( via / via )

"Suno is generating 7 million new tracks every single day."

“O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)”

— Hart Crane, “To Brooklyn Bridge” via @johnhealymurray

Sea level rise on vintage maps.

( via / via )

Esperantido.

       "more cowbell"

   crypt keeper
handshake, soot topsoil:
   gulag wine

A Reading of "Twin Peaks: The Return".

“The shadowed balcony and crater sound was traitored by quiet billows, and a whole far level was not unusual!” —Hell of the Cyr

"We come to music seeking a witness, seeking evidence that we do not live in isolation and that lived life can be given rational and legible form through our expressions. Another person has lived through time and context and made something from the irreversible decisions of that passage, a piece of art that presents to us, through its form, an image of lived life. Their embodied history meets ours through the formed sonic act. Music affirms the intelligibility of lived life because the movement of feeling has been given objective form through an embodied act."

( via / via )

Unnamed Cursed Conlang.

"Even art is entirely computer-mediated—and when the protagonist tries to make a sculpture without that mediation, it falls to bits." —Jo Walton on Don't Bite the Sun via

Annie Lennox at Freddy Mercury tribute.

“Sonnet

Say sad. Say sun’s a semblance of a bled
blanched intransigence, collecting rue
in ray-stains. Smirching pages. Takes its cue
from sateless stamens, flanging. Florid head

got no worries, waitless. Say you do. Say
photosynthesis. Light, water, airy bread.
What eats its source, its orbit? Something bad:
some plural petal that will not root or ray.

Sow stray. Salt night for saving, dreaming clay
for heap, for hefting. Originary ash
for stall and stilling. Say it will, it said.

Corolla corona, bliss-bane—delay
surge and sediment. Say instrument and gash
and ruminant remnant. Rex the ruse. Be dead.”

—Karen Volkman

"The chic allure of Alain Resnais’ second feature — a maddening, scintillating puzzle set in glitzy surroundings — produced a backlash, and one reason its defenders and detractors tend to be equally misguided is that both respond to the controversy rather than to the film itself."

( via / via [AI?] )

The Beast and its numbers.

improbable burger
greps the halls of Milgrim
some Instagram pogrom
nary a glum pilgrim

The year of three Moby Grapes.

"Every time I hear VU’s 'Waiting for the Man,' I can’t help but recall Burroughs’ disdain for the lyrics, which he expressed to Lou Reed: 'My god, what dealer is going to be wearing a straw hat?' " —R M Haines

"He was not a fan of science fiction and preferred not to read the works he was commissioned to paint..."

( via / via )

Rockin' Chair.

“The Manor Garden

The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.

You move through the era of fishes,
The smug centuries of the pig—
Head, toe and finger
Come clear of the shadow. History

Nourishes these broken flutings,
These crowns of acanthus,
And the crow settles her garments.
You inherit white heather, a bee’s wing,

Two suicides, the family wolves,
Hours of blankness. Some hard stars
Already yellow the heavens.
The spider on its own string

Crosses the lake. The worms
Quit their usual habitations.
The small birds converge, converge
With their gifts to a difficult borning.”

—Sylvia Plath, 1959

Listen Up: Bobbie Gentry.

"The Satyr and the Saint, by Leonardo Bercovici

Subtitled 'A Novel of the Roman Film Colony,' The Satyr and the Saint is a spoof of the world of Fellini, Antonioni, De Sica, and all the stars and denizens of Cinecitta. Bercovici learned about the Italian film scene after he was blacklisted from Hollywood in the early 1950s and moved to Europe to continue working as a screenwriter. The satyr of the title is Rudolfo Urbani, a renowned film director and rival of Casanova. Urbani hires a young Sicilian novelist whom he learns is still celibate in his late twenties — hence the saint. A satire about Italian manners and mores, it is definitely a candidate for further research." —Neglected Books via

Why 46 People Died Because of a Story That Never Made Sense.

( via / via )

Barracuda.

