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Peak technology.

"Apparently, in Rus, there have been two types of poetry since ancient times. One stream is poems without rhyme, based on deep thought and image, where words are cramped but thoughts are spacious (historical poetry, poetry about traditions, about the people’s exploits), and the second stream is rhymed poems, where rhyme plays a dominant role in versification. In ancient times, such poetry was created only by buffoons." —Ksenia Nekrasova via

Houses on the green on Angel Road.

"MUTATIONS

The scribe’s frames are atomistic. But in
mutations, the Scribe Afar scribes time.
Become a rubric, matter shifts in its sea,
but its core, its fabric, remains the same....

It is a cabinet, a crib, the summer forests.
It is the ember cut from a cane. It is brass.
It is a mimic, stubborn secrets, a feather.
(But its core, its fabric, remains the same.)

It is the brief but mesmeric sonata’s arc.
It is absent rites; chamber music to fear.
It is a manic orchestra’s ebb. It must free —
but its core, its fabric, remains the same.

It is sacrifice, abasement, sombre truth.
It is a ceramic urn, a fresh tomb. It besets.
It is a cherub become man.... It starts fires.
(But its core, its fabric, remains the same.)

It is the scientist, macabre form; a rebus.
It is mechanics, time’s barbarous fetter.
It is a cosmic number. Set far, it breathes —
but its core, its fabric, remains the same.

It is a bust of Artemis — her bent ceramics.
It is a statue from birch — timber séances.
It is a tribe’s rich number — a totem’s faces.
(But its core, its fabric, remains the same.)

It is a sermon — the burst, beatific scream.
It is an Arabic secret, the umber of mists.
It is a burnt fresco, a scheme’s bitter aim.
But its core, its fabric, remains the same.

It scribes afresh. It embraces mutation.
A chimera of cries, it ebbs; it transmutes.
Acts remember the fabrications: It is us
(but its core, its fabric, remains the same.)"

—Anthony Etherin

New Iran slop video.