a useless death

by patti smith

[originally published as a small chapbook by the Gotham Book Mart, 1972]

I am on the scaffold. What excitement!
What glitter! What is going on?
I know so little of this country.
I suspect its the coronation of the queen.
NO. Oh god. I'm wrong.
Its the execution of the queen!
and I'm trapped.
there's no way I can help.
there's no way I can avoid watching.
perched on this scaffold.
I gotta bird's eye view.

The king calls for action. like the
director of some blown out passion play.
He makes a weary gesture.
its clear he hasn't slept in ages.
first come the ladies in waiting.
there they are. thirty of them.
dressed alike. high-waisted
green taffeta gowns.

moving alike. medieval majorettes.
that flemish air. nose in air.
thirty pairs of tiny hands folded
over protruding bellies.

why are condemned women affecting
a pregnant woman's gesture?

and how comical it is. thirty sentenced
women swaying. some very pretty indeed.
many on the brink of collapse.

The king is muttering. what is he saying?
seems my hearing has become as acute as my view.

"god damn ladies-in-waiting. get rid
of them. how I've despised them. always
clutter up the castle. cluck cluck."



He seems to object to them more than
the queen. but as the saying goes:
kill me ya kill my dogs. and vice versa.
its a package deal. its the rules of
the game. and a king sticks to them.

the ladies are in tears. tearing tissues.
they approach a sizeable block of land.
its roped off and seasoned with fresh
topsoil. 3l shovels are lined up face
down.

The king decrees that they are to dig
their own grave. Jesus what a rucas.
The women lose what composure they
had in the procession. They sob openly.
they wring their hands and cling to
one another. several fall prostrate.
those more distraught tear their hair
and rip their gowns.

This is getting ridiculous. The prince
is embarrassed. I throw a quick glance
toward the castle. Backdrop. There
is the queen. No one has noticed her.
She moves as if a dream. listless.
weightless. she seems to have little
to do with the proceedings. does she
understand that death is near?
she seems completely unaware.

How I admire her! She is a true heroine.
Oblivious of her power. how power, love
and death revolve around her! as though
she had never stood before a mirror.
The king is exasperated. her lack of
recognition. does his word mean nothing?
The ladies-in-waiting make up for it.
they weep harder at the sight of their
gentle queen. they beat their breasts in
unison. a few onlookers swoon. The
cook has to be carried off.



The queen is handed a spade. Was that a
smile that crossed her face? its impossible
to tell now.

Suddenly she shivers and says, "I'm cold".
Instantly I feel the intense cold.
everyone does. god, its below zero.
I'm confused. wasn't it just spring?
everyone has on thin wraps.
Even the king has but a simple velvet cloak
and not his usual ermine.

The ladies' teeth chatter. the only way
to keep warm is to move. they begin to
dig like the devil. thirty women working
hard in the soil creates great warmth.
if they stop to rest they'll freeze
to death.

The queen can't seem to get in the swing
of things. she helps a bit. loosens a
chunk of hard clay or helps excavate a
huge rock. occasionally a smooth stone
or a pretty piece of crystal will attract
her. she handles it. examines it. turns
it over. drops it in her train which she
has gathered up smiling.
her childish delight in serving herself.

Frost is making it harder to dig. yet
the women are working like madmen to
keep warm.

The king has lost interest. the queen is
wandering off. everyone is going home.

I lose my footing
fall off the scaffold
everything in slow motion.


crime without passion


Copyright © Patti Smith 1972

leonard cohen

you don't want to go out any more

it's bearable alone

just you and the bad news

and the confession of Mother Theresa

God Bless her for letting us know

that she couldn't take it either

Patti Smith

you can't say "fuck" in radio free america

by patti smith

[this manifesto (text as reproduced in High on Rebellion) was first printed in Yipster Times, March 1977]

Fuck the word...fuck the word  fuck the word the word is dead is re-defined...the bird in the (womb) is expelled by the propelling motion of fuck the fucking 

THE RESISTANCE

We believe in the total freedom of communication and we will not be compromised. The censorship of words is as meaningless as the censorship of musical notes; we cannot tolerate either. Freedom means exactly that: no limits, no boundaries...rock and roll is not a colonial power to be exploited, told what to say and how to say it. This is the spirit in which our music began and the flame in which is must be continued. Radio Ethiopia is a symphony of experience...each piece a movement...14 movements...14 stations.

