particularly ironic as I read recently that Cohen was bankrupt -
ripped off by an ex-financial manager.
Roger
On 7/5/07, TheOldMole <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> What a combination -- finance and Cohen. I love this one.
>
> MC Ward wrote:
> > Here's my Leonard Cohen cento, if anyone's interested
> > in reference-spotting amidst the language of
> > international finance:
> >
> > Mise-en-tranche: A tribute song
> >
> > _I haven't been this happy
> > Since the end of World War II_
> > (Leonard Cohen, "Waiting for the Miracle")
> >
> > He loves the country but can't stand the trees
> > on the same grounds--real yet not exactly
> > _there_, like the World Bank--cypress sheer
> > madness where the wind has no currency
> > yet the sentimental willow goes on whining,
> > meaner than mildew to sour his leisure,
> > the pleasure of coming into his own
> > silk lining. Such a stitch to be talking to
> > his pockets at closing time. _Repent_, they said
> > but now he knows what everybody knows
> > they meant: the Sermon's on _account_,
> >
> > beyond the mind to credit, like fiat money.
> > It's criminal, reversible as sonata or skin or
> > this torn trenchcoat indebted to the blues,
> > the rain a rhythm section tapping panic on
> > his lids. Drum him in then at the Great Event
> > along with that dove he bought and bought
> > again. Stranger Music, those rivers going crazy
> > over garbage in the harbor. He's a bodybag man
> > that time will not okay, whose workers in song
> > are still giving tongue just to get ahead of their
> >
> > class.
> >
> > So billet to the Left Bank when Manhattan's
> > given as Japan's taken; your man's been driven
> > from _Seven Pillars_ to postmodernism. What a
> > relief
> > to lie down at last with all he's lost, to kiss off
> > Berlin and its cheap violins now that he holds
> > every note torn from the sheets he never worked
> > alone, by the sweat of the moon or a dead
> > magazine. Let the limousine wait
> > in the street for last year's man to comfort
> > any widowed government. He used to live
> > on loan himself, where Malibu verges on absurdity.
> >
> > The bonds he bears now he wears as bracelets,
> > like a refugee entrenched in foreign issue. He's
> > divested, optioned, rhapsodic with his treasury
> > of merits, history's indulgence a dated unhappi-
> > ness: Nancy's phone open since '61; Suzanne
> > sold down the river in '67; Marianne, so long gone
> > now with the famous raincoat. Will he ever get clear
> > of their .45s and razor blades, their dresses,
> > their asses? Love coldly slips from hyacinth to
> > barbiturate, like verses for faces lined and powdered
> > by the same bitter mirror; the river's
> > answer, he guesses, to the cut of his coke and
> > his times. If there's hell still to pay for all that
> > croc
> >
> > DNA once the fiddler's stopped fundamentally,
> > he says he can't complain. As beauty's his
> > witness to the falling rate of prime, he's never
> > been so postwar nor felt so good since
> > his bird wired cash from Bretton Woods.
> >
> > (c) Candice Ward, 2006, and _Jacket Magazine_
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > --- MC Ward <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> >
> >
> >> Barry,
> >>
> >> I use it, too, in a tribute to Cohen, a poem that
> >> has
> >> many references to titles and lyrics. Here's the
> >> section where "Everybody Knows" occurs:
> >>
> >> ... Such a stitch to be talking to
> >> his pockets at closing time. _Repent,_ they said
> >> but now he knows what everybody knows
> >> they meant: the Sermon's on _account_ ....
> >>
> >>
> >> "Closing Time" is a song title, too. The Sermon on
> >> the
> >> Mount/on account, he says he doesn't understand.
> >>
> >> Candice
> >>
> >>
> >>
> >>
> >>
> >>
> >>
> > ____________________________________________________________________________________
> >
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> >>
> >>
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> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > ____________________________________________________________________________________
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> >
>
> --
> Tad Richards
> http://www.opus40.org/tadrichards/
> http://opusforty.blogspot.com/
>
--
My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/
"In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons."
Roman Proverb
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