristotle dreamed
Action and reaction amidst the mortal
Origins of matter
Oracles of eternal covenants
Definitions
Ontology
Theology
How do you define yourself?
John Lennon said he only believed in Yoko
Sometimes I think we was right
Sometimes it feels like only the moment matters
Sometimes it seems only love and feeling counts

Blue encounter where feelings swell
Rainbow existentialism
The appall of nuclear weapons

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Sadness = Happines :)) :

Frowns are just grimace sitting upside down
Angst an erotic name for boredom in motion
The abyss is the cabin were the soul will conspire
To rave in a daze, of dance of misfit rage.

You scream in your mind for someone to hear
but all you get back is static feedback
Your internally bursting, on a private frequency
That Nobody pays to witness your seething.

Slave to fear and master of deceit
Enchanted to the chains of your own misanthropy
Hopeless romantic for cynical deprivations
You know only pleasure of self-abnegation
Van goh is your idle but you lack his impression
Nietzsche is your god, and your just his ghost
Sartre you devour as an idol to rule your apathy
You like to have the lead to the role of self-defeat
But you’re an amateur nihilist
without motive to nothingness.

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Screaming is Free

Screaming is free you should try it some time
I've been a consultant since the long age of five

Schooled in Diogenes I'm not so artful to be a cynic
But I'm stealthily committed as a cautious romantic

Labouring under the pretense of amateur wisdom
Byron's stealth's a placebo and I'm really a Novice

Who's been committed to the specter of being human
Miscategorised in a genus that would disturb poor Lepidus

Always caught in a kaleidoscope of my own imagination
Ballooning to horizons that escape from realism


Novels, Rock & Roll and Sci-Fi, are my obsessions
Finding solace in the refuge of a hermits born oasis

Cause I've Been kicked in the heart and pushed on the wall

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The Dead Follow Every Wind

Logos of pride
Burning eyes of phallus poetry
The over man of Nietzsche
Caged in robust vanity
Scarborough of delicate sanity
We suffer like condemned tribes
The pall of Prometheus fire
All are punished in the true mirror
All are swarthy madmen

Along the shore a ray of sun
Wise hour deems blue asylum
Men of the seventh seal
Tombs of radiant jewels
She hands skeletons her potion
We dance like poised slaves
Numb in totem revelry
Circle around mountains of myth
No fountain of youth shall respite

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That Year 1968

Father died that year. So did
Bob Kennedy, although that
Was a different death, planned
Right down to the last dark detail.
But your father’s was more personal,
More hurtful, getting right into your
Bones and heart. You were sitting
In the doctor’s surgery with your
Father where he’d come about pains
In the chest and back, when some guy
Came in and said, Bob Kennedy’s dead,
Some bugger’s shot him (excuse my French,
He added, there women being present) .
There was muttering amongst the throng,
Whispers, coughs, splutters, then a silence
Deeper than awaiting death by your father’s
Elbow, seemingly deeper than Nietzsche’s
Haunting eyes. Your father said nothing
That you recall, but no doubt he felt the
Same sadness that most felt that day,

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A Love Story for Thinkers

He sat all alone in his lousy bed-sitter,
Feeling fed-up and angry, frustrated and bitter,
If his girlfriend annoyed him, he'd cheerfully hit her,
She'd called him a moron and a 'stuck-up bull-shitter! '

If she wanted to know, there was a lot he could teach her,
He'd read all the thinkers like Camus and Nietzsche,
She called him a fool, was he 'some kind of Preacher? '
What a miserable lass! What a superficial creature!

He'd sit right down and write her a letter,
Be as fair as he could, try not to upset her,
Though she'd ruin his life if he foolishly let her -
How sincerely he wished that he never had met her!

It came as a shock when she chose suicide,
The minute he heard it he broke down and cried,
He felt lost and dumbfounded and angry inside -
She'd done it to hurt him, to injure his pride!