"driven ev'ry kind of rig that's
ever been made"

—"Weed, Reds and Wine"

You Drink a Lot of Coffee for a Teenager.

      "Pluto Demotion Day"

cat culdesac orca
calm lavender gin mill
      Quixote
   has it backwards
we must live · by the break of swevens

Trapezohedron pack mule
pearl-infinite buncombe
      Quixote
   has it backwards
being there · precedes set list

still a few mailbox nodes
necessary lessons
      Quixote
   has it backwards
Vesuvius blew · to get that blue note

Apricot Sky Sliver.

( via / via )

Genocidal levels of suffering & death.

"the poet born for flowers tastes ashes"

cardhouse fluttering
kingdom of cut cardboard
derelict chastisements
with it still unsaid
bartered hours burn
the found bairn staring
in the ant-haunted desert

The Envoy of Mr Cogito.

Oneday people are going to want to know what happened to us, & they aren’t going to get it from our novelists.

Compton-Burnett audiobook at Archive dot org.

( via / via )

Top 25 Noir.

" Set in 306 BCE, the story tells of a sculptor’s commission from the King of Macedonia, which is interrupted when the island is visited by 'the gods in a sky-chariot.' But the chariot is a spaceship and the gods are a pair of bug-like humanoid aliens, one of whom becomes the sculptor’s model for the now headless Winged Victory of Samothrace statue on display in the Louvre." —Sean Guynes via

Poems for Blok.

thiefjubilee jewelbin
      nard of stakes
adjust your sets Stetson
   north forty surge

tidal blurry barstool
      paint burlap
blunt gas price iceberg
   way far pumpkin

Julie London in 1968.

( via / via )

Last Year at Marienbad.

fanebruised outcome
foghorn snag
veldt pinwheel

song spoiled why good

"Pretty soon collecting turns into research, research into interpretation, and interpretation into something worth sharing."

"Tokimeku does not specify joy. It specifies that the heart has been set going." —@thetokyohermit

Your timeline has been cursed.

( via / via )

Diary of a Shinjuku Thief.

“The book is our ghost story.”

—Riverwork, Lisa Robertson via @dreamsofbeing.bsky.social

The Revolutionaries Try Again.

coilname howdah, fetish wasp

stooge silo should squeal at all

It's August, Yet it Feels Like September.

( via / via )

Operation Spiderweb--the patch.

tarry among problems
oil shimmer
on umber coffee

wake up reversed

Reader at the Station.

"To criticise Nick Land for being inhumane is as hollow as criticising him for being British; he’s uncannily proud of both crimes." —@hollowataraxia via

The Sandman.

( me / via )

Revisiting The Wind and the Lion.

"...Carlyle ( ) wrote to say that his wife had read Sordello with great interest, and wished to know whether Sordello was a man, or a city, or a book." —G K Chesterton, Browning (1903)

Dr John selects (with many links).

      "elegy for Boolean search"

lost in the slope stupor-
'petually whirled deadlock
      labyrinth
   doubly threadbare
Durkin saloon · orchidaceous
Makeshift Variation

Richard & Linda Thompson.

( via / via )

Notes from the Edge Conference.

"At Pearl Lodge blazing fragrance lingers.
After combing, brushing, jade rooms.

A burning orchid serves as a candle.
Gathered brocade never becoming text.

What by nature is gracefully remote,
transforms to bitterness with distant gazing.

I turn my head. I ask the winnowing gleam.
The winnowing gleam grows hollow."

—Li Shangyin tr Chloe Garcia Roberts via (More.)

Idio-Bibles.

"He taught the Law of Gravity, furnished proof after proof, but people turned deaf ears. Then he took off into the air and, floating there, repeated the lesson. Now people believed. But nobody was surprised when he did not come down again." —Paul Celan via via aldaily

"...Alexander Ross over..." (Which can be examined here.)

( me / via )

Piranhamasia.

“One mark of originality that can give canonical status to a literary work,” wrote Harold Bloom, “is strangeness that we either never altogether assimilate, or that becomes such a given that we are blinded to its idiosyncrasies.” (via)

Sword-Maiden's Song.

