Saturday, June 25, 2005

World Tribunal.

Third R*ich 'n' Roll.

On my victrola- Am*s Broth*rs: D*stination Moon.

"One can get pretty literary on islands." --John Grav*s.

This cult of making your own sound is as though raising a tamagotchi. Its food is daily songs.
   Which aids us how?
   Our dark grows gray; not with light. As if with light.


zarif nashwood Sravana · I of anagram rank rsta
Thracias twinkling footpath · no odynacusis ashtray
cross passwords avian cark in · Canaan lit monarch

"Canaan" is my tag for "2M1207b"; "sandcoil" for 3xil*-myth.


urticant droll athanor · I scry balsawood incog stir
adducing brougham lorn blog flaps · famous atninga wharf rancid
snarls royally groan silicon · assault occiput

Friday, June 24, 2005



"Where is there anything like the famous Kalittokai poem of the lame man pursuing the hunchback woman?".

    ”Stonewalled (Shakespeare XIV)

The fall of Colossus calls for more than pluck.
Atop the ziggurat astronomy
finds one, two stars. (Three with luck.)
Why do I keep feeling "quality
of life" is more than wigs of polliwogs? Tell,
O cranium, where these walls lead, numbing as they wind:
nor do but echoes report from the stopped up well.
Each new day presents me with a find,
a book or a record, yet I hardly derive
sustenance therefrom. My wobbly art
rolls on. Rumorous, the baboons thrive
in spite of mystic blasting. Clouds convert
to muddier clouds, while toads prognosticate
inside thick cornerstones of uncertain date."

--Zachary Appomattox, A S*ri*s of Unfortunat* Pr*sid*nts

" If you were to step back in time, to somewhere 200 or 300 years ago, somewhere across the Mediterranean, there you would find exactly this type of melody and arrangement. What we are doing is to reclaim a very ancient Mediterranean tradition, from the Egyptians and especially from the Ancient Greeks, basically using what are known as Greek and Roman 'modes.' By this, I mean the musical scales that were used before the 'theory of chords' appeared in the 17th and 18th centuries. This theory was a milestone in the history of western music, but before there was another type of music before called the 'Ars Antiqua' which was modal1 and monodic2. And then came the 'Ars Nova' which corresponds to the period in music when chords first appeared. We wanted to reclaim a series of melodic arrangements that were supposedly composed without the tradition of the 'Ars Antiqua.' Our search led us to those Mediterranean musics that maintain that tradition, that is Arabic, Turkish and Spanish Folklore." --As-if music.

"Int*ll*cts vast and cool and unsympath*tic..."

Factory 798.

Thursday, June 23, 2005


Nochnoy dozor.


stairway its jaguar I bring · twinkling warmthlight by Jingo stay
is ajar Barabajagal · agora turbofolk back
bronchial pilch obituary · broadband birdtalk


anagogic snail rampart · ignorant dodgy agama
lights scratch as snarky bandit
· I align cromorna ratoon
Umbrist spurious walking proud
· still might again snarl


politically wobbly blot · I stoop wilbanhajj acrostic
walking slowly slight byblow · twinkling coign absurd abundant
glow by oblong flaw gossip stars · gimpy island at


obyism abusion · lying I is moot rain abort
dusty isotopic night · not anonymous sly byblow
sinking snitch against gizmo wild · issuant among

Wednesday, June 22, 2005


Tamagotchis. (from tomodachi 'buddy'?)

    ’Telluric and magnetic

  Sincere and utterly Peruvian mechanics
those of the reddish hill!
Theoretical and practical soil!
Intelligent furrows; example: the monolith and its retinue!
Potato fields, barely fields, lucerne fields, a wonderful thing!
Cultivations which integrate an astonishing hierarchy of tools
and which integrate with wind the lowings,
the waters with their muffled antiquity!

  Quaternary maizes, with opposite birthdays,
I hear through my feet how they move aside,
I smell them return when the earth
clashes with the sky’s technique!
Abruptly molecule! Terse atom!

  Oh human fields!
Solar and nutritious absence of the sea,
and oceanic feeling for everything!
Oh climates found inside gold, ready!
Oh intellectual field of a cordillera,
with religion, with fields, with baby ducks!
Pachyderms in prose while passing
and in poetry while halting!
Rodents which look with judicial feeling all around!
Oh my life’s patriotic asses!
Vicuna, national and graceful descendant of my ape!
Oh light which is hardly a mirror away from the shadow,
which is life with a period and, with a line, dust
and that is why I revere it, climbing through the idea to my skeleton!

