"The Undersong

I hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart,
I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears:
And I am far apart,
And lost in the years.

But when I lie and dream of that which was
Before the first man's shadow flitted on the grass,
I am stricken dumb
With sense of that to come.

Is then this wildering sea-song but a part
Of the old song of the mystery of the years--
Or only the echo of the tired heart
And of tears?"

--Fiona Macleod

"Let's begin America's long slog toward moral and political redemption by demanding that our next president's first act be to declare the Bush Administration null and void." (via Metafilter)


Metal Machine Music--live.

    "The Pope at Ground Zero"

Hammocks. Rings. Owls. The march
to wryneck, softer than a whisper;
and ev'rything proceeds from scratch
as modules in my brainpan fester.
Today the weather might be March
although November, light so mellow
falling across the plains of pitch,
and where i go there is no one can follow.

Hero of insufficient starch
and highwayman with finger blister,
my sense of irony's no crutch
against the hurricane's rough bluster.
Whatever brought me here won't muster
reasons to stay, or songs to hallow
this perilous absence of high master,
and where i go there is no one can follow.

Hyenas nuzzle at the latch.
Tomorrow is a blasting gospel.
Only for now, the jewels i catch
linger, then perish faster and faster.
Whatever courage i can foster
must shore up my walls, as stern as jello;
i chase gray moths on a twilight porch
and where i go there is no one can follow.

This blue podcast, this slim fetch
dwindles in the winds of Hesper.
I cannot dream of goodlier hutch,
i cannot find a finer clyster.
Among the hooligans who cluster,
this one's apogee lies fallow.
Once to lift a stratocaster--
and where i go there is no one can follow.

You who never knew the bunker buster
still find blood stains on your pillow.
Graywyvern shifts across Ygg's twister
and where he goes there is no one can follow.


Mefi thread of youtube One-Hitters.