Wednesday, December 03, 2014

angry diseases of the newborn

(pic by Jesus C.--South Dallas mural--on Facebook)

Aztec death whistles.

"Grace condescending to things framed in chance" --Geoffrey Hill

Microgenre: Godhaze.

"Till Figalordo and Stilletto now" --Hoole's Ariosto

"I’ve heard you say that when someone gets caught up in whether your work is science fiction or fantasy, you tell them, “It’s ThunderCats!"

        "The End

Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.

When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky

Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end."

        Mark Strand

Judith Scott retrospective.

(via mental floss via Facebook)




Post a Comment

<< Home