"We are not persuaders. We are the children of the Unknown."
"Things last either too long, or not long enough."
Once i coined a difrasismo for Noir with the Lojban words for “night” and “fate”.
"51.4% or 23,419 sold between 12–999 copies."
"For the disembodied entities that dwell in language, the cloth mother and wire mother are best analogized as bouba mother and kiki mother" —@ctrlcreep
"We had no way to talk about any of this."
"SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.
Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet--never yet--ah me!
Made answer to my word.
Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.
Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green."
—Christina Rossetti
"Squalicum Nocturne
Pavilia of the moon's aperture tonight
the veined lineaments of desire to the Bering Strait
beyond. This is jealousy's perfection, the aftermath
of the pack-ice. I only mention it because
reticulated into the stratified, the beatific.
& there are raptors along the high ridges
nomadic Clovis hunters of the Cascade Crest
ostensibly a promenade of phalanxes
for the skulls of ungulates, the bare white plinths
scratches, indentations, scrolls
of predation's delirium, a validation,
the frescoed trellising obviously its grim stain.
& so it goes here in these rainshadow archipelagos.
The humped backs & hooked snouts of the dark ones,
invalids of the parapets, the fish ladders...
of the holding ponds. The climax conifers soothe
somewhat, as does the vale & warp of the moon.
But the gaudiness of the death-rattle remains."
—Anselm Parlatore via
Big Suicide coughs in the wings.
My Philosophy in Seven Covers.
"If you want to know why someone would grind their life away scrolling the jackpot in their pocket, look no further than these drive-by bits of reality." —Travis Wright via
"I knew that one day my gallery would get me laid."
sea of humans choosing
those for whom slop is more real
pale cerulean powerhouse
Zeus is angry
"all that allows us to plan"
lanes closing in
Hiroshima
on a morning like this
dance
because nothing
dance
because nothing
dance
"Polymarket has millions of dollars in wildfire-related bets & more than $1M in beds were placed on the 2025 Los Angeles wildfires!" —@malena.bsky.social via
"We submit ourselves to fantastic degradations of image and sound consumption in order to anaesthetise the pain resulting from having lost reality." —Ivan Illich via
Michel Ocelot & "Earth Intruders".
"ergotism of the administrators"
pomp of hurled paragraphs
a poor show quarrelling
what we wish to seem is finished
in the wild druid grove
libraries burning like beaconlights
in a time of vast eclipse
the stout mind with a merle's shrug
mutates lately
"If you want to look at who was challenging gender, look to the battlegrounds not the amphitheater."
"we chose unwisely"
pinkgold rattle, respite
glowing eyes
roost in the teal wheelchair
gallery whirr
come again with cairnthwart
payphone wire
coiled & broken off token
"The monster that best captures the current nature of human-machine hybrids is the wraith, a creature that isn’t impeded by barriers and that serves as an uncanny double of real people."
—Meghan O'Gieblyn via
A Name for the Fourth Moon of Pluto.
"And not even the blasphemers of the demiurge have dared to deny that the universe is most beautiful, but rather, they maintain that because of this beauty, souls are harmed."
—Proclus
"Hubble site:
impatiently waiting
for a galaxy to load"
—Tom Clausen via
"...the AIs will build the cathedral on their own. They will be better architects than us."
"Poppy
They’re calling me. The arsonists of cypresses.
I stroked bunnies in my palms.
He rose at dawn. He rose at dawn.
They’re embracing me. The tiger that stomped on the tribe.
It coiled the roads like flax around legs.
Die, Tomaž! You no longer have a soul!
I photographed you with your mouth open
as you lay on the snow for the agreement
with the ravens. The hall that you
thought was rock was really
the rag of a red heartbeat."
—Tomaž Šalamun (Translated by Brian Henry in The Yale Review)
"Greek, Sir, is like lace; every man gets as much of it as he can."
— Samuel Johnson via @hereforthebooks
"When they burned the Library of Alexandria, the crowd cheered in horrible joy. They understood that there was something older than wisdom, and it was fire." —@yurirando (2022) via @incertus
"grizzled Zubenelg"
supernal yarn fizgig
is signal
or is it noise
final noun rhinestone
trees narrow · traik among edges
borderlands of blitzkrieg
sombrero
orb indigo
braille in pale cerulean
trees narrow · traik among edges
"But I am very sure of the style of the architecture and of the consecration of the church."
"ardent dero, rodent dear"
Sitzfleisch ullage, zealwise
berserk the wheeled keelhaul
inchmeal sunrise satchel
"There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness." —@mobydickatsea.bsky.social
Wild Bull and Raven Are Friends.
"Just when the gods had ceased to be, and the Christ had not yet come, there was a unique moment in history, between Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, when man stood alone." —Flaubert via
On the Russian Persecution of the Jews.
