Out here, beside the turquoise pool,
unshielded from the traffic sounds,
i yet may dream of frozen moons–
or lying on a sun-dry towel.
No inspiration trammels where
the clockwork of a verse-wright grinds.
So Gautier who took such pains
could lose the tuning of his lyre.
Two shades of weathered wood enclose,
& both still darkened by the damp.
Some birds i hear, who sound like hope,
& less like all the other jazz.
Perhaps i may be on the mend
after so many days spent tiptoe
high on a wire, no ground in sight:
& uncompanioned save by wind.
Tribunal from the distant future. Brings up a 21c human for questioning. Who is unable to provide anything but lying or nonsensical answers, to every question.
"According to him [Augustine], Punic was still spoken in his region (Northern Africa) in the 5th century, centuries after the fall of Carthage, and there were still people who called themselves 'chanani' ('Canaanite') at that time." --Wikipedia "Punic language"
“Blondin
With clinging dainty catlike tread,
His pole in balance, hand to hand,
And, softly smiling, into space
He ventures on that threadlike strand.
Above him is the enormous sky,
Beneath, a frenzied torrent roars,
Surging where massed Niagara
Its snow-foamed arc of water pours:
But he, with eye serene as his
Who sits in daydream by the fire,
His every sinew, bone and nerve
Obedient to his least desire,
Treads softly on, with light-drawn breath,
Each inch-long toe, precisely pat,
In inward trust, past wit to probe—
This death-defying acrobat! …
Like some old Saint on his old rope-bridge,
Between another world and this,
Dead-calm ‘mid inward vortices,
Where little else but danger is.”
—Walter de la Mare
“There is no news from Auschwitz
along that funeral plain
green wipes away old waves
that rolled the eyes
and tangled flowers veil vile kennel dust
bequeathed to dawns.
the years are done.
the earth bent toward canals bears
sterile bowels repenting woven eyes
while bone-filled drifts that scattered blood
yield other births.
death is not there: no special people
trailing alien dens,
or children moving in the rain of ash
unraveling minds.
life is not there: not even myths that rode
young stallions to a circus tent
and carried torches on a convent wire
beyond the tides.
no other signs that men patrol chained
sheets of sea.
i grieve our empty ships.
there is no news from Auschwitz.”
–Sonia Sanchez
“You see how I stand, an altar consecrated to the Pythian god, polished by the craft of the musical art of the poet; so fair am I, bringing most sacred offerings, suitable for Phoebus and ftted for these temples in which the choruses of poets make their acceptable gifts, adorned with so many woven fowers of the muse, of such kind as must be placed in the Heliconian groves of song. No workman polished me with sharp tool; I was not hewed out of the white rock of the mountain of Luna, nor from the shining peak of Paros. It was not because I was cut or forced with the hard chisel that I am straight, confned and hold back my edges as they attempt to grow and then, in the succeeding portion, let them spread more broadly. Cautiously I force each edge to be drawn in, line by line, by tiny steps, in lines turning in, thus following on, regulated everywhere by the measure, so that my margin, within the limit which rules it, is that of a square. Then again, continuing on to the bottom, my line, spreading more broadly, is artfully stretched according to the plan. I am composed of the measures whose rhythm the muses beat out, and the number of feet is never changed. As the rules of the learned principle keep these measures unchanged, it is the letters of the poem that increase and decrease. Phoebus, may the supplicant who offers these metrical pictures take his place joyfully in your temples and your sacred choruses.” –translation of Optation’s Altar, by Jan Kwapisz in Morphogrammata
Herman Miller's Youtube channel.
"Poor man wanna be rich
Rich man wanna be king"
--Springsteen
A brief history of the Canadian ghazal.
“A killing
at the heart of all their stories
and if we meet as lovers
cop and the chief suspect”
–Regina Niger, The Cat Who Coughed Up a Hairball (2007)
"In a destroyed place, art is taken seriously.."
dove have you been in pain
while i was in pain
somehow you sound sadder
closer to trailing off
without resuming
don’t do it
i need to keep hearing that sound
Of the Leaves That Have Fallen. (via )
Imagine leading a guided tour of the relics of what had been the 80s Dallas arts scene: there aren’t any. Every building has been removed. “You stand here,” i say, “and imagine it was somewhere you wanted to be.”
