Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Most Serious Relic, Breathlessly Lecturing in the Hall of Silence

  • Robert Wyatt is 69 today. Besides his brilliant solo career, he was a founding member of Soft Machine, an important band band in the Carboniferous Period, youngsters.
  • So, four days from now is Blogroll Amnesty Day. To celebrate, I tried to add some new blogs to the blogrolls last night but my motherfucking free blogging platform gives me some Code Is Fucked error. The fuck. Still, if there are people you read that you haven't seen on blogrolls here that you think I would enjoy, if you know people who deserve a wider readership (not that I can provide one, but you know what I mean) please send them along. Perhaps my motherfucking free blogging platform will fix itself, doubtful, but who knows.
  • Balls.
  • On the irony of the White House worrying about drones.
  • A professional Liberal wrote something stupid about the shrinkage of his influence with the puking fucks with motherfucking free blogging and texting platforms, those puking fucks went apeshit on their motherfucking free blogging and texting platforms, we call this phenomenon Tuesday.
  • Living and dying in New York means nothing to him.
  • Bleak future for Eastern European football.
  • Ten Mile Creek!
  • Food links.
  • The Land Leviathan.
  • Sebald, for those of you who do.
  • Ashbery, for those of you who do.
  • Different forms of contemporary.


Mary Karr

The King saith, and his arm swept the landscape’s foliage into bloom
where he hath inscribed the secret mysteries of his love
before at last taking himself away. His head away. His
recording hand. So his worshipful subjects must imagine
themselves in his loving fulfillment, who were no more
than instruments of his creation. Pawns.
Apparati. Away, he took himself and left us
studying the smudged sky. Soft pencil lead.

Once he was not a king, only a pale boy staring down
from the high dive. The contest was seriousness
he decided, who shaped himself for genus genius
and nothing less. Among genii, whoever dies first wins.
Or so he thought. He wanted the web browsers to ping
his name in literary mention everywhere on the world wide web.

He wanted relief from his head, which acted as spider
and inner web weaver. The boy was a live thing tumbled in its thread
and tapped and fed off, siphoned from. His head kecked back
and howling from inside the bone castle from whence he came
to hate the court he held.

He was crowned with loneliness
and suffered for friendship, for fealty
of the noblest sort. The invisible crown
rounded his temples tighter than any turban,
more binding than a wedding band,
and he sat in his round tower
on the rounding earth.
                                                     Read these,
saith the King, and put down his pen, hearing
himself inwardly holding forth on the dullest
aspects of the human heart
with the sharpest possible wit. Unreadable
as Pound on usury or Aquinas on sex.

I know the noose made an oval portrait frame for his face.
And duct tape around the base of the Ziploc
bag was an air-tight chamber
for the regal head—most serious relic,
breathlessly lecturing in the hall of silence.