(roundel)

There still are words for what we suffer through
just not the ones we wield. The road drags hard,
of Blindfold March; as long as whine's supreme
there still are words.

And we who swink with bear-fat in the cave
no longer ask if what we've made seems beautiful,
but stow the viewless scroll in box of cedar.

Already we have started that black expiry,
in which our hymns and elegies lie coded:
you'll learn it, prink our lucifers' rank sulfur.
There still are words.


My ultimate conspiracy theory. What's behind the funding of anti-global warming propaganda? Venusians, who've run out of living space, & have been messing with the monkeys on the third planet, so there would develop the internal combustion engine & in time create a runaway greenhouse effect to turn Earth into a replica of Venus.


"I didn't become rich, but I was usually comfortable. That is a social disease, the symptoms of which are the ability to ignore the fact that your society is developing weeping pustules and having its brains eaten out by radioactive maggots." --John Varley, "The Persistence of Vision" (1978)


Vast AMOK links page. (via Metafilter) --These days i'm more likely to peruse the "Scratch 'n' Sniff" part, but it's all good.


Altermodern. (via Momus)


A new edition of the classic cyber-prosepoem Carniverous Equations 2. (Don't accept any correctly spelled substitutes!)