Saturday, November 27, 2004

A talk with Ligotti. (via M*tafilt*r)

Byrd says. (via Truthout)

“Wasa Wasa”

As this multitasking wasabi yoga
Brings down, aroma

Of myrrh blurs, an indigo goblin
Follows up with goblin’s blood.

"The way a lot of liberals respond to suggestions that devoting some energy to revitalizing the Democratic party's rural roots, you'd think that doing so required repudiating some of their most deeply cherished values -- rather than, in fact, simply living up to them." --Orcinus


In a rooky wood
i found my ray swam this vugg

food to divs
and disarray, for many a moon

holy city in ruin holy flatiron
lungfish down this clang lingo

Aradia instill my pumpkin
till cym and bal and om Gucumatz ions

“A gallant lineage, long in fields of war
And faithful chronicler’s enduring page
Blazon’d; but most by him illustrated,
Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown,
Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa
Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame
Of that wide empire overthrown appease;
But he to Florida’s disastrous shores
In evil hour his gallant comrades led,
Through savage woods and swamps, and hostile tribes,
The Apalachian arrows, and the snares
Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil;
Till from ambition’s feverish dream the touch
Of Death awoke him; and when he had seen
The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil,
Foresight, and long endurance, fade away,
Earth to the restless one refusing rest,
In the great river’s midland bed he left
His honour’d bones.”

--Rob*rt South*y, “Th* Last of Th* Goths” (1814)

“Tan of Applack”

Upon touching’s summit no words
could satisfy frost

spoils of Atabalipa
but most by pillbug

on twinkling pinions hid from wind and mountain

lark who from
and now by thymy banks paradox

snows through all origin and
and now through shadowy paths touch nirvana

“The tide of darkness now is at its height.
Yon lily-woven cradle of the hours
Hath floated half her shining voyage, nor yet
Is by the current of the morn opposed.”

--Thomas Lov*ll Beddo*s, fragm*nt from “Th* Last Man”

“When William Butler Yeats and his wife visited California, his wife, a medium, had a series of occult experiences in Los Angeles...from which his extraordinary volume, A Vision (1925), was woven.” --C McWilliams, Southern California: An Island on the Land (1946)

“Win Cash!”

Our Swan King, off duty at his ranch, vacuum
Awash in poppy, finds dust sinful.

Prying at a florid scab
Without irony.

Toot addict of Big Christ grout.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Bright spot.

In thankful days.

No armor for our troops, but a yacht for Top Chimp. (via Atrios)


Spanish translation of McCourt’s ‘Tis: Lo *s.

On my victrola- Mingus: Mingus Ah um.

Recoil from what natty pumpkins say. Go back into study of colors, old songs, truthful books. Past days had such wars, tyrants, and bad art. Try not to run into cars. Strong thoughts. It is gray but not cold. Icy gnashing far; dying in Iraq. Put that in your small songs. Nobody knows your faction.

“Choking Hazard”

Phan fu tom ry cant
in this round room fools inhabit walls of sand

my glass grows dim with rain, ritual
cannibalism with gold

Ophir chill.
my occupation is long taiga

phan ey tom rie morth;
dango road

Monday, November 22, 2004

Not only is "Abraham, Martin, and John" on that album, Dion also sings "Purpl* Haz*"...


"But where is the Captain of this doubloon isle
Without a turnstile?" --Hart Crane (via The Nacr*ous Oughts)


“Paint You Hands With Maroon”

Fall in Carcosa:
Mists drift across a diamond.

Cars void of occupants roll and growl
Forth gray’s word;

Diwn scorch, collaboration fills our crystal
Barroom with zonda

Fronds. Carcosa aliquot
Blows holy.

“0% APR”

Coil rosg, druidicals bijoux firm
Phantom fury slack.

Inform our cosmic civil war, Gray.
Much logic

Much smoking mirror. Gibbous
Chalkydri hazaj

Bling hazaj amid tumulus rock
And Rolaids a maskful cairn

Would bring us topaz portal out of chaos.

Amanda Ros again. (via M*tafilter)

Sunday, November 21, 2004

Tomb found.

Until the first chill
No door sat on the clay.
When Billy brought on the chill
He began to chill.
No hand can
Point to the chill
It brought. Where a chill
Was, the grass grows.
See how it grows.
Acts punish the chill
Showing summer in the grass.
The acts are grass.

Acts of our grass
Transporting chill
Over brazen grass
That retorts as grass
Leave the clay,
The grass,
And that which is grass.
The far formal forest can,
Used doubts can
Sit on the grass.
Hark! The sadness grows
In pain. The shadow grows.
All that grows
In deep shadow or grass
Is lifted to what grows.
Walking, a space grows.
Beyond, weeds chill
Toward night which grows.
Looking about, nothing grows.
Now a whiff of clay
Respecting clay
Or that which grows
Brings on what can.
And no one can.

The sprinkling can
Slumbered on the dock. Clay
Leaked from a can.
Normal heads can
Touch barbed-wire grass
If they can
Sing the old song of can
Waiting for a chill
In the chill
That without a can
Is painting less clay
Therapeutic colors of clay.
We got out into the clay
As a boy can.
Yet there’s another kind of clay
Not arguing clay,
As time grows
Not getting larger, but mad clay
Looked for for clay,
And grass
Begun seeming, grass
Struggling up out of clay
Into the first chill
To be quiet and raucous in the chill.

The chill
Flows over burning grass.
Not time grows.
So odd lights can
Fall on sinking clay.”

--John Ashb*ry, Som* Tr**s (1956)

“Frisk Not”

A stark fist of approval nails you
Snail acid crystal in mansions of charcoal.

Hamtaro garmonbosia
Through night to thing frith.

And it’s hard
Mutiny has its argot:

I want to down cold grow crystal scorch
If a moon say aught, Altair,

In its cold pallor;
In its astroturf and solitary church.