Tuesday, December 01, 2009

(image of French glam rocker Michel Polnareff)


Phantom days, the glassile ships of Deebul
move out with the sudden light
spilled on a brassy doorknob, my fumbled key
just like another that doesn't work.

I drink the wrongness of space.

And your mountains of red hot slag,
and your Keemun, and your cancer bomb
a positronicon away,

i drink with the wrongness of space.

O bitmap image of Tvashtar,
harsh in the olid elective

i drink to the wrongness of space.

"Those who worship the intellect never use it; as you can see by the things they say about it. Hence there has arisen a confusion about intellect and intellectualism; and, as the supreme expression of that confusion, something that is called in many countries the Intelligentsia... It is found in practice to consist of clubs and coteries of people talking mostly about books and pictures, but especially new books and new pictures... The first fact to record about it is that what Carlyle said of the world is very specially true of the intellectual world--that it is mostly fools. Indeed, it has a curious attraction for complete fools, as a warm fire has for cats." --G K Chesterton, The Thing

That i should be foolish--a given; that my foolishness might be toxic--unthinkable. For when we are children we don't actually get the chance to break anything bigger than ourselves.

Willie Bobo.

Heart warming. (via Metafilter)

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