( via / me )

15 Prague novels.

take away the name & i know
i do not know this city

why do i aspire in vain
even to dream of another city

i walked the cobblestones, i spoke
with what i thought were denizens of the city

different pathways, tasks, circles:
we hardly live in the same city

as Graywyvern weaves through traffic
he imagines the future ruins of his city

Triolet.

“Our broken empire, America, wasn’t an empire for very long. But there isn’t one part of its breaking that is not also replicated in each section of the culture. In cars, traffic, movies, buses, banks, schools, war, architecture, hospitals and labs, and in poetry.” —Fanny Howe, The Winter Sun (2009)

24 hours of Throbbing Gristle.

( via / me )

Nose on the Grindstone.

“The task of theology lies in circumscribing the edges of symbolism and making an enclosure of it.” —Khatibi & Sijelmass, The Splendor of Islamic Calligraphy (1994)

The Siege of Jerusalem.

"When God pours out rain and the earth floods

When God pours out rain and the earth floods for the sake of a flower, it is a love that no one knows. Afterward:

cities, like women, commit the names of those who raped them to memory. I glimpse a light and a thundering sky, I ready myself for a photo op and questions. I know God is omniscient. Why won't Gaza remarry like her sisters, Jerusalem, Jericho, Jenin?

Gaza dwells beside Hebron, so why so distant, sad, alone in the desert, standing before the sea? What's the difference between you and her? We're both gasping. You, into a reed flute, she into what she's lost.

The cypress is an old woman dancing at her great-grandson's wedding. The palm tree is a girl waving where are you headed to in Ramallah? My home's an orange tree that guards the path through the bare woods. The dusk, a mountain range braiding its slope.

Cities paint the air the color of clay. Gaza must stay up late with her killers and placate the victims. Her forehead's green where she's emblazoned God's name, where she's tried to escape from a masquerade.

I ask my body's first part, how it was figured. I have ten mothers. I was born an orphan to the soul of a woman. She refrained from desire, she married a barren land.

Who molded you into the almond, transmitted seed toward the blossom? A bunch hanging in the grapevine-sky, a butterfly losing its way in the garden,

and so you came into being, your first name dragged its two letters into the world—

Now I dwell in a land once untouched by misfortune, a land whose alleys I know by the cactus, by the lemon tree, by the tribes who hosted us in their pastures on our first migration, so we would guard their fear, and our women dwelt in their mills.

Who killed the dead sea? Who stole blue from salt? We have nowhere to be but here so the fields turn green. Father,

our migration is harrowing, camels cross the river, bullets pass overhead.

And he says Life is minutes and seconds. The shivering of water quenches. It is sufficient."

—Khaled Shaheen in You Must Live

The Shard, a wet London.

( via / me )

A village with many stories.

"ATLANTIS WISHED (Anagram-Sonnet)

Within sad slate,
wind halts a site.
The island waits,
sans tidal white.
Awe hits its land—
At dawn, this isle
tilts wise a hand.
It stands awhile.

In wash, last tide,
the sand it wails.
Wan salt, it hides
its wit and shale.
Its death in laws,
it lies and thaws."

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

"Their methods were controversial, the results debatable, but it cannot be denied that their legacy is an intriguing one."

I resent any alteration, however minor, to the fortress of my routine. My routine is a raft on rough seas, forever in danger of capsizing. If i have any self besides the patterns i create, i do not know of it.

Jesus wept.

( via / me )

Tiger Drinking at Forest Pool.

“Mystery isn't something that is gradually evaporating. It grows along with knowledge.”

~Flannery O'Connor, ‘The Habit of Being’ via @willdonnelly.bsky.social

To a Moth Seen in Winter.

"lectures on the antichrist"

looking outside the sickness
led bitterly Bedlam
it must mean a chess trick

march of sky departures
face of a moon fawning
confessed & still stealing

Bucket list.

( via / via )

Revolt of the losers. (thread)

"THE VAMPIRE (Palindrome)

No smirch selfless,
ever a wan anaemic,
I rip.

Maven,
I wage bites
sure of a foe.