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Rodin’s, ‘The Thinker- Poet’

Auguste Rodin’s bronze-man sits,
(A muscled-body, nude to core) ,
In stooping posture, chin on fist,
Neck-flexed, a worried, smile-less face,
- Reflecting mind in thoughts, all deep.

The sculptor’s impeccable craft
Is evident in all details:
A haunting depth of vision cast,
Precisely –made contours and lines,
Revealing skill par excellence.

An example to art-lovers;
A master-piece that’s almost live;
A glorious work that’s immortal;
A metal fashioned so real-
Inviting crowds that never cease!

Who was the Thinker, Rodin made?
-Plato, Brando, Nietzsche or else?

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Guillaume Apollinaire

Désir

Mon désir est la région qui est devant moi
Derrière les lignes boches
Mon désir est aussi derrière moi
Après la zone des armées

Mon désir c'est la butte du Mesnil
Mon désir est là sur quoi je tire
De mon désir qui est au-delà de la zone des armées
Je n'en parle pas aujourd'hui mais j'y pense

Butte du Mesnil je t'imagine en vain
Des fils de fer des mitrailleuses des ennemis trop sûrs d'eux
Trop enfoncés sous terre déjà enterrés

Ca ta clac des coups qui meurent en s'éloignant

En y veillant tard dans la nuit
Le Decauville qui toussote
La tôle ondulée sous la pluie
Et sous la pluie ma bourguignotte

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Angels Unaware

Words & music: michael w. smith & wayne kirkpatrick
Maybe there's a light in my soul
Maybe it flickers like a neon sign outside an abandoned hotel
Maybe there are things you just can't know
But can you say there are no mysteries in the house you choose to dwell
Maybe we are entertaining angels unaware
Maybe there's a place where we will fly
But some say god is dead like nietzsche said and faith has made me a fool
But maybe there is more than meets the eye
Who's that stranger there beside you? don't be smug and don't be cruel
Maybe we are entertaining angels unaware
Battles of the heart and of the mind
We stay caught in mental purgatory 'til our existence can be defined
Meanwhile on the shores of parallel
There may be a holy conference held somewhere discussing all mankind
Maybe we are entertaining angels unaware
I say maybe we are entertaining angels unaware
Angels unaware
Soaring, somewhere, longing, reaching
Searching, knowing, loving, caring

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Faith

Questions about the seen and unseen
How far can science really reach?
Darkness plagues us under the sun
All our life we know death will come

Mortality defines our precious time
The universe is there we can't deny
It is practical to assume a first cause
All we gain can so easily be lost

By knowledge we can never know
Which way we should travel and go
By revelation God reveals his truth
To those that hear his good news

Materialism says its all a big wager
The bible says it is fallen nature
Philosophy says change the situation
Gods love brought a cross of redemption

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Angels War

Forest of dark labyrinth hides
Sighs of twisted olive trees rise
Spanish dungeons filled with devils
She time travels into eternity
Her ragged doll filled with blood
Peasant mother killed by dark riders
Talk too spirits in the forest
Saints without decomposed bodies
Divine kings oppress the masses
Secular man shall shine like heaven
Spinoza, Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, Marx
Revolutions burning with nihilism
We are the insane offspring of confusion
Welcome to causes to politics and sides
Horned creatures with mauve eyes
Dreams where fairies anoint hope

Mirrors that lead too oblivion
Mercantile visions where fire dances
Starfish red as Jupiter’s angels

