zany actual meal (day 86)

(via)

"And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things"

--Swinburne, "The Garden of Proserpine"

"One very droll piece has the poet giving Eugenio Montale a raft of misinformation about America."

standing on a gray tank in GDANSK
not today i would DELETE

glamours of the ever-unattainable
vie with lost ALLURE

Wittenberg
sacked in each broken NEURON

ywldwzquixotl gleams like distant
mention of a STROKE

my sense of no future a banderilla
but KEENER

"Ligotti’s own persona is one of being a depressive, anhedonic recluse, managing a bipolar disorder by silence, cunning and exile (and prescribed pharmaceuticals) amidst the wreckage of the American industrial empire, out there in the apocalyptic ruins of Detroit."

"It is not enough to cure the plague: we must learn to weep for it. " --Unamuno

"Though Detroit is never explicitly mentioned as the setting for pieces like 'My Work is Not Yet Done,”'it’s hard to mistake the setting for anyplace other than Detroit."

(@archillect)

trouble never comes

Later than you think.

jeepster in my blind spot, KARST
& nevermorfevrerie since i AWOKE

fiddling against the Devil, run out
of ROSIN

Greta at Davos
as, through Twitter, Idler SKIMS

though Graywyvern knows heapbig grammar
still lacks future TENSE

"Neo is the Platonic hero par excellence"."

(crookedcosmos)

regretinue

Popocatepetl.

outrage that the echo DULLS
takes solace in the broken USUAL

animals burnt up
seat's LUMPY

even my mere poetic riposte tires me
more & more i LAPSE

Graywyvern would hold his fire
were he SLYER

Brainglass.

(via)

bewildebeest

Bouquet of skies. Delectation of the phrase. Nothing much to say. Bouquet of skies.

Extreme texts.

oligarden

(via vaporwave-gif on tumblr)

"The person was a civilian status.
He had no part in the creation
Of a mass grave near his home."

I said if writing a poem is like juggling, translating a poem is like juggling a live animal.

tnglegloamy

The thought i should be somewhere else, making prose, where the action is.

miasthma

Brass thread.

"The Meissen's ware has expired, its passage is written in oppidan stone. Maillol may neither force the standard clay. The corporeality of the earth is imperiled, its sedimentary cup filed with incommodious libation, with the Segercone of industries tear, basalts with biscuit leaves constitutes lead procaine. The Geyser's Panicum languishes in the chlorine silt, its delicate stem immersed in a poison communion with the challis of aphoristic ground. To the precursors mouth assume the primordial faience, the historical requiem of fragrant arboretums."

--Kristin Ryling

65. uncool loins

"I also had already given langpo a starting date, the appearance of Robert Grenier’s essay 'On Speech' in the inaugural issue of This in 1971."

pyramaskberg
la libellule
old textbook
you are forgiven

algebricolage
dinged
floor never cleaned
calcspar starless

misty
in this clearing

"What I don’t tell them—or what I sometimes tell them, but nobody can hear until it’s happened to them—is that even if you get a book published with a good publisher, and it does okay, you will still experience it as a terrible wound to your ego in most cases. Some people completely crack up, even though their book seemed to do fine. That’s because, somehow, you think that people will be changed by your book. You think your life will be changed, and the world will, too. There will be at least some ripple in the pool. But your book was just another book, and that is very hard to take."

labysinthe

Under a mimosa-tree.

Bonesaw i call you;
& Child-Dead-in-Custody:
halcyon December

& carry to the dumpster
what won't fit in our own cans

walpurgisnachos

The Public Burning.

our life which is a sleep
between two greater sleeps
offers but brief escape
our life which is a sleep
& play for those who cope
most real in the sudden snirps
our life which is a sleep
between two greater sleeps

kinephantom

(via via mefi)

Topolect.

my foothold on the world
is words
though i know they lie

setback
not downfall

chappaquidditch

"...the great abstractions come whistling hoarsely out in Miss Dietrich's stylized, weary, and monotonous whisper, among the hideous Technicolor flowers, the yellow cratered desert like Gruyère cheese, the beige faces. ...(the Surrealism of this film is really magnificent)... Alas! my poor church, so picturesque, so noble, so inhumanly pious, so intensely dramatic. I really prefer the New Statesman's view, shabby priests counting pesetas on their fingers in dingy cafes before blessing tanks." --Greene on The Garden of Allah

faith & snow

(royal temple of the emerald buddha, via)

The life and crimes of Palmer Rockey.

   keldspar, void's one barnacle;
is said & the resonance hangs
   yardang of breath, half the sky
emits such manic quietude
that the dank meme pulpitbull you
      think caught reeks of loss

T S Eliot was booked to read at SMU in 1958 by Lon Tinkle. 9,000 people showed up.