Russet,
I beg
a wine vampiric —

I mean:
an aware vessel,
flesh crimson...."

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

30 minutes north of Winnipeg.

"Well, it's a little clearer now why billionaires are so invested in technology that produces better written emails." —@cethanleahy.com

"Nyarlathotep" in Egyptian hieroglyphics.

( via / me )

A title screen for a game that doesn’t exist.

"I spent so long achieving the elite levels of enlightenment necessary to reincarnate as mindless sand. Then they RUINED IT by putting me in a MACHINE and making me THINK"
—@ctrlcreep.bsky.social

"Wordsworth claimed to have composed the poem entirely in his head, beginning it upon leaving Tintern and not jotting down so much as a line until he came back to Bristol, by which time it had just reached mental completion."

rabbit's foot · found scampering
running scared
through the low grass · of a late sun
thresh greenery
solve rabbit choices

The Drummer V.

( via / me )

Emperor Krasnov enters Heaven.

a penny saved—cipher
hyacinthine—minus
a basin's bright gleam or
to pay back what's lacking

copper Lincoln, kernel
part of keeping martflow
windmill in wild rave storm
shade weaves among reivers

Pale cerulean prose.

Test the market for conversion-narratives.

The Red-Gold Border.

( via / via )

Cold, Cold Heart.

“To a poet nothing can be useless.” —Rasselas

David Bowie and the Story of Ziggy Stardust.

No more on earth can tigers find a home:
Why then should there exist a place for you?
Complain about the ways you’re forced to roam
No more on earth. Can tigers find a home
In myth? So hitch that sable-lacquered brougham
And see if signs will ferry your juices through.
No more on earth can tigers find a home.
Why then should there exist a place for you?

Walking round in a funhouse. (twxttxr)

( me / via )

. Written on Van Gogh's Wall.

"DJT—some months hence"

no pity · for the fallen fraud
for a sick old man · rapist & thief
destroyer of laws · & structures that worked
no pity · just spitting scorn
   & unrelenting odium
to the end of time

Here’s a fren I made this morning.

Really, the only good thing about living in the 21c is being able to put CBD on your pancakes.

Judy-Lynn del Rey documentary.

( via / via )

Demonstration.

"But I do not quarrel with fate. It is not a contest in which we should emerge victorious."
—@ivycomptonburnett.bsky.social

Shakin' All Over.

       "Worlds"

warm trickle · sunrise traipse
   when does this dig punch through
curved corridor · calm lost
   regurgalite bookmark
train gliding · gleeful smash
   step by step descend
historical henge · raised by refugee
   labor in the cross camp

The Hidden Face of The Origin of the World.

( via / via )

Labyrinth.

"march of the white trucks"

poisonwind no wiser
a weatherfend frayed deathmarch
baboon pulpit poohbah
pelt-innocent closeup
thirst trap abrupt trinket
trail along edgeward dredgepath

Notes from the zombie apocalypse.

"fog
borrows
the bridge"

—@wolftwinthomas.bskysocial

Edtech boogaloo.

( me / via )

"The queller of hunger of tumult-seagulls of Heiti’s steed-gleam."

I am to Langpo as a Sufi is to Islam.

Spectres, Skin and Bone.

rIn noH ‘e’ ne vere kredis mi.
i did not really think the war would end
la domon je la gxiajn internajxon DImeQtaH.
we are burning down the house with everyone in it

al la lasto fino jeghbe'bogh songx-meymaj
and our dreams, adamant to the end,
estos tre lastaj Heghbogh Dochmey.
will be the very last things to perish

Autistic Noir.

( me / via )

I've fallen down the Temu screaming goat throw pillow rabbithole.

"CLOUDS AT DAWN (Palindrome by Triples)

Sky white.
Rain,
as fawns adorn my morns....
A dawn
as fainter whisky."

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

"This is the machine working exactly as it was built..."

"It is not that I have no past. Rather, it continually fragments on the terrible and vivid ephemera of now."
—Samuel R. Delany, Dhalgren via @jacobwren.bsky.social

.i zvati la zirpu ckafybarja

( via / @gregbuttay.eth )

Live in Southampton 1977.

