The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Even rock stars are entitled to privacy.
I use rock and jazz and blues rhythms because I love that music. I hope my poetry has a relationship with good-time rock’n roll.
The ’60s are gone, dope will never be as cheap, sex never as free, and the rock and roll never as great.
The young people have MTV and rock and roll. Why would they go to read poetry? Poetry belongs to the Stone Age. It awakens in us perceptions that go back to those times.
Everything has a natural explanation. The moon is not a god, but a great rock, and the sun a hot rock.
A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
The friendship we share grows amidst the craggy rock pond; reeds of water spray fireflies scented with bonfires.
Rock gives children, on a silver platter, with all the public authority of the entertainment industry, everything their parents always used to tell them they had to wait for until they grew up and would understand later.
Only the guy who isn’t rowing has time to rock the boat.