ANKARA (Reuters) – Turkish Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan confirmed on Wednesday his government was drawing up plans to authorize a military incursion into northern Iraq to crush Kurdish rebels using the region as a base.
“(Preparations on the proposal) have started and are continuing,” Erdogan told reporters in answer to a question as he arrived at parliament.
Parliament would have to grant its permission to troops to cross the border into Iraq. Passing the measure would not automatically mean Turkish troops going into northern Iraq.
Political analysts say a major military operation remains unlikely, given opposition from the United States, Turkey’s NATO ally, but Erdogan is under pressure to act tough after a series of deadly rebel attacks on Turkish security forces.
Written for a girl I was in love with, a long time ago.
The others are sleeping now,
Cold as comfort in their Eddie Bauer blankets
And the loft at the top of the honest Yankee cabin
Where Bowery mothers come to tan their ankles in mountain sun
And kiss the air that is not thick with bass rhythms and smoke.
The others are sleeping now.
You and I can begin.
We built the floating world, you and I;
Collected it from a thousand scraps of teen magazines
And art-books purchased by the pound in dusty warehouses.
We laid upon it and, kissed, and touched one another
While the angels that we made sang in the voices of touch tones,
Some CD you picked up from a stall in Osaka,
In the paper city.
I want to you to understand this,
Like God understands the spin of an electron,
The charmed quark,
The still life.
I want your skin to tingle
And the short hairs to rise on the back of your
I want you to burn like I do.
We have sat in enough uncomfortable chairs,
You and I—
We have listened too long to the dull voices of others,
Promising the sweet life,
The thoughtless life,
It is time for us to listen to our own voices,
One to another.
What in the name of Christ’s bleeding wounds
Do they have to tell us
That we cannot think of for ourselves?
Pull the air onto your tongue and taste it;
It tastes like nothing else.
Here we are free,
At least for a while;
Here we are beyond these words,
In the floating world.
More poetry. I thought this one was lost…I always liked this. I love Radiohead.
Ice Age Coming
Somewhere alongside the freeway
It is possible to hear birds outside your car window
Thick, soot-covered birds
Cackling in Ornette Coleman harmony
As they perch on plastic buildings
As they perch on the antennae
Of the rooftops that make up the
Rusted satellite cities where the
Beautiful people don’t live.
Antennae that reach up for gray skies
With broken fingers
Antennae that fold those broken fingers
In some unthinkable prayer.
You can hear them over the petrochemical
White noise shriek,
The throbbing nasty murdering sound
The murdering sound of what we have no right to do.
I am not human,
I don’t know if you can tell
By looking at me–
I don’t know if one disease
Can recognize another.
We are what is swept up from
The concrete floors of concert arenas
Ticket stubs, cigarette butts
And broken bits of digital reproduction
Strewn bits of experience and storage
Coded in deoxyribonucleic spiral drains
That flow down into the void
You never know you’re going
Until the second it happens–
Isn’t that funny?
When your stomach drops
And you open your mouth to say something–
And the full knowledge of how the world works
Comes down on you like a shining Mack truck.
Welcome to eternity, brother,
Welcome to what happens next.
Your soul is the one thing
You can’t compromise.
Or so I was told,
I never believed that
When I was a child, they told me that
The future was astral weeks
And transcontinental travel
And no more death.
I would be laid down
In silence, easy
To be born again.
Standing, somewhere, outside of time
The man I would become
Was somewhere over the sea of Japan
Watching red-sailed junks against the cornflower ocean and their white
tails of foam
On their way from Hokkaido to Brisbane or Adelaide
Or my mother nation, great nation of cars and rec rooms and hip-hop.
Standing on the observation deck
Of a nullgrav transport,
Watching nations hiply fragment
And society groovily decay.
Now I’m no longer human
I’m a smart card, I’m a credit card
I’m an advertisement for an idealized version
Shiva with artfully ugly hair
And a tangerine plastic chariot
With a nineteen inch screen.
And it’s all Microsoft lounge parties
And kings and queens of the fucking universe
Until night falls–
Until night falls.
I am no longer human,
I don’t know if you noticed;
We are born without eyes these days.
My soul swam away
Into the sea of warm memory,
Which grows colder by the minute
And forms pale veins of ice.
Humanity is memory
And memory is desire
And neither comes easily to us, these days.
Desire is codified and
Memory is replaced with suspicion
And nothing quite exists
The way it once did.
Red sails of junks,
Against blackest simulation ether,
Floating on the pale chemical candle face
Of the screen in front of me, blurred in my vision
And the music of salty teardrops
Falling into a searing liquid nitrogen pool.
Music for dancing children,
Who were born without souls.
This is all that’s left
Of the future
The hive glistens
As something is born.