“Then, as it were, relieving the poet, the critic who studies him, in turn, must stand firm against those miseries and horrors, these disquieting shocks of reality—he must pick up the poet’s verses, all twisted where disaster has struck him, and he must carry them further, like Drummond, to where there is tranquillity and leisure enough for him to point out what form and what sense the poet had tried to give them, to supply by his own judicial comments the straightness and the soundness they lack.” —Edmund Wilson, “A Preface to Persius” (1927), from The Shores of Light

Haikube.

"GALXE LISRI”

the story in the throat
not the story in the head
maybe there will be

no looking back
and those
on whom the chore devolves

of believing anew in
some tomorrow
will they have

the same
story in the throat

as we do
lost
in the absence of futures

X5.1 class solar flare.

( via / via )

Airship Docking.

"Beneath Pellucidar"

open to the trapdoor
betrayal psalm 'midst fallmurk
singing high-hewn fangstreak
here stirious neon
streets full of stress hustle
strict in wasteful snaste-gospel
at home mutter mobled
moot though the tinchel elses
elegy fails—feeble
fireworks—as malign ninepins
tumble & a tired vampire
tickles tornado mowings
open to the trapdoor psalm

Things broken along the way.

You choose a team (or have one chosen for you); then believe the sorts of things others on your team believe.

"Written entirely in pantoum form, this book was a grief outlet for me after the death of my father."

( via / via )

"I wonder who set up that archive of tech-art videos 16 years ago and couldn't keep at it."

“The basic teachings were communicated in a whisper…” –Gershom Scholem, Kabbalah (1974)

"As you watch the show, you can get Google’s Artificial Intelligence to translate the TV show from speech to subtitled text in real-time."

"Regurgalite"

chain to the moon, cheekily
unexpected cargo sprig
Cherokee spelling
planetary term

dawn without drywall
tears drying
testament mooch—
& the submarine settles

miracle sandwich
charred chains to the moon

Behind the Facade.

( via / via )

Five elements.

"In the House of Unfinished Sentences"

erasure, rune sunshine
rain of feral bonk-concrete
want to hide
want to hide unhunted
harvesting pumpkin carvers
pale cerulean radints
arrive shiverfueled, yielding
slant of light
slant of light & slaughter
we slide across like spiders,
erasure, rune sunshine

Gradual Clearing.

That i should be foolish–a given; that my foolishness might be toxic—unthinkable. For when we are children we don’t actually get the chance to break anything bigger than ourselves.

Frederick Turner's Genesis.

( via/ me )

"Meanwhile, the story’s relentless attention to loss appears calibrated to appeal to the fear and melancholy that have characterized the cultural mood in the United Kingdom and United States for much of the last decade—including anxieties about rising rates of dementia, the precarity of work, and the speed with which the present in the digital era becomes past, becomes forgotten."

“ ‘They—we—were betrayed. In our souls we have never been sure by whom. When we feel cheated we are ready to kill; and maybe we feel cheated all the time.’ ” —Gene Wolfe, “Seven American Nights,” in: Best Science Fiction Stories (1980)

Regurgitalite.

“The Passion of the Joker”

The morning’s clear despair presents no challenge
to rabbits eating orchid after orchid.

It is holiday in Bedlam;
ev'ry thought begets its future comrade.

Black expiry: not knowing is a cadence
from which to view the distant growing tumult.

I wander with the grilse.
I carry no bodkin.

Today my ailment eases here, or almost,
sitting in line at a sunny backed-up Chevron.

Vampires don the alb
albeit fanged with comfort.

Don’t come to me with questions of the wounded.

Data not shown.

( via / me )

An Evening Commute.

   "DISHARMONY (Lipogram*)

Disharmony
rains hard diamond shards
on a marshy moor.

Disharmony ordains armadas,
arms assassins,
adds disarray.

Disharmony
rooms Roman dramas
in sordid dioramas.

Disharmony
is harmony
in a mirror.

(*uses only d, i, s, h, a, r, m, o, n, & y)"

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

Farewell.

