Friday, July 31, 2015

Dark Days When I Awaken So I Slump

  • The poem I started last night shouts at me this morning. Lordy, my jones for louder and quieter.
  • We all hate the lion-killer. Here's a comment I wrote on the post when I was lion-killer hating: Fuck humans, of which I insist I'm not worst (egoist that I am) but am amply shitty. What appears in this post bears little to what I first wrote. I wished the fucker professional ruin, which I stand by as his profession affords him his killing trips. I wished for ruin in his personal life too. So, I was wishing harassment on his employees (like he would answer the phones for me to tell him to fuck off or open all new suspicious mail etc) and pain on his loved ones, some of whom, though they love him, may not be despicable fucks themselves.
  • So yes, fuck me.
  • Capitalism.
  • My Favorite POTUS. I like you, Jimmy, but things same as they ever was.
  • The Cimmerian Hypothesis, part three.
  • And you thought Greece had a problem.
  • In Ewigkeit.
  • He does not wear bladder-leak pants.
  • Nearby is the country they call life.
  • What you can buy me for my birthday.
  • The new Vollmann isn't working. An old McElroy isn't working. The new Jeremy Davies is sort of working but not like it should. The new Matthea Harvey was working but now it isn't. So fuck me.


Casey Thayer

Dark days when I awaken so I slump
                    back to the swamp of his armpit, a whit

from the arachnid he inked to the stump
           that's left. So close to the vestige of it,

                                 the danger he's a reliquary of:
            tattooed noose to venerate the fist

                     of a slug buried still in his butt above
a white cross for the men he didn't miss.
           If only I could strip off the black map
I sleep against and be his liniment,

                   gloss over the explosion, the mishap
                              phantom he feels in a forearm itch.
            He won't leave the long tale his tattoos read
                    for me, so I amend the story.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Fifty-Seven Today

Hounds of Love has to be one of my three most listened to albums, and the song cycle of side two (back in the days of album sides, youngsters) unquestionably the one side of music I've listened to more than any other. Dream of Sheep and Under Ice and Waking the Witch and Watching You Without Me and Jig of Life and Hello Earth and finishing with, and you must listen in order like I just did for full kaboom, holyfuck, I love this song:

The line between loving the music and loving the memories the music evokes (and there are ten formative years and three exceptional women - one of whom I'm still married to) when Kate Bush was on the daily soundtrack has long blurred, but she is (has been for decades, since I first heard that voice) one of two permanent members in My Sillyass Desert Island Five Game for both reasons. Lordy, the rush when I first here her voice again after not hearing it for a week. Yes, I post this same post every year.

Requests at my solicitation this year from friends davidly, David, symptomatic & K. Thanks. CLICK for LOTS more songs.






Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Who Wakes First and From What Dream

William Gass is ninety-one tomorrow. I give him a day early because of who else has a birthday tomorrow. This is the traditional William Gass birthday post excerpt: from The Tunnel:
The other large carton unpacked in the same way - box into box - but the feeling it gave me was the opposite of that suggested by the endless nest of Russians dollies in otherwise resembled, for what I was opening was a den of spaces which now covered the floor near my feet. It was plain that every ten-by-ten-by eight container contained cubes which were nine by nine by seven, and eight by eight by six, and seven by seven by five, and so on down to three by three by two, as well as many smaller, thinly sided one at every interval in between, so that out of one box a million more might multiply, confirming Zeno's view, although at that age, with an unfurnished mind, I couldn't have known of his paradoxes let alone have been able to describe one with any succinctness. What I had discovered is that every space contains more space than the space it contains.

Like I said the past three years, that passage reminds me of a what I was trying to get at (much less successfully than Gass) with automocoblogography.

William T Vollmann's birthday was yesterday. I don't know whether deliberately or not, but yesterday his new Dream was published. I bought it yesterday afternoon.

  • I need to talk about the motherfucking dentist. I need to not talk about the motherfucking dentist more.
  • UPDATE: Tom Clark on motherfucking humans.
  • Just this: You do realize the motherfucking dentist will be a right-wing hero, will appear at GOP convention, will be as lasting famous as whomever that plumber.
  • I'm kidding: no one will remember this in a week, if that long.
  • And this: more Americans are upset about a motherfucking helmetball player who cheats then lies to a corrupt boss of a corrupt league being punished by said corrupt boss for cheating then lying than a motherfucking psychopath whose life goal is killing endangered species before the species go extinct.
  • Fuck humans.
  • More Americans are upset about the motherfucking helmetball liar and cheater and evidence destroyer being disciplined by his corrupt boss than are upset over motherfucking cops killing people with complete approval of their corrupt bosses.
  • And this: fuck humans.
  • And reposting this, Tarzie on Animal Rights. Triskelions will not permit Kindness to animals - let that happen, Thralls might get it into their head to be Kind to each other.
  • UPDATE! Nothing - nothing - makes me as crazy dark and angry more than reports (and photos) of motherfucking hunters and motherfucking poachers killing big game for fun and profit. I still haven't been able to form coherent sentences why though I know why I do. It involves everything else that makes me crazy dark and angry. See Gass excerpt above.


Geoffrey Brock

By the time I recalled that it is also
terrifying, we had gone too far into
the charmed woods to return. It was then

the beautiful animal appeared in our path:
ribs jutting, moon-fed eyes moving
from me to you and back. If we show

none of the fear, it may tire of waiting
for the triggering flight, it may ask only
to lie between us and sleep, fur warm

on our skin, breath sweet on our necks
as it dreams of slaughter, as we dream
alternately of feeding and taming it

and of being the first to run. The woods
close tight around us, lying nested here
like spoons in a drawer of knives, to see

who wakes first, and from which dream.