Going To The Casino (Tomorrow Night) - Philadelphia Grand Jury
In My House - Mary Jane Girls
Are You Magnetic? - Faker
Balthamos - Suzuki/Method
Real Good Time - Woozy Viper
Saturn In Her Eyes - DC Fontana
Starving in the Belly of a Whale - Tom Waits
Cortez the Killer - Screaming Females
Metatwilight - Man and Technics
Sleep Forever - Crocodiles
Wax Simulacra - The Mars Volta
Rip it up - Orange juice
Nietzsche - Dandy Warhols
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The Chambered Nautilus
Oliver Wendell Holmes
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sail the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn;
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
From Two Gentlemen in Bonds
John Crowe Ransom
“Rain is a long susurrance; makes no loud
Clamor, yet mutes the terrible bugles; no night
Yet darkens the insupportable sunlight
And flame-borrowing bush and feather; a cloud
And cool upon your heads, poor wrinkle-browed
Percipiences! Not true Styx, yet a river
Washing the wounded senses of their fever;
A barrier wall let down; or a makeshift shroud.
“Yes, think of the happy dead who fall in the valleys
Of gentle rivers--eyeballs opening wide
To the comfort of that unlit undusty tide--
Ears flowering green and huge beyond the bawling
Of air--and a brief sweet season of tumbling, crawling,
On legs and arms among the waterlilies.”