(via ict-*du dot nl)


   "It's Probably About the Bike

Once scheming, to our vast dismay,
Turned ricochet:
And tumbled down emblems of our pride;
And, by the way, three thousand died
In Nineveh.

Is this contrition we display,
To give away
Whatever made our country strong:
Its freedoms, peace, and righting wrong,
O Nineveh?

But empires all at last decay
And yield the clay.
Meanwhile we peasants still need scratch--
Why do we trim our dreams to match
Dead Nineveh?"

--H. P. Pufncraft, S is for Sitzfl*isch (2005)


"...a [Pitjantjatjara] translation of one of David Bowie's songs." (via Languag* Hat)


On my victrola- Col*man Hawkins: Th* Gold*n Hawk


Suav*cito.

Six word story follow-up. (via M*tafilt*r)


"The quickness of his mind--it had never seemed to him so nimble, so exquisite of mechanism of syllogism and deduction--was contraposed against his blind instinct of the would-be self-deceiver, in a conflict to which the latter brought something of desperation, the fierce, agonised desperation of a hunted animal at bay."

--3rn*st Dowson, Studi*s in S*ntim*nt


Hazmat Modin*. (via NPR)

   "Odyssey of the Wind Materials (first line by Claude McKay)

'Stray melodies of dim remembered runes'
Return when I am anything but ready.
What is a poet stricken thus, but giddy
With future thwarts, and present lost balloons?
I fail, and I am wise with a plangent mist
That tells me all I need to know of beginnings.
Riddle me more, or let the next swift innings
Contain their inmost cure as much as thirst!

Ah, well. I dwell among such eerie forms,
I learn and lose my way as at the first;
Someday when a chance wind sends me reeling
I"ll know what sort of monster writes these norms,
And what black seas I carry for my visit's ceiling."

--Yoko Mand*lbrot


Big As Night, 2.


' "Were all these poets from Karabagh too?" I interrupted.
"No, noble sir, but our poets are better, even if they refuse to imprison their words in dead letters. They are too proud to write down their poems--they just recite them." '

--Kurban Said, Ali and Nino (tr Graman, 1970)

Cthulhu Chick Tract again.

human mutiny · umgang
warm ink · amalgamating dusk
atavist brain · indigo
by lush ambush · ignorant rain
in igniting own · is hronir
imago · gibbons


List of Ac* Doubl*s.


'When a drop falls in the river, it becomes the river.
When a deed is done well, it becomes the future.'

--Bly's Ghalib

"...I’ve worked a little on my long terza rima comic murder mystery..."


   "Lunch Codes

I.

"She were keen on
the wetlands, and so were I."

Cap-sized bobs and chafing dishes

bobolink tenders.

Leguminous butt-ends deliquescing in the nurses' breezeway,
a quintessence of small-A ambrosia.

He peeked at your ballot box and something about aversion,
a nimbus of donut sugar, your lead-white aureole. Displaced
from the doghouse, a hardon-shaped piece of air.

The entire fountain was made of water and you, my muffin-hatted
Swede, educed a dozen thought molecules.

Mangroves are puppets, you said.

I haunted your ghost.

Remember?

I threw peonies at the shark (distracted)
and at the regional dishes of your forebears.

We've started thinking again.


II.

We were the taffy guild—
Time was our confection.

We shared in common—
Dread of the moment.

Our figures embraced—
Dense cloud of impurity.


III.

“Scores will perish.” "

--G. M. Quint*, in M*lancholia's Tr*mulous Dr*adlocks 3.


"...I think of it basically as comic..."


Intriguing words from Kunstl*r.

(via //*ricorb*aux dot romandi* dot com)


   "The Leaden-Eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly;
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep."

--Vach*l Lindsay


"Egwene's stomach sank into her feet."


"And I go darkly-rebel to my work" --McKay

THE CRIMES ARE THERE
GROW A PAIR
IMPEACHMENT 2007

(via ddd dot r2 dot ru slash 3d)


   "Waiting

They swear the dead come back at night,
Who once were women and men,
And sob and cry in the strange weather,
To be let in again.

Out by the straggling thorn I wait,
But you are not come yet;
So it must be that I remember,
And that you forget."

--Liz*tt* Woodworth R**s*, South*rn Po*ts


Bactrian gold.


History on Trial.


Curry.