Uummati Attanarsimat (Heart of Glass).
Orangeotild
dear looting
dilator gone
tire gondola
groaned toil
ingot ordeal
ardent igloo
genital odor
nor gated oil
Studying to pin the fallen dead leaves back on the tree.
Robert Duncan's notes on Ron Silliman's 'Opening'. (via @alinaetc.bsky.social)
"I hadn’t thought through why I was writing in anagrams, I just suddenly was—and I initially found myself a bit irritated and mystified by this seeming diversion from my 'real' poems." —Dora Malech via
"WILL I MEET YOU SOMETIME?
After three ways in the rain image
when waking your counterimage: he,
the magician. Angels weave you in
the dragonbody. Rings in the way,
long in the rain I become yours."
—Unica Zürn via
"Through
night-lava
like
eyelids opening gently
the first cry of the creative volcano
blinks.
In the branches of your limbs
the premonitions
build their twittering nests."
— Nelly Sachs (translated by Ruth & Matthew Mead) via @Isidro_Li
What if Beowulf had been written by Shakespeare?
"There is a stone, a cubic mile in size, a million times harder than diamond. Every million years a very holy man visits it to give it the lightest possible touch. The stone is in the end worn away. This works out at something like 10 to-the-35th years..."
—Littlewood's Miscellany
#1 on Apple Music in 19 countries.
"Stuck a toothpick in my manuscript and it came out gooey. Needs more time in the oven."
—@adrianf.bsky.social
"Whether the fascination is real matters less than the spiral itself."
"Night wind
makes birds of empty bags
Some lonely child."
—@hinterlands.bsky.social
Sol 1758: Right Navigation Camera (Navcam), imaged at 13:40:56.096.
Michael Moorcock on Mervyn Peake.
"The skull is not the bones. The Ro-
Mans discovered this. The eighteenth-century classicists
Dropped their hats and cheered
The skill
At making things is not the sure
Body of bones.
The skeleton stays
Says, 'Mary Murphy sumus.
We grow.' "
—Jack Spicer via
"From: Jeffrey Epstein
To: Cain From The Bible
Date: March 7th, 3000BC
Subject: Re: Thinking of killing my brother? 👀👀
go for it it wouljld be extremlry sexy to invenf thr cornvept of murder snd yherefore curse mankind fur eternkity ;) ;)"
—@jackbern.bsky.social
Anatomy of an Ad Campaign. (via Melanie)
"Then there is a thing cald wheaten-flowre, which the sulphory Necromanticke Cookes doe mingle with water, egges, spice, and other tragicall magicall inchantments, and then they put it by little and little, into a Frying-pan of boyling suet, where it makes a confused dismall hissing (like the Learnean Snakes in the reeds of Acheron, Stix or Phlegeton ) vntill at last by the skill of the Cooke, it is transform'd into the forme of a Flap-iack, which in our translation is cald a Pancake, which ominous incantation the ignorant people doe deuore very greedily (hauing for the most part well dined before:) but they haue no sooner swallowed that sweet candyed baite, but straight their wits forsake them, and they runne starke mad, assembling in routs and throngs numberlesse of vngouerned numbers, with vnciuill ciuill commotions." —John Taylor, the Water Poet via
midnight coffee & madness
comes munching the Plimsoll
switchblade archpoet cranching
ill with rollic ascension
ill with rollic ascension
doppio script scrollops
screwworm's dual dollops:
midnight answers mercy
with mere tor of plywood
with mere tor of plywood
HD 137010. (thread)
still ice at the edges
ev'rything back level
carol orange compacts
castaway vast ramparts
loose ice for a language
lurks bling to distinguish
tattered albums talking
atonement's rich anthem
"...nor find sport/ In torch-light treachery or the luring owl" —The Ring and the Book
Often the Dying Ask for a Map.
"The boundary whereon I break to mist" —The Ring & the Book
I had not thought to write a poem on Eirik
when i set out upon this sea of woe,
when i embarked upon this tour of Earth.
Of all the irritants to spark a pearl
many a snag's found mention in my book.
I had not thought to write a poem on Eirik.
Hazard & fumble serve as Vision's salt.
We translate as we may; i had wings to give
when i embarked upon this tour of Earth.
I wrought with gold & iridescent names
for ev'ry passing whisper out of Ghayb;
i had not thought to write a poem on Eirik.
Never we choose the contrails we create
though spurred as i by shadowy throngs & glare
when i embarked upon this tour of Earth.
Some night bird batters the panes. I direct my heart
where lions drowse among the baobabs.
I had not thought to write a poem on Eirik
when i embarked upon this tour of Earth.