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Guillaume Apollinaire

Il y a

Il y a un vaisseau qui a emporté ma bien-aimée
Il y a dans le ciel six saucisses et la nuit venant on dirait des asticots dont naîtraient les étoiles
Il y a un sous-marin ennemi qui en voulait à mon amour
Il y a mille petits sapins brisés par les éclats d'obus autour de moi
Il y a un fantassin qui passe aveuglé par les gaz asphyxiants
Il y a que nous avons tout haché dans les boyaux de Nietzsche de Gœthe et de Cologne
Il y a que je languis après une lettre qui tarde
Il y a dans mon porte-cartes plusieurs photos de mon amour
Il y a les prisonniers qui passent la mine inquiète
Il y a une batterie dont les servants s'agitent autour des pièces
Il y a le vaguemestre qui arrive au trot par le chemin de l'Arbre isolé
Il y a dit-on un espion qui rôde par ici invisible comme l'horizon dont il s'est indignement revêtu et avec quoi il se confond
Il y a dressé comme un lys le buste de mon amour
Il y a un capitaine qui attend avec anxiété les communications de la T.S.F. sur l'Atlantique
Il y a à minuit des soldats qui scient des planches pour les cercueils
Il y a des femmes qui demandent du maïs à grands cris devant un Christ sanglant à Mexico
Il y a le Gulf Stream qui est si tiède et si bienfaisant
Il y a un cimetière plein de croix à 5 kilomètres
Il y a des croix partout de-ci de-là
Il y a des figues de Barbarie sur ces cactus en Algérie

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Taking coffee 'with' Jean-Paul Sartre.

It was 1952. We had a limited travel currency.
In Paris, I went one morning to
the Dome Café. There
sat Jean-Paul Sartre, smoking
a large meerschaum pipe
such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche might have smoked;
he had his morning coffee in front of him.
Simone had not yet joined him.

A circle of young admirers sat at a
discreet distance; most wore black
but the young women could not avoid
a certain Parisian chic in their sombreness,
their existential frown and turned-down lips
around bright eyes.

It was the chance of what we call
a lifetime. Dare I speak to him?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained:
a human being must live his words,

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Socialist Jesus

Revolution is dead,
buried next door to God
I Got his son's autograph,
at the souvenir shop
You can buy him on T-shirts,
and black duffle bags
Pin his sepulchral image,
on white dormitory walls
While rehearsing old prayers
Of old liberalisms brand
From a barging philosophy
In a consecrated ideology

Socialist Jesus
the second coming of '53
He road on a motorcycle
to the front page of history
Helping Amazonian Leopards
and Miners strike in Chile
His Pilate were black suits

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Bitterness and Others

this is your bitterness
that wants to be set free
that wants you to know, to seek
to have the freedom of curiosity

this is your enemy
that keeps love away

this is your loneliness
this is your bitterness
mixed together
weaving a cocoon, that would
rather be a colorful butterfly
a frail child that would rather be an adult
wondering what responsibility is like
wondering what love is like

this is your self loathing
tied to hundreds of memories
tied to thousands of images

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Soul Cleansing

Rescued in chains of solemn ice
Balance pivots on the fence
Walk where things do not exist
Universal mind coherent in blue
Solomon’s Porch resides in gold leaf
Peace and dharma exalts the weary
Everything is separate and out of tune
Caldrons of Asian finance
Platforms of forums, Philo writes
Placid monasteries with Gregorian eyes
Jackson Pollack is inebriated
Back to the broken base
Slaves build the union
He writes an ode to his pride
She garbles words of veneer
Walls higher than the tower of Babel
Everything bathed in pretense
Sophistry shines like a Greek oracle
Alliances between the mundane
Mars gleams with angry throats

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Patrick White

A Day Of Writing

A day of writing, trying to clarify myself
to Alysia, myself, Alysia, to the night rain,
trying to hang the universe on the tip of an eyelash
without blinking, pulling handfuls of the stagnant dimensions
of my apparent magnitude off
like the dead undergrowth
of a plausible star to try as an antidote
to the junkmail perfume samplers
that keep heaping themselves up on my doorstep
like the fake leaves of a tree somewhere on acid,
mini-nirvanas that reek in the dark of enlightened snake-oil.

Tonight I like the windows black, starless,
but keep the company mellow with my rendition
of musical lamps, one lightbulb less everytime
someone asks me what I feel most when I write.
I look at the trinity of faceless wolves on my easel
that accuse me of eyes, and punish myself by taking note
they’ve moved since I last looked at them,
and there’s a poppy of blood on the snow that’s atavistic.

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