Corporations by Seppuku_Doge
byu/Dr_Burbeans inCyberpunk
"Lófasz (horse dick), a highly versatile and definitely the most frequently used animal penis word." (thread)
“What I thought was a tomato plant that miraculously survived the winter is actually a weed. I have been lovingly nurturing it back to health for several weeks. Feels like a metaphor for writing philosophy.” –@aliboyle6
Color in silent movies. (thread)
"A pilgrim
Ice
Ingesting hubbub
Gnash written into cold
Thilling existence [sic]
Creation
Intent
An extremity
Gone
Ample as a dandelion
Wondrous as a place
Vast as a mountain
Eternal as a hat
Dead as a cabinet
Torn as a mountain
The sagacious pilgrims
A hovel of pilgrims
Callous shanties and late pilgrims
Desisted”
–Issue 1, 3610
Juggalos Upset Over Emergence Of 'Clowncore' Scene.
"dusk future"
blank agenda · contemplete berm
coffee is cooling
deep shadows to sharpen
shush word & cartouche
what these shows have whizzing
while the Kind Ones smile
parked cars · in the pale dawn
traffic a-scramble
deep shadows to sharpen
shush word & cartouche
must get cracking, marksman
amok doesn't duck
there's a new nudge · never flinched
sky is for burning
chapbook fodder chides me
charred shadows to guard
what these shows leave whizzing
while the Kind Ones smile
How publishers designed books before computers...
“It is Ghalib’s fate to witness the massacre in the streets of Delhi and to see his city reduced to ruins in his lifetime. …There is a situation of lockdown and curfew in the city; anyone found in the streets is liable to be killed. … There seems to be no access to even basic necessities of life, including drinkable water and food. …Despite all these odds, he is a professional poet and writes a paean for Queen Victoria.” --The Inconsolable Ghalib
“However it happened, I was in the 7th edition. For half a decade, I was part of Contemporary American Poetry. I was included! After so many years of excludedness, I was in. In the 7th edition.
But I ain’t in the 8th.” –Bill Knott’s Blog (1/6/2007)
cannot draw back one green sprig
into the branch of the day before
plants die by degrees
a felicity unknown to the animal kingdom
no more need to be wearing gray
but gray is all i have now
gray prophetic
& somehow also beside the point
nails keep breaking in small ways
like my words, before they can make their point
arms remember where they were pierced
absurd stigmata, Gray, but what other?
"Not Real Windows
I lightly let go of my sanity,
that Antarctic gear
of monstrous precautions.
I say: things are not so bad
here and now
and how they do it…
Ten thousand years later I am dug
out of a glacier
with flesh on my bones.”
–Ogden Pound, Ransom Notes That Have Worked (2006)
Exile without cunning is just being lost.
Taiwan's morning sun rising over the Asian Pacific.
"The problem (one of the problems) with using mutants as a 1:1 metaphor for marginalized groups is that they're simultaneously an oppression metaphor and a power fantasy." --@edidin.bsky.social
febrile brillig · abrupt snare
the case to be made dwindles
still we strive · over corrugated
mem'ries, the fruit of retrospect
dead malls speak · spent inundation
tell a sorry return
trite betrayals · authors reread
have nothing much to say
brillig-colored sky · opals that look like
topaz, knowledge that will perish
in splendor & the sluice · slathers contempt
a gravelly hardware stop
i walk · where words wither into
empty & emptier shelves
& all they will have · in the hard turnings
is that the maze was bad
this riddlesky · skims souls from the drivers
who percolate unknown
beneath it nuggets · or spooled hist'ries
of aspirations thwarted
the night draws on · i have this madwatch
i took from a cooling hand
Babel one · storey more
is lifted now & forever
by the dry river · brillig scum
accosts the passing nose
& this was paradise
"to speak to the architect"
all things unfold for a reason--
a belief that i cannot endorse
it's a phrase people say
when they wish to allay
the griefs of a terrible season
an architect plans for a target
& you know when that target is met
but we tumble along
like a haphazard song
adding drawbridge & minaret
humans have sometimes a purpose
as the other harsh appetites churn
neither measured or sane
but a kind of terrain
besides the dirt one we learn
ah, were there an ultimate endpoint
or even less toxic recoil
to what doesn't work
i'd be happy to shirk
this lament; put shoulder to wheel
dream architect: nightmare the season
as sometimes the sixsideds land
though cause & effect
in their way must direct
there's nothing to understand
though cause & effect
in their way must direct
there's nothing to understand
"Toad found a lantern in the attic. 'Frog will see this light. I will show him the way out of the woods,' said Toad."