(2020)
the war as given
& further explosions rife
did this not prepare
men bulked up with armaments
no quarter for civilians
February, 1969. (I can't believe that one of JG Ballard's contributions in this same issue reproduces an episode of the moon-landing teletype-computergame i played in school instead of going to class.)
"Going to see a whole lot of movie reviewers arrested in the next few days, I reckon." &mbdash;@sesn.bsky.social
"The Time of the Weird is a Spiral." (via Mefi)
"Pessoa, in a note describing his ideal:
'The sensibility of Mallarmé in the style of Vieira; to dream like Verlaine in the body of Horace; to be Homer by moonlight.'
(The Book of Disquiet, tr. M. J. Costa)" —@yoonkim.bsky.social
rose-return from torment
turdnexus, to bloom vexless:
but when, whirr of choppers;
wherefore, corp of child stealers?
winter sunlight wizens
wanhope in cold grep capsules
the strange door... astringent
stroll among oblong goal posts
— Unwanted Narrator (@unwantednarrator.bsky.social) January 29, 2026 at 11:15 AM( via / via )
"miasma"
hammer-headed godlings
hilch sprites in the thin shindig
"Every pastoral seals an epochal white-knuckler." —John Peck
My understanding. I'm not sure that i have any understanding apart from pictures of my understanding.
lost words in the winter
walg of bards who bear fardels
flicker candle—flatiron
flying saucer—muse boskage
meritless thread thrallward
threnody where knives prizefling
not the news we're used to
nestlings of questbright shambles
tweed upon stool's stammer
stereo drool, wrenched oolong
& the day out darkens
daft as ants the prance scuttles
🧊.
Zeuhl 100. (via feuilleton)
"[Joni] Mitchell didn’t have a driver’s license so she drove behind truckers who would signal when the police were approaching." —Richard Skinner via
The inflatables want you to understand.
i am building ballads
in the before-gloom
building them of bright slivers
of winter sun
reflected off SUVs
they will reach to Pluto
Nobody thought the revolution.
ten robodobermans
on Good's killer's trail
twelve on Pretti's
i will have
yogurt this morning
Sometimes when I Am Seated in a Darkened Theater.
"my favorite part of the melania movie is when dorothy’s house falls on her" —@frovo.bsky.social
"My favorite part of the Melania movie is when Ripley opens the airlock."
—@kyloboomhauer.bsky.social
"The tragedy of syncretism is that it makes exact statements impossible: the conflation of so many various symbol systems
dissolves every potential synthetic concept (generalization) into an infinity of ambiguous associations." —The Theory and Practice of Oligarchic Collectivism
Understanding the #ICEOUT App.
"cold moon
a jellyfish cradled
in darkness"
—@isabelcaves.bsky.social
(First published in Stardust Haiku, issue 44)
"I turned from the haze and pain of my dream-memories..."
cold dim garage, roster
of wry books in dry boxes
not painful cold pesters
but pure sadness: time's fury
deals dust with the clock ticks
"Ray Nelson passed away in 2022, having lived to the age of 91 years old. In that time, he:
- Wrote the short story that 'They Live' was based on
- Introduced Phillip K. Dick to LSD
- Was Anne Rice's writing teacher
- Invented the propeller beanie" —@eizebasa.baby
"not leaning too far out of the window on this one, but I think that the structures and constraints of academic professionalization prevent many interesting kinds of philosophy and generate many uninteresting kinds." —@tim-elmo.bsky.social
Region of the N159 star-forming complex in the Large Magellanic Cloud.
shuffle through slush · slestered with otium
fierce raking glare
sounds fall · feel less the cold than silence
as if stockpiled
dark hulks not yet · at the end of this or other streets
but you look for them
& tell yourself lies · tin whistle would quell this
Not a real comic but if it was i would buy it.
"strongly worded letter"
Rosilica sailing
mere seconds to midnight
dark seas of the doom-fed
air is daggers' antheap
"I do not think a degenerated scholasticism is the right historical metaphor for our time and era. I think late antiquity Hellenistic philosophy is where we should see ourselves." —Liam Kofi Bright via
The eagerness of forgetting, like a dog at your elbow who gulps every scrap.
That is the closest the Clock has ever been to midnight.
"sail with the black fleet"
winter sun
the snow starting to melt
ev'ryone joins the churn
stern feast where their peace went
"A poem is written by somebody who's not the poet and addressed to somebody who's not the reader."
