Saturday, February 05, 2005


How Magic *y* Works.

This frail craft, this blog drifting forward into unknown word-horizons, rowing link by link, in back of my path a trail such as a snail discards... (What i want to hold on to, as if i could to anything.) And i think, in that small lit box, or try to. Solitary brain, starry robot.


I saw the Prince of Darkness, with his Staff,
Standing bare-headed by the Cenotaph:
Unostentatious and respectful, there
He stood, and offered up the following prayer:
  'Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial
    Means; their discredited ideas revive;
  Breed new belief that War is purgatorial
    Proof of the pride and power of being alive;
  Men's biologic urge to readjust
    The Map of Europe, Lord of Hosts, increase;
  Lift up their hearts in large destructive lust;
    And crown their heads with blind vindictive Peace.'
The Prince of Darkness to the Cenotaph
Bowed. As he walked away I heard him laugh."

Siegfried Sassoon, op cit

Friday, February 04, 2005

    "Plano Militia"

Blogging as i watch a film
of simian triumph. Rail
gun Nostradamus mohawk
is back: blog grammar,
occupation of a moon.

Mortars, mortals throng this wood
and a bard could stop halfway
in a hard cloud of maroon.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

I would distinguish clady from onda in an artwork. To follow a shiny human, a buzarg; to conform to that matrix in various ways: bards who do this grow part of a family of bards, a clady. An onda, though, is a big thing that lifts all of its humans as a unit and, past that lifting, cuts its mark for good. Clady against clady brings rivalry, as do wards of an onda against wards of a prior onda. But is a bard good or bad from any of this? No. In fact, much is to gain from knowing about far off kinds of making. You must abandon your notions of right and wrong ways of doing it--. Which is also an onda.

Now a film. (via Antiwar)

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

R*ality Ch*ck. (via Cursor)

    "Sonic Icons

--That liquid cough.
I cringe inly
for the millionth
time, hearing
in it the sick child
ignorant of remedy,
the unloved adult
without hope of succor,
& the pathetic slave
fearful of reprisals
for a day's absence."

--D*vil-Bug, Onlin* P*titions Ar* Gr*at! (2001)

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Hooray. (via This Mod*rn World) --I want to hang a photo as ugly as that in front of all our crimson-voting idiots. I want us to know what our actions do in this world, not just our phony words. I want us to try to absorb this horror and pain as if our own family's. For it is.

    "Twilight in Plano, IV."

Curufin gulag dry hurl of Cibola
and again bury old rain

ugly odium bring hydraulic whims
but grim glow fold if scam sin

body algid lamp

Monday, January 31, 2005

Body Count as of today: 15563-17789.

"...we are continually assaulted by unending cycles of woes and degradation. Politics has been downgraded to war in its very lowest form, and we cannot talk of the political field without wincing with disgust. The political field has become a veritable theatre of disaster and cannot be spoken of without embarrassment...In a situation where a long established tribal culture is under assault from colonialism, new beings, discourses and commodities emerge from the transitional phase. And this transitional phase, with all its swift and sudden cultural reversals and rapid upturning of established tables of values, creates room for the most pronounced kind of opportunism, a situation where anything goes."

Six Cr**py Sh**p.

    "The Lemmings

Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come
Westward, in search of food, over the snow,
Westward, until the salt sea drowns them dumb,
Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go.
Once, it is thought, there was a westward land,
(Now drowned) where there was food for those starved things,
And memory of the place has burnt its brand
In the little brains of all the Lemming Kings.
Perhaps, long since, there was a land beyond
Westward from death, some city, some calm place,
Where one could taste God?s quiet and be fond
With the little beauty of a human face;
  But now the land is drowned, yet still we press
  Westward, in search, to death, to nothingness."

--John Mas*fi*ld (1920)

Sunday, January 30, 2005

    "In Pluto's Cavity"

At stark tsunami storp taps
brisk skirt stulm
as sump onion rain among gibbons

ascian its tomorrow gray spurt stinky nap
apart is ibis
brain rips ask

akin ossuary ikon; rim crisp stir