the only ritual is the ritual of ice cream

A World at War.

"you are the black rock, you are the spark" --Robert Duncan

graveborne regrets
paintings destined for the dustbin

all this hazard for nothing
dropped call flapdragon

no seed survives
for the cyclones of autumn

for the shantytown heroics
for the desperate-ass suburbs

who will have known
no other skies than this

Weapons of Mass Instruction.

"The night inside a barn owl's wing-hush
is the handshake
of a secret order."

--Michael McGriff

(via @CAL_FIRE)

Niku & Proxima exoplanet.

"Resolution is a form of light, our native light in this dubious world.' --One of Our Conquerors

my vest a gulf orphanage

(eshima ohashi bridge, via goinjapanesque dot com)

List of topics characterized as pseudoscience.

     "After The Poison Summer

I can’t climb this ceiling anymore,
bake me a pie of love or bring me an iron lung,
after the poison summer has gone.

Bride bless the day, the dogs say goodnight,
all my luggage, I send to you,
I can’t climb this ceiling anymore.

Sunday monkey play no piano song,
no piano song, ghost man so close to me
after the poison summer has gone.

Warm smell of policemen rising up through the air,
when the rainbow shaves you clean, you’ll know
I can’t climb this ceiling anymore.

Since she left me the bin of owls puking in my bed,
dead ants are my friends, plowing in the din,
after the poison summer has gone.

A monk swimming, dirty deeds done to sheep,
just brush my teeth before you leave me, baby
I can’t climb this ceiling anymore.

The cattle are lonely, the catalog glowing
the poor lady wakes, and she’s got a chicken to ride
after the poison summer has gone
I can’t climb this ceiling anymore."

--Yoshev Omed

“لا ينتحر إلا المتفائلون، المتفائلون الذين لم يعودوا قادرين على الإستمرار فى التفاؤل. أما الآخرون، فلماذا يكون لهم مبرّر للموت وهم لا يملكون مبرّراً للحياة؟”

― Emil Cioran, المياه كلها بلون الغرق

Various rogue tarots thread.

A dissertation on the villanelle.

"Poetry is how the air goes green before thunder" --Gwendolyn Macewen

dispatch from the world of images

True colors.

     "Brood V."

my plan
to defeat time

tense vict'ry
trophies on the walls
mistakenly saved

designated survivor

The 39th root of 92.

"Don't hate on Hardvapour because it's the worlds first genre to be created on the darknet" --@ZombyMusic

Dallas's Freemason revival.

(via meros dot org)

Open Reel Ensemble.

Brimful Twine

(via dailymail dot co dot uk)

"There are many striking parallels between enigmatic Pluto and Alzheimer’s."

"Only the dead have seen the end of the war." --George Santayana

the death of one of my enemies

(pic by Rasim Babayev via)

American Weirdo.

Priscilla Long: "Ghazal Seeking Grace

Green Lake’s      enigmatic in mist and morning rain.
Coots quack      fanatic in mist and morning rain.

Crows peck      at roadkill. The cat kills a bird.
We attack Iraq      venatic in mist and morning rain.

A black candle      gutters the ghost, speaks smoke,
Flutters      plegmatic in mist and morning rain.

A downpour      drenches dream, drums the night.
Dogs are not      ecstatic in mist and morning rain.

Time’s gift:      a kiss, a lazy day, an open book,
A notebook--      I’ve had it in mist, in morning rain."

--from Jabberwock Review, Summer 2015

Feamyng et al.

“And whensoever I shall have occasion to contend in the School with such a Doctor, who knows not how himself to prepare his own Medicines, but commits that Business to another, I am sure I shall obtain the Palm from him: for indeed that good Man knows not what Medicines he prescribes to the Sick; whether the Colour of them be white, black, grey or blue, he cannot tell; nor doth this wretched man know, he only knows, that he found it so written in his Books, and thence pretends Possession (or as it were Possession) by Prescription of a very long time: yet he desires no further Information.” --Basil Valentine, Triumphal Chariot of Antimony

Caudillo.

(via thebarkingmoonbats via sweetspider on tumblr)

Memorial Day.

st john's wort perse

Inside Hardvapour.

"...every rock in Iceland seems to have a story of its own." --Nancy Marie Brown

Robo-zine thread.

        “Cicadas

Gray rainbows in the nighttime irrigation,
immediately forgotten.
Then I hear a child carry a tune in a whisper.

I was dashing through these ashen rainbows
immediately forgotten.
You could truncate butterfly to butte

and still get migration and a cumin route.
But not camel.
Not emu. Not Tuareg. Not a Russian garlic

dome like painted clove on steppe nor geodesic
ostrich egg.
Totally forgotten, ‘til the child’s moonbow tune

whispered in what wagon, rickshaw, landau
rattled me to a carrefour.
I couldn’t tell the autumn from the drought,

crescent over Quonset hut, or put language
to the pulp that made me ill.
Inside the mouth of the water-flow monitors,

goblin goblin—robin. New World cicadas
that chant in parabolas.
A new address—a dryness—they stop. A focal chill.”

--Ange Mlinko

Nihilartikel.