Something pale and squealing
Pushes its way out of the ice,
That moves like kudzu,
So quick and so slow
Did I mention I used to write poetry?
See where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament
Bright curtains for a boy to slide down,
Great masts to support the world where it has grown a little antique.
The father is out of his mind,
And has been thus since the cannons and the thunder,
Since Herod returned and set up shop on the communion tray.
He believes he has the viridian wings of a parrot
And flaps his arms in thick brown sleeves
And cries out a scarified song.
Perhaps it is insanity;
Perhaps it is only putting on a different pair of spectacles,
To see the world anew.
Hurricanes come, hurricanes go
But the wind always there;
It blows bagpipe songs through the skulls of popes
And stand-up comedians.
The wind kisses your lips and makes them cold,
Makes them gray and thick,
Makes them part of the ground that the wind carves
Like a butcher with the carcass of the bull.
It blows on the walls of northern warehouses
Where kids shake and move to music pumping
Thick and bright as blood through a heart.
The father knows nothing of warehouses,
Nothing of electro beats or stimulations.
The father knows only that the
Thick adobe walls of the mission
Have transformed into the gilded sticks
Of a birdcage
And the rushes of the floor into
Newspaper, announcing that the
Great business has begun.
There are no angels left in America anymore,
Says the song on the college radio station
As I pass the steps to the market
And the lovely girl with the black glasses
And the Prada suit.
She smiles at me—
I could ascertain a world of meaning in that slight
Twitching of facial muscle,
But why bother?
The universe is a stretched thread made up
Of quantum possibilities;
I reminded her of her older brother,
Or her co-worker,
Or she has mistaken me for someone else.
She comes from the kingdom of small towns
Where everyone smiles at everyone else.
She wants to wrap her legs around me
And do exciting things to me with her mouth.
She has an habitual involuntary muscle spasm
That only looks like a smile.
She is my unknown sister.
All of these things are true,
And none of them.
The sweet sweat of the Pacific Ocean
Mists against my skin and coat;
As I watch her pass along towards Pioneer Square.
I died hung from a tree once.
I don’t know where, or when—
Helena, Montana, after a lifetime of stealing horses
Or Padua at the end of a heretic’s uprising
Or Szechuan in the beginning of a peasant’s revolt;
Or Midgard, before the world was made.
I’ve tasted bitter coffee and bitter defeat,
I’ve tasted your mouth and the barrel of a gun.
I’ve touched Christ’s robe as he stumble through the streets of Los Angeles
Or maybe it was Jerusalem—they look so much alike.
I’ve seen Fra Angelico lift the skirts of a courtesan
As he painted the Virgin Mary;
Seen the world described in projected light
At twenty-four frames a second,
Felt the wind blow through my hair and through my bones
And the rippling feathers of a viridian-green parrot
In the wet heat of the Third World.
I’ve smelled coal-smoke and flamboyant trees
And mangos and the faint perfume of a pretty girl
With black glasses and a Prada suit
Moving along a sidewalk on the rain coast of the Northwest,
On her way to resignations and assignations
That don’t have a single goddamned thing
To do with me.
Found this in my Documents folder. I have no memory of writing this.
The sound of the horn and the drum
Keeps us all awake into the night.
They are praying to gods we do not understand.
But there is solace in the heat and the sand
And the breaking of bones that should have decayed
There is only the city, only the world;
Everything else is something to be feared or shunned.
Three angels with the heads of South American birds
Came last night to drag poor Charlie away.
What a Promised Land we’ve found.
I’ve waited a LONG time to be able to make the
following announcement: as of right now Nine Inch Nails is a totally
free agent, free of any recording contract with any label.
Because you said we didn’t rock: a thirty second snippet of the new version of “When You Get Here”.
(Notice the resemblance to Jesus & Mary Chain, MBV, Sigur Ros, et al.)
I got my free eMusic downloads, and you know what eMusic is fuckin’ awesome for? Old ass blues. I’m currently listening to, and enjoying the hell out of, Junior Wells (thanks for playing him in the car, Thom) and Skip James, who is my motherfucker.
And if I can ever get off of this here killin’ floor
You know I ain’t never gonna sink so low no more
Fuck yeah, baby.
In direct counterpoint to Kanye’s humdrum Graduation, Talib Kweli’s newest album, Ear Drum, is intelligent and way groovier. Better flow, better beats, better everything. Go buy it.
Got this, listened to it. Aside from a couple of high points, it’s basically a snore-fest. Lazy lyrics, boring flow, and the best things about it are the people he brought in to help him.
Where does this guy’s rep as a major talent come from? Give me Mos Def, Talib Kweli and (Kanye’s fellow Chicagoan) Common any day of the week.
Oh, and, uh, Kanye, kitten? Next time, if you want some really tight beats? Give me a call. I’ll set you up right.