--@frogandtoadbot.bsky.social
"It takes a fictional drama set on other planets to say what the news bulletins won't.."
Works of Lina Persson. (Which i cannot help seeing as Moorcock's character "Una Persson".)
“The desire for freedom is the desire for new rules. And new rules mean new names for things.”
- Adam Phillips, Unforbidden Pleasures via @jacobwren.bsky.social
trunk of shuffled aliases
disassembled puzzles
somebody else’s treasure
dragon’s howe
but nothing buried
nothing really finished here
all alive & all dead
(2019)
"1381.
I suppose the time will come
Aid it in the coming
When the Bird will crowd the Tree
And the Bee be booming
I suppose the time will come
Hinder it a little
When the Corn in Silk will dress
And in Chintz the Apple
I believe the Day will be
When the Jay will giggle
At his new white House the Earth
That, too, halt a little--"
--Emily Dickinson
Future dusk, detailed oil painting, francis bacon, bridget riley.
"Although we generally experience ghosts as given to us, it is we that give ghosts to places." --Michael Bell via
Fanmo Jimte. Into the present.
"It's interesting that Paradise, Severance, and Silo are hit shows about a group of people trapped in a controlled environment by a group of rich people who are lying to them about the basic structure of their reality.
Probably says a lot about where we're at as a people!" --@maxberger.bsky.social
"Anything that proliferates is ripe for re-signification."
"Something is created according to His will, the Lord.
Creates more of these:
Our king wants again, and creates a thin night. Raz is created from the sky.
Our king wants again, and creates a bad evening. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a frozen horizon. Raz is created
from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a approaching lightning. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a pale wind. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a thunder in the cave. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a tormenting summer. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a withered whiteness. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a leader of hell. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a murder in the courtyard. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants again, and creates a rage from Gaza. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of the junta in Gaza. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a rough fence. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of routine killing. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a dried-up captive. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a fighting spirit. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a fugitive invader. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a fast Kurd. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a Frenchman who will break out . Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of torment for the Russian. Raz is created from the sky . Want our king again, and create a god of a Danish who is overthrown. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a gypsy who is nailed. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a sniper who will burst. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a cook who hit. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a dancer who was stabbed. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a run-over saw. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a strangled cone. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a pilot from the sky. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a vile salesman. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a telephone that has burst. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a lazy writer. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a tailor who has fallen. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a stupid chef. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a thief. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a policeman. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a closed-off, defective one. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a stoned, raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a killed puppy. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a burnt bull. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a rapist squirrel. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a trampling weasel. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a spear for a donkey. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a perverted peacock. Raz is created from the sky. Want our king again, and create a god of a fucked-up monkey. Raz is created from the sky. Our king wants to be created again, and he creates an evil god. A secret is created from the sky."
--Google translated from the Hebrew of Noam Dovev via
Ukrainian Dough Looks Into Every House.
"loneliness epidemic"
a black site
psychopath bloat
pictured slop
slackjawed bot poop
carillon
made of lark screams
we advance
viciously sure
"An exceptional person is stupidly tossed aside, and to come up with an explanation, the administration turns to its patented Random False Rationale Generator." (via @micahbateman.bsky.social)
"wtf why are my students all writing about genociding the Afrikaners in their essays!?" --@lastpositivist.bsky.social
Murders as if they're standing here. Murders as if in the distant past.