There is silence on my radio...                                                  --Stones 

They are trying to silence us, but they cannot succeed. We cannot be "trusted" not to pollute the airwaves with our idealism and intensity. W(New) York has proved unresponsive at best to the new rock and roll being born under its ears...a music having worldwide cause and effect...injecting a new sense of urgency and imperative. Radio has consistently lagged behind the needs of the community it is honor-bound to serve. We do not consider paternalistic token airplay and passive coverage to be enough. FM radio was birthed in the 1960's as an alternative to restrictive playlisting and narrow monopolistic visions. The promise is being betrayed.

We Want The Radio And We Want It Now 1977...the celebration of 1776-1976 ends tonight...we end with the same desires of individual and ethnic freedom of concept...the freedom of art...the freedom of work...the freedom/flow of energy that keeps rebuilding itself with the nourishment of each generation. The political awareness of the 1960s was a result of the political repression of the 1950's. The '70's have represented the merging of both...political-artistic/activism-expression.

The colonial year is dead. Rock and roll is not a colonial art.
We colonize to further the freedom of space.

We must dedicate ourselves to the future...in the sixties the DOG was GOD...the underdogs rose up and merged and fought for political freedom...we of 1977 are Rat/Art.

                                                                                                                   --Radio Ethiopia, 1977 

suspended in relics (art)...The guardian of ritual salute all that heralds and redefines civilization into a long streaming system of tongues...salute then spit on those who left us the ruins of much broken ground then move on...

dedicate to the future we are thus fasting...we rip into the past/perfect like raw meat...we do not accept the past as the summit of creation...we rise and pierce the membrane of mire and waster...the stagnation of rust...

1977. We the people of the neo-army are spewing JUST LUST...The absolute motion into the future...To fight the good fight...the fight for freedom of expression The fight against fat and Roman satisfaction.

WE DON'T WANT NO SATISFACTION
!!THE ART/RAT DAWNS!!
(THE AWAKENING GRAIN)

RAISE UP/ TAKE POSITION/ DUO-SONIC THE SYSTEM OF GOD. ILLUMINATED WEAPONS POISED LIKE MALLOTS LIKE 2-SOUND PICKUPS BAYONETING THE FLESH OF THE EYE...A GRAIN OF SAND THRU THE OPTIC NERVES OF HE THAT SEIZE ALL...A-B (raisive) AND STONED AND IRRATE BY A SPECT(RE) SO CUNNING HE EVENTUALLY SHOWS HIS PHASE HE EVENTUALLY WAKES UP) (SHARP AND ROUGH AND DELICATELY CUT THE AWAKENING GRAIN DOES ITS WORK! THE ART/RAT DAWNS AGAIN! ART/RAT KNAWS THRU SPACE/ RUSHING TADPOLES/ A BLACK STREAK ACROSS THE WHITE HOTEL...THE GLASS THAT SEPARATES HIM FROM SOCIETY IS THE TRUE PERSON OF LIGHT...ART/RAT IN THE SHAPE OF A BOY DRESSED IN A COAT OF MILK...ACTION PAINTER...RUBEDO HAIR OF THE ONE WHO SOARS AND SLASHES THRU THE AVIATOR BACK/FLAP W/OUT BARING THE SENCE OF PURE TONGUE RHYTHM ART/RAT POSSESSING THE NOBEL CONCEIT OF THE FUTURE AWAITS HIGH ORDERS TO SPEW THE TONGUE OF LOVE THAT UTTERS THE MOST PRECIOUS COMMAND THE WORDS OF LOVE THAT TURN US ON (THE PHYSICAL HIEROGLYPHICS) (THE 14 POSITIONS) ARE "FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME...FUCK THE WORD/THE WORD IS DEAD/FUCK IS DEAD ON THE RADIO/THE WORD IS DEAD/IN A WAVE OF SOUND/ TO BE UNBOUND AND WAVED AND DEFILED LIKE A BANNER OUTSIDE SOCIETY OVER THE BLACK RIVER...CITIZENS ARISE! SPIT-BALL INTO THE SKY! THE AWAKENING GRAIN! AWAKENING A-WAKE UP W

Copyright © Patti Smith 1977

Tomma Abts

paul thek, untitled, 1972

maya deren

Silence
and ice
Calm and bright
Shining in
the akwardness

Harvesting Encounters

Landscape forms
Farms in the night
And she flows
Black through the middle space
Harvesting encounters

Contemplate soul -
Not dry, cracked . .
Holy,
Untouchable by you,
Sincere . . .
follow . .