      "De Luscinia / Alcuin: Concerning a Nightingale

Jealousy, that’s what it was. It was thin-fingered envy that nabbed you,
   stealing away my delight, Nightingale, out of the broom!
Sour as my soul had become, you could fill it with honeying sweetness,
   lilting it into my ears, lifting it into my heart.
Come, all you creatures with wings! Let them come from the corners of heaven
   adding their grief to my own, singing the song of the muse.
Not much to look at for color, but sound that could carry my heart off:
   sound with the breadth of the air poured from your throat’s little strait,
sweetness in dollops and pours and melismas, repeating, renewing,
   always a song in your mouth to him who is maker of all.
Everywhere night and its terrible blackness, yet still you were singing,
   voice that should still us to prayer, ornament hung on the dark.
Why should we wonder at all at the angels eternally chanting
   praise to the Lord of the storm? You could sing endlessly too."

—tr Maryann Corbett via

"As Wilde himself once put it, what can be said in an aphorism is usually not worth saying, but what can only be said in an aphorism is always worth saying."

( via / via )

August Company.

"POSTSCRIPT

Though now but marble are the marble urns,
Though fountains droop in waning light and pain
Glitters on the edges of wet ferns,
I should not dare to let you in again.

Mine is a world foregone though not yet ended,—
An imagined garden grey with sundered boughs
And broken branches, wistful and unmended,
And mist that is more constant than your vows."

—Hart Crane

Gelände (Part III). In Nürnberg.

"And lies all withering on Methymna's shore" —Royston's Lycophron

Free Jeffers in wide format--i love this. (via)

( via / me )

Fever.

"Another avenue of income came from those who were willing to buy macabre items from the hangman: the rope used at the hanging; the clothing, jewelry, and property of the executed person, often all sold to circuses, museums, or collectors." —The August Journal via

Alexanderplatz U-Bahn.

known antidote inning
      whiny psalm
only to get there mitigate
   savage whelkjuice
carolling sunrise

fell poem devouring
   snowball lump
look at dog school facecrime

known antidote ironclad

The Picasso Bug.

( via / via )

This is exactly the kind of book we usually manage to ignore.

"bloodstained rune"

slides shuffled · of sheer atrocities
discoloration · practiced cough
working to defeat · wasps out back
whose slim emissaries · through the thick air slide

Ammonius Saccas is one of the strangest figures in philosophy, as he wrote nothing down and swore his students to secrecy about his teachings.

"(Tyrants, regicide is too good for you!)" —Finnegans Wake

Investigated for Being 'Antifa'.

( via / via )

The Idea of a Poetry Conservatory.

"It [The Rouse] is painstakingly realistic yet haunted by presences somewhere between gods and mollusks." —The Boston Review via

Forgotten Treasures: a Symposium. More.

"fathomfumble"

night roar, cactus rescue
car thig loud, maybe
full claw ploy

Dusty rose by request.

( me / via )

Tranquiffity.

         "charade"

fanebruise from a soft launch
quarter moon or so
describe seamless · execution
   prowl the dim rooms
dodging the windows · dream
   of perfected procedures
burning · burning away
the intricate ceramic lamp
   i made for camping
i discarded on the road

Inland Empire.☆☆☆☆

"Un difficulté est une lumière. Une difficulté insurmontable est un soleil."

—Paul Valery via

The Finished House.

( via / via )

How I Solved the Library of Babel.

“For ours is a most fictile world; and man is the most fingent plastic of creatures.” —Carlyle

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll.

"O (Only two vowels, alternating)

Long I trod, dislodging rocks,
blind on Io’s wilds….

Now I hold
this cosmic god,
this fossil of iron;
this lost lion
with torn wings:

Now,
I hold
Io’s sphinx."

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

Spirits Summoned West.

( me / via )

Decent sized M8-class solar flare.