Sculptural works inspired by the fragile beauty of coral reefs.
"John Chrysostom
He who had gone a beast
Down on his knees and hands
Remembering lust and murder
Felt now a gust of grace,
Lifted his burnished face
From the psalter of the sands
And found his thoughts in order
And cleared his throat at last.
What they heard was a voice
That spoke what they could learn
From any gelded priest,
Yet rang like a great choir,
He having taught hell’s fire
A singing way to burn,
And borrowed of some dumb beast
The wildness to rejoice."
--Richard Wilbur via
Land of the Un/Free. (via @evecastle.bsky.social)
"goatpupil"
brillig stoplight steelglint
the stoop group
spools in the wry spirefall
spoof aloof
fool crossing with fishhook
fraught rotgut
where the sky dips skeptic
scuttle shuteyed
"Her wyvern-warded spires of celadon, enruned" --Clark Ashton Smith
"after the burial
and little waves splash
your hand"
--@poemexe.com
"that moon again"
Cheerios dust · the gray distance
floor that breaks things
lipogram novel · hailstorm anointed
maybe we'll get there
update my wish list
テレパシー能力者 : 星間性交. [Telepathic Abilities : Interstellar Sexual Intercourse]
doubtful the way
even when one’s sure of the way
most doubtful
most sure
as wolves regard the moon
their ever-companion
who must still be wooed
(2019)
"And when a man tells you that you know nothing and you are not nettled at it, then you may be sure that you have begun the work." –Epictetus
On the 17th of March 2023, Slushwave was approved for the RateYourMusic website's genre database.
"Every single time I see some industry development that is touted as being good for everyone, I see a development that makes a small number of people insanely rich, starves out the creators (aside from a tiny, tiny percentage) and makes the end product cheaper and less valued than ever before." --Emma Newman via
saffron i don again
on some other begging road
the machines keep breaking down
it is their way of having fun
i realize a clown is not complete
without a real, cruel, wounding
clown this clown is complete
three steps into the begging road
(2019)
Evil is the default, detailed ink drawing, aubrey beardsley.
grins aver
roof verdigris
fence detour
myst'ry undelved
warm at nine
nothing to glean
the cold clasp
of the cloister
zeroeth
grade level reads
"There’s no English word that conveys the longing and melancholic longing for those places far off in distance and in time like Hiraeth does.
However, Old English there is - Hwōpan. Divine discontent and longing for the far off places and lament of places lost to memory like the Eardstapa" --@wihtlore.uk
Languages and Communities in the Late-Roman and Post-Imperial Western Provinces.
"frozen ground…
what to do if you meet
until only mist"
--@poemexe.com
antcreep & · crisscross show
leaf blower larynx
the wizened gate · Golgonooza thirl
the furled abyss into
beige-cerulean · byre riddleprank
the smell of bleach on the wind
"Barberpole phasing specifically if you want the classic slush sound."
shadowneed not shelter
shudder thud
followed in far village
& film-Elm
made stories unsteady
star bargains
a candle's eye endgame
airy share
neon describes neighbor
& now joust
Retro gear. Synthwave threads. Strange treasures from the past and future.
"In stillness of the santal-pillared woods" --Clark Ashton Smith
“I know scarcely any other Russian poet of his generation who was in time, thought with and out of this time, thought it through to its end, in each of its moments, in its issues and happenings, in the words that faced tissues and happenings and were to stand for them, at once open and hermetic,” Paul [Celan] wrote to Mandelstam’s publisher, Gleb Struve via
futurity poorly sited
& assassination dowry
i rose on cicala tides
my combat rig ever wordy
wisdom of starry teals
where the century sleeper slept
into such tomes i’d steal
as are bound in woofus pelts
again, the fire gurney
getting to dreck checkmate
crunch of sober searchfail
syllabus thorn-pillow
the room full of famine
& the first slug shrugs
gateless the fire gurney
“ 'I can do no more for you, Mortimer. The truth is the kindest thing.'
'Is that so? I wonder what would be the unkindest.' " --@ivycomptonburnett