  Harvest in the time of the spacious pepper tree,
of the lantern hung from a human temple
and of the one taken down from the magnificent little bar!
Poultry-yard angels,
birds by a slip up of the crest!
Cavess or cavy to be eaten fried
with the wild bird pepper of the temperings!
(Condors? Fuck the condors!)
Christian logs by the grace of
a happy trunk and a competent stalk!
Family of lichens,
species in basalt formation that I
from this extremely modest paper!
Four operations, I dismiss you
to save the oak and to destroy it properly!
Slopes caught in the act!
Tearful auchenia, my own souls!
Sierra of my Peru, Peru of the world,
and Peru at the base of the orb, I stick with you!
Morning stars if I aromatize you
burning coca leaves in this skull,
and zenithal ones, if I uncover,
in one hat doff, my ten temples!
Arm sowing, get down, and on foot!
Rain on the basis of noon,
under the tile roof where the indefatigable
altitude gnaws
and the turtle dove cuts her trill in three.
Rotation of modern afternoons
and delicate archaeological dawns.
Indian later than man and before him!
I understand all of it on two flutes
and I make myself understood on a quena!
As for the others, they can jerk me off!...’

--C*sar Vall*jo, Th* Compl*t* Posthumous Po*try (tr 3shl*man & Barcia, 1980)

La cultur* moy*nn*.


Tuesday, June 21, 2005


"Traditionally Mavortians paint with their non-leading hand." --Dr Swot

" 'Know first, the heavens, the earth, the flowing sea,
The moon's bright globe, and the Titanian stars
By one interior spirit are sustained:
Through all their members interfused, a mind
Quickens the mass entire, and mingling stirs
The mighty frame. Thence springs the life of men,
And grazing flocks, and flying birds, and all
The strange shapes in the deep and shining sea.
A fiery vigor animates these germs,
And a celestial origin, so far
As our gross bodies clog them not, nor weight
Of perishable limbs impedes the soul.
Hence they desire and fear, rejoice and grieve;
And, shut in prisons dark, they look not back
Upon the skies. Nor e'en when life’s last ray
Has fled, does every ill depart, nor all
Corporeal taints quite leave their unhappy frames.
And needs must be that many a hardened fault
Inheres in wondrous ways. Therefore the pains
Of punishment they undergo, for sins
Of former times. Some in the winds are hung
Suspended and exposed. Others beneath
A waste of waters from their guilt are cleansed,
Or purified by fire. We all endure
Our ghostly retribution. Thence, a few
Attain the free Elysium’s happy fields,
Till Time’s great cycle of long years, complete,
Clears the fixed taint, and leaves the etherial sense
Pure, a bright flame of unmixed heavenly air.
All these, when for a thousand years the wheel
Of fate has turned, the Deity calls forth
To Lethe’s stream, a mighty multitude;
That they, forgetful of the past, may see
Once more the vaulted sky, and may begin
To wish return into corporeal frames.' "

--Cranch’s Virgil

"We are all now it seems casting about for something we can only call the post-postmodern: on the right new fanaticisms join hands with the old feudalisms in a gigantic tidal wave of reaction, while on the left we seem to faced with the untimely choice between the endless ramifications of identity politics or the forging of a new universal class."


Counter-Earth (not Cruithn*). Plus. Philolaus's "Antichthon".


Monday, June 20, 2005

Conting*nt Manif*sto. (via Cahi*rs d* Cor*y)

    ”Always Already

The heft ends in a humid click. We are now compressed according to what everybody already knows about an accordion. Talcum in the folds, hiss crowded to fading. It cannot persist and so will end outside.

We were up all night in the bellows with the bellhop, husking lemons and catching ice. The folds sing. This is where we will look.

The sheer size of it partitioned the hug and set the heel of the answer. The sparkle delayed the thud. We knew our water was undrinkable and all we had.

We will not, without air, get high enough to pierce this.

We are hunters, squeezing out a script. This mumbling is ten feet tall. I can’t see you. There is a truck slapping plates. Your words are silver and creeped. I don’t feel bad that I can’t hear you. When we get out, we get out.

The heft rounds itself up.”

--Sasha Frere-Jones in Hat 6


obsidionary aboding · usurps birddog admitx
pillbug dollop on walking · crook my Waihopai obolus
monobiblioids’ idolatry · sing an ugly

Sunday, June 19, 2005

    "A Dead March

PLAY me a march, low-ton’d and slow—a march for a silent tread,  
Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,  
Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.  
Here for a while they smil’d and sang, alive in the interspace,  
Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,
Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?  
Who shall assure us whence they come, or tell us the way they go?  
Verily, life with them was joy, and, now they have left us, woe,  
Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.  
Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.
How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars?  
Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?  
No, we are here, with feet unfix’d, but ever as if with lead  
Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread,  
Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.
No, we are here to wait, and work, and strain our banish’d eyes,  
Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skies  
Far from the reach of wingless men, and not to be scal’d with cries.  
No, we are here to bend our necks to the yoke of tyrant Time,  
Welcoming all the gifts he gives us—glories of youth and prime,
Patiently watching them all depart as our heads grow white as rime.  
Why do we mourn the days that go—for the same sun shines each day,  
Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may;  
Sweet as the rose that died last year is the rose that is born to-day.  
Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls?  
Never a head is dimm’d with gray but another is sunn’d with curls;  
She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.  
Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore;  
Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore;  
Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more."

--Cosmo Monkhous*

How much go? (via Ch*khov's Mistr*ss)

Ghost Rid*r.

A world. (via M*tafilt*r)