      "On a Palindromic Street"

Darjeeling taste nostalgic
taken away Reichstag
      & cold toast
the way forward wary
   call it tightrope
invisible
the machine—clunk!—shudders
sharing the wide spiderweb
      of chaos
careen like a rorqual
   & carry on
Darjeelingless

There are roses in autumn.

"It technically falls under the category of ‘Dino Synth’- In the late 2010s or early 2020s, someone took the basic formula of Dungeon Synth, but instead of trying to evoke images of castles and wizards, they set out to evoke velociraptors and ankylosaurs." —Marat via

The aesthetics of Arab AI slop.

( me / via )

"...as if some of the turpitude..."

"Probably the most important thing you can do if you give a shit about non-establishment poetry is to archive shit. Become a small time librarian, or at least a keeper of lists and records of some kind. In 5-10 years, or sooner, nobody is going to know what the hell happened and a bunch of websites will be dead. Substack either will not exist or will be totally unrecognizable (there’s little good here anyway, poetry-wise, but still). Books with small print runs will be gone. Maybe Internet Archive will exist, or they’ll shut it down, and your ability to read an enormous amount of valuable poetry will depend on geography and access to physical archives in some library. Then in 25 years some online antiquarian will come along and start digging stuff up, and everyone will think, “what happened to these people? there was all this great shit and it just kind of vanished.” And the poets will either have given up or stopped publishing or will have continued in their weird corner, while all the most predictable dogshit will continue to flourish at all the podiums of the world. Ofc not everybody can afford to buy all the books out there, but mapping and listing and reviewing and coordinating convos and just RECORDING what the hell we’re doing is important bc NO ONE ELSE IS GOING TO DO IT." —RM Haines

"As much, the fold yields light."

“All is laughter, all is dust, all is nothing,
for all that is cometh from unreason.”

—Glycon, The Greek Anthology, x.124 (tr Paten)

The Greek can be found in an article called “Greek Laughter and the Problem of the Absurd.” (A chapter in this.) The original has for ‘unreason’: αλογων. (I made a version in Lojban once.)

To Measure the Rain.

( via / via )

Zine made with pink eraser prints.

esters esemplastic
      high shining
tinned asteroid landfall
   & shallow graves
hyaline prospect

bug still moving migrant
      heavily
mitigated witness
   for what harsh end
cloudily forecast

coffee beans in belfry
      wax amber
buffalo herd circled
   into the edge
shelter atomic

ping ping rogue pangolin
      jetlag fierce
pallid linoleum
   reflects lampad
watching the feature

spark suppressor hissing

Vanishing Culture.

"I feel like there’s an alternate universe in which Natalie Harp started dyeing her hair black instead of platinum blonde and ended up being the kind of girl who wrote letters to famous serial killers in prison" —@marawilson.bsky.social

Opening the Ice Silk Road.

( via / via )

I Wanted to Stay.

"Not everything is iconic. Some things are just emblematic." —@nickmamatas729830

Data-Processor.

we want Smooth, night-withered
wambly course forced on us
       kitchen's hiss
   comes from that shape
disease escaped from · by the skin of our flim flam

wasp-circled cesspool
scintillating hate mail
       plunged into
   plastic vespers
disease carried · into the cold fluorescents

The Dream Songs and The Skeleton Tree.

( via / via )

The Wrong Kind of American.

      "lynchings tally"

throbbing rattle · in returning shade
   day upon day of fire
my box of words · left back there
   doesn't need me now

"The battlefield is everywhere."

"Of course, as is often the case with potent memetic quotes, this one bears only superficial resemblance to anything that the Italian Marxist philosopher Antonio Gramsci actually said. What he did write, in his Prison Notebooks essays while he was imprisoned by the Fascist regime in the 1930s, was:

La crisi consiste appunto nel fatto che il vecchio muore e il nuovo non può nascere: in questo interregno si verificano i fenomeni morbosi più svariati.

Which, translated literally into English, gives:

The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born: in this interregnum a great variety of morbid phenomena occur." via

"I was given the chance to touch the edge of knowing and experience the unmatched exhilaration of discovering structure in the labryinth of everything."