Thursday, February 28, 2019

We Must Reach the Shallows Before God Cuts Us Free

  • Riding the bus to Manhattan with Earthgirl this Sunday
  • her afternoon fun w cousin
  • my afternoon walking below Houston
  • anything you wouldn't miss if there please say
  • Might slice McElroy's
  • bookloaf
  • salami
  • thin
  • want a sandwich on the bus
  • not yoke loaf over Manhattan
  • blade
  • clean
  • chapter
  • cut like a catfood drugged captured feral 
  • I have first edition hardback
  • buy another paperback
  • guilty killing sentient bookloafs
  • I've never done this o am I gonna

  • Or I could fretclusterfuck, butfuckit
  • Happy Birthday, Elric! (re: the
  • above you
  • tube)  What time will it be
  • after Capitalism?
  • WHAT IS THIS! Swans news!
  • The Necks on two of the songs my heart


John Ashbery

Not the smoothness, not the insane clocