Tuesday, June 07, 2016

a right kink anathema

(via @CaptKarnstein)

"Lyke fyend pitche skorching, or flash flame sulphurus heating:
Flownce to the stars towring thee fire, lyke a pellet,
Ragd rocks vp raking: and guts of mounten yrented
From roote vp hee iogeth: stoans hudge slag molten he rowseth:
With route snort grumbling, in bottom flash furye kendling."

--Stanyhurst, iii.

13th Root.

     "Sonnets to Chango: XIII."

Such that nothing new can prosper
save treason, call it the tug of Planet the Ninth,
the Man in the High Casserole. Painting with sulfur
the crescent that is more than what-might-happen,
what-must. Sorrow, now my only formula,
& buses come, eager to oblige
with night bus music. Five moons buzz the bishop
than mauling find less drastic cure for poverty
four hundred minus Fahrenheit skewwhiff sourpuss
begins with brush poised, not for images famished
but for truth, even if plangent figment
redolent of nothing more than the gulf
we stand before, persuaded less of the bargain
than our fast faith in ev'ry madder method.



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