More modern Latin poetry. Also.
this carbonized page
only readable via
X-rays & robots
hist'ry of that vale passed through
almost no one & nothing
"Poets have been known to be smug about their fine uselessness, but the Vietnam War led many poets of my generation to try to use poetry to make something stop happening. We will never know whether all that we wrote shortened that nightmare by one hour, saved a single life or the leaves on one tree, but it seemed unthinkable to many of us not to make the attempt...we produced a great many bad poems, but our opposition to that horror and degradation was more than an intellectual formulation, and sometimes it tapped depths of bewilderment, grief, rage, admiration, that took us by surprise.Occasionally it called forth writings that may be poems after all." —W S Merwin, introduction to The Second Four Books of Poems (1993)
"No one is taken. It does not feel like winning." (via @elnorterecuerda.bsky.social)
“Artist refers to a person, willfully enmeshed in a dilemma of categories, who performs as if none of them existed.”
—Allan Kaprow via @jacobwren.bsky.social
"Reverses, losses, deadlocks now almost unnoticed bred one another; every day the news hammered one more nail into a consciousness which no longer resounded." (via @timesflow.bsky.social)
"PRESIDENTS
The president of shame has his own flag
the president of lies quotes the voice
of God
as last counted
the president of loyalty recommends
blindness to the blind
oh oh
applause like the heels of the hanged
he walks on eyes
until they break
then he rides
there is no president of grief
it is a kingdom
ancient absolute with no colors
its ruler is never seen
prayers look for him
also empty flags like skins
silence the messenger runs through the vast lands
with a black mouth
open
silence the climber falls from the cliffs
with a black mouth like
a call
there is only one subject
but he is repeated
tirelessly"
—W S Merwin, The Carrier of Ladders (1970)
"Pretty well everything that I have read by Western journalists which can be immediately checked – checkpoints, armed political gangs, climate of fear, shortages of food and goods – turns out to be an absolute lie." (via @mitchelmore.bsky.social)
old snow in the snailgleam
snide gathering furtive
& mild saffron mantles
mulch of broken vultures
"I left Twitter and lost all the good jokes in the divorce." —@pinotevil.bsky.social
"Court of the Crimson King" in Polish. (can't tell what part of this is AI)
New version of "When That Man is Dead and Gone".
"Back to commuting and it dawns on me that within, what, ten years, reading serious literature will be like playing the harpsichord: a minority pursuit, respected by some, incomprehensible to most. Or worse, archaic, like Latin or handwritten letters." —@timesflow.bsky.social
room sinking · & sad brig sailing
dreich the drizzly · feed on my fadescreen
these apish antics · but serve garmonbozia
stories won't fix it · still, there are songs
hollowing of the temple · between temples nada
dreich the leadership · lard on my lens smeared
& i say there must come · a cold reckoning
stories won't fix it · still, there are songs
Weather so dreich it can stop a dalek.
"Automobile Fences
The mist remade all the motley lights
of the night cruisers in their ninety cars
to so many shattered disco stars.
Pile ups don’t happen overnight,
but they did then. The dark fog
rendering every little rider —
from fender bender to fractured soul
to mangled mother and mutilated trucker —
to a true disaster: ain’t no stars
fixed anymore. So he foolishly left
his car to seek shelter. Might have been clipped.
He jogged through the magic of apparated junkyard
dodging the still oncoming 'drivers'
until he came to the guardrail’s cold
folded steel, feeling its curves
with bloody knees. Normally folks
find themselves crushed between fencerow
and hood ornament, harrowed by grill.
He saw the fog and started to climb
but providence — or proffer the term
you use for the transcendent — yearned him other:
he waited, still. The fog withered
and on the other side of the guard opened
the maw of the abyss. He pocked his mouth,
koi out of the graveyard’s old koi pond.
A man once said, 'If you stumble on a fence
and want to move it, walk away
and think for a while. If you can wonder and tell
me why it was made, what it was for
I will consent to you sundering its trusses,
barbed wire and welded studs.'
We Americans love moving guardrails
in the fog and pileups of our freezing night."
—Lancelot Schaubert at FGR
In my sleep I dreamed this poem.
"From the standpoint of ruthless capitalist exploitation, the existence of a cliff of death is a feature." —gelfin via
"Colonization would have been impossible without entering a rapacious state of mind."
“A broadcast about wolves, with recordings of their howls. What a language! The most heartrending I know, and I shall never forget it. From now on, in moments of excessive solitude, I need merely recall those sounds to have the sense of belonging to a community.”—E. M. Cioran (via @cielosueloastro)
The eyes of the drowned watch keels going over.
squirrel dashes across
the snow outside my window
brighter than room lights
Venetian blinds funnelling
Imbolc; a star called Mothra
Yeti, Giant of the 20th Century.