"Thunder, rain on the island. Mournful squawk of damp peacocks. Trees in the forest rejoice." —@aestallings.bsky.social

X1.2 flare from AR 4274.

( via / oil painting by me )

Jazzhanding over a King's Ransom.

My cupidity increases in the face of ruin, apotropaic.

Gadsden Mousepad.

"nuclear winter wonderland"

pick Being, Nonbeing,
or better yet, deadlock;
windshield ice whisper
whereupon perks circled
a half caf-half decaf
darkening ecliptic
& riptide on dry land
the only known anchor

Seeing Defibrillators, After.

( via / via )

The Makeshift Traveller.

"funniest thing ever"

bilk smorgasbord · skies skirled
through each gate · garnished more with vacancy
whiteknuckle crawl · creaky windmill
& fluent fiasco

Downtown.

Building a ship inside a Klein bottle: leave me alone, i’m trying to 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ.

Calm & Murder.

(me / via )

R&B robot artist Xania Monet.

"A spine seems like wishful thinking, but i would settle for Democratic leadership with at least a chitinous integument." —@brynstar7.xyz

X1.8-class solar flare.

“Making mysteries through tenderness

They do not
   feel your tenderness, your fear,
      your reverence
They do not ask
   you. They do
      not ask you at
   all.
A mystery is
   great
This eloquence bears no relation to mystery,
   faith, hyena, privation
They are possible
These move
They are
They have no remorse
Like an amazing tree
That need is yours
They are
Find a wind
Those are pressing
These are inconceivable
Should they be an
   antiquity?
They conceive the vein, potential as men
Conceivable, great, large
   as these antiquities
Their existence is their existence, and understanding
   that, they are not possible”

—Robot X, 719

A high school music mixer put together a 4 Non Blondes/Nicky Minaj mix that went so incredibly viral that it brought 4 Non Blondes out of retirement.

( via / via )

Processing Unit.

      “Autumn

There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
   And clouds like sheep
   Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
   But phantom, forlorn,
   Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
   And ever with me,
   Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.”

—Walter de la Mare

Black Squares Before Malevich.

Google ignoring my quotemarks shouldn't feel like a violation, & yet it does.

A terminal patient contemplates Rembrandt paintings at the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, one final time.

( me / via )

C is for Carnival.

We resent the exiguities of modern life, yet we would not forswear the least part of it; no, not even doors that open of themselves.

"Fedora man" of the Louvre heist.

"I smile earwide

I ride the chariot rail, roam the billowroad
trammelled to soft skies, sightseeing steering me
where flycatchers soar. I flutter like a mastcloth,
my woundhue sign ‧ against a seafoam of green.
I call on far countries, comfortclothe swarms
of ritereaching hands, heads twisted upward,
watching as I wander ‧ the warped stony lane.
It takes me all day ‧ to traverse my footpath
so I smile earwide ‧ and wage timepassing tricks.
As faces follow, I make figures swoon.
But I’m prickle-edged ‧ and my icepiercing gaze
throws poison darts ‧ deep into the eyes
of the bunches waiting ‧ breathbated, limbquivering.
As I wave and go, withdrawing by day,
I leave their outfits ‧ lifeless, deflated.
When I reappear ‧ they’ll praise me as a god.
Say what I’m called, speak my name."

—Cassidy McFadzean

"When they were alive, we couldn’t sit in the same room."

( via / via )

"I am a messenger who will bring back word..."

“Snow

If we, as we are, are dust, and dust, as it will, rises,
Then we will rise, and recongregate
In the wind, in the cloud, and be their issue,

Things in a fall in a world of fall, and slip
Through the spiked branches and snapped joints of the evergreens,
White ants, white ants and the little ribs.”

—Charles Wright

🍂 dry season .. my remix 🍂.

The fight is in the press of exoskeleta, nor their hapless occupants.

"Cortez On Jupiter is the story of graffiti artist Pablo Cortez’ career progression from Basquiat-esque guerrilla muralist in 2020s LA via a staggered Bester-like plot to a weightless take on Jackson Pollock on in orbit above the Great Red Spot."