"setter of tasks"
poltroon wanting nothing more
than follow what he's done before
mothlamp smear
wooden remorse
the Joker's phiz · plastered storeys tall
fixture of gilt furltide
foul scarecrow & rare pickpocket
vap buzzing
in burdened trees
this hour small · mothlight smirr
cannot stay, stark word
& stalled dollhouse hourglass
lets me think
a thorough wreck
looking through · lightning prism
parked cars all newer
on this nowl-filled stoneglebe
"bungee cord"
buzz not lost for boasting
the high fire
debacle perne lockstep
afar haggard
game of lids illumined
trick gravel
deluscious thirst flushing
the grue sprig turned
I always wondered what happened to [Keith Roberts]. 70s scifi had some major literary figures, & by the end of the 80s had repudiated or driven most of them out. Lafferty seems to be having a comeback, maybe Keith Roberts will too.
Theory is making a game that is like the problem—& then thinking that to win the game is to solve the problem. Well, maybe for especially gamelike problems...
"life of the boxcar"
Moloch frolicking
whiplash pale cerulean
the cough made of cadmium
catches hares the snares miss
eater of books axis
erstwhile knell but spellcheck
we will learn bling longhand
along with snide bridle
gibbous moon high
assassin of koans
Cerberus overshares
“By the way, Melville reads Old Books. He has borrowed Sir Thomas Browne of me and says finely of the speculations of the Religio Medici that Browne is a kind of 'crack'd Archangel.' Was ever anything of this sort said before by a sailor? - Evert Duyckinck to his brother George.
Upon his return from adventures at sea, Evert Duyckinck had given Melville the freedom of his 16,000 volume library."
—@gregorykindall
"If an AI proof works for the Riemann Hypothesis and particularly for the Goldbach’s Conjecture, I will lose a piece of my humanity forever." —@avmarraccini via
"Some initial thoughts, and a complicated mix of feelings." (thread)
"lizard drizzle"
old atrophied riddles
roost stipulate gulag
the unwilling guests
gather at the mainspring
pills, pint interventions
fiery slide begins
banana peel
calling things by the wrong name
rapt cranioklepty
klicks past ever bursting
bookcase yaws
with yearn slumber
Moloch imbibes · boxes of lament
olive tinted sky skirling
& scattered casings rasp
kilnward fall
your face blisters
velocity into · threadbare infanticide
My didgeridoo story. A correspondent in the 80s sent me a cassette which included some didgeridoo music. This fascinated me, not least because i could subsequently find scarcely any mention of the thing anywhere. --And then, somewhat later, i had been contacted to find a performance venue for some travelling improvisatory musicians who were coming to Dallas. I found a house, & contacted as many people as i could. So we were sitting there beginning, when in walked: one didgeridoo. Two didgeridoos. Three didgeridoos. (2015)
"And the thing that's so messed up about American culture my sister? An American will spend all their money getting entertained by Hollywood films of catastrophe & disaster & gore. But that stuff happening in real life to real people? All they can do is look away."
—chantalalive.blacksky.app
Periclean Bourgeoisie Syndrome.
“A Crocodile
Hard by the lilied Nile I saw
A duskish river-dragon stretched along,
The brown habergeon of his limbs enamelled
With sanguine almandines and rainy pearl:
And on his back there lay a young one sleeping,
No bigger than a mouse; with eyes like beads,
And a small fragment of its speckled egg
Remaining on its harmless, pulpy snout;
A thing to laugh at, as it gaped to catch
The baulking, merry flies. In the iron jaws
Of the great devil-beast, like a pale soul
Fluttering in rocky hell, lightsomely flew
A snowy troculus, with roseate beak
Tearing the hairy leeches from his throat.”
—Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849)
Our robots whistle. What they ask we fetch.
Heaped upon our plates, supernal spinach.
We won't go back to knowing things, nor rest
till ev'ry last human's cured of even the itch.
"Even the world of literature and taste is divided into the most virulent factions, which revile, decry, and traduce the works of one another." —Humphrey Clinker
I think just about the only good depiction of an artist is the title character in Waitress (2007). We see her life, we see what she makes of it, & for several recipes she explains how she works.
"The Black Heralds
There are blows in life so terrible ... I don’t know!
Blows as if from God’s loathing, as if
the sudden wake of every suffered thing
just welled up ... I don’t know.
They are few; but they are ... they dig deep trenches
in the finest face, the straightest back.
Maybe they’re the outriders of some atrocious Attilas;
or the black heralds that Death sends.
Those steep plunges the Christs of the soul take
into despair;
some adorable faith that Fate’s blasphemed.
Those blows are the red crackling
of the loaf that burns at the oven’s door.
And man ... poor, poor man ... he glances round
as when someone, standing behind him, claps him
to attention: his crazy eyes glance round,
& everything he’s always lived
pools in guilt-puddles on that glance’s floor.
There are blows in life so terrible ... I don’t know!"
—César Vallejo, 1918 (tr Cameron Clark)
"A Welsh Testament
All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound
Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr
Knew was armour against the rain's
Missiles. What was descent from him?
Even God had a Welsh name:
He spoke to him in the old language;
He was to have a peculiar care
For the Welsh people. History showed us
He was too big to be nailed to the wall
Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him
Between the boards of a black book.
Yet men sought us despite this.
My high cheek-bones, my length of skull
Drew them as to a rare portrait
By a dead master. I saw them stare
From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep
In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand
By the thorn hedges, watching me string
The far flocks on a shrill whistle.
And always there was their eyes; strong
Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;
Speak to us so; keep your fields free
Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar
Of hot tractors; we must have peace
And quietness.
Is a museum
Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper
Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust
In my own eyes? I am a man;
I never wanted the drab role
Life assigned me, an actor playing
To the past's audience upon a stage
Of earth and stone; the absurd label
Of birth, of race hanging askew
About my shoulders. I was in prison
Until you came; your voice was a key
Turning in the enormous lock
Of hopelessness. Did the door open
To let me out or yourselves in?"
—R. S. Thomas via
"Some creative writing gurus will tell their students 'there’s no universal ideal length, each work is unique'. This is wrong. There is an ideal for each medium and I’m going to share it with you:
Poem: 14 lines
Short Story: 3000 words
Play or Movie: 2 hours runtime
Novel: 0 pages (novels should not exist)" —@alexmckeown
Poem: 5 lines. Every sonnet but Shakespeare’s is padded out. 5 lines was good enough for anything Heian Japan wanted to say. We just need to learn to make our lines work harder. Starts with ceasing to write like we talk.
Movie: 60-90 minutes. In the 60s a comedy or a thriller could do it, why can’t we? Long movies are like a rock concert that stops dead just so each player can have their solo spot. That’s not the way to tell a story.
Novel: 120 pages (half of an Ace Double. aspire to be an Ace Double.) The trouble is, nowadays we expect a fiction book to be three or four stories tangled together. Disentangle them & publish separately.
PS a sculpture should be small enough to fit in your pocket. A master whittler can express any concept or emotion (as Baudelaire famously said about perfume). And everyone knows the power of 3-minute songs.
North American Cryptid Museum.
"...actuated by the demons of profligacy and licentiousness, they are seen every where rambling, riding, rolling, rushing, justling, mixing, bouncing, cracking, and crashing in one vile ferment of stupidity and corruption—All is tumult and hurry; one would imagine they were impelled by some disorder of the brain, that will not suffer them to be at rest." —Humphrey Clinker
""initiulator"
1.
wapsnets, bitter season
of sizzle poptacular
deep in the dog days
prodigious
squirrelmummy
swart topiary
music that served its time
2.
turbulent sunset · considered as fall
of this configuration
blue cardboard · walls too far
as i write
the sad figures · dwindle
words in my pocket
a long catalog · of the untimely dead
3.
wastewaps boomerang
barreljail
abysmal fizz gathered
just in cut time
vinegarswerved vintages
vaster than bilge aspic
turquoise dusk
glimmers over the fence
patter of blown twigs
on a car roof
a murder of crows
approaches, misdemeanor-bent
hammer in a bag
rancid pale cerulean
shadereft, as the bone cradle
boils inly, a fool's choice
to fetch back
shapes of Feghoot
confinement steel wheelwell
patter of blown twigs
on a car roof
this parking lot
alive with birdsong & traffic mutter
nothing like lyric
Jupiter eats a comet
calmly amidst headstand
my magnum opus mapped out
in merle-colored furlongs
high summer
with long simmer
patter on a car roof blown
"There is no line, now, if there ever was, between there and here, burning and breathing, their life and our own." —Becca Rose Hall via
A murder of crows approaches, misdemeanor-bent.
"The hat now sits in the Smithsonian, made at Duke-Rigs Men's Shop in New York."
"Tvashtar"
half halfdeaf
ideawise weighstation
hissing kitchen
warrior in sackcloth
"...the voice makes lots of precise gestures of meaning, mixed up with bafflingly imprecise jokes."
"ekphrasis"
ho velura kverelo
ravel velour verdure,
violet grail
awelight by autumnal shine
urns carnage
unearths frith
despair escapes containment
torn attire
the whole wrench of hilching
gleamgold in the rolldark
garble carbs
noclip trip
ravel velour zugzwang
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"awelight"- the project of making Poliespo useable
"autumnal shine"- the taste of Newcastle ale
epigraph- a line from an Esperanto poem of mine: 'oh velvet quarrel!'
"Whether that means exploring the history of a word, composing a lipogram, creating nonsense literature, crafting alliterative verse, constructing a word puzzle, or taking language apart to see what else it can do, Elementary Penguin will be a home for that spirit of playful curiosity."
—Anthony Etherin via
All Pieces of a River Shore. Found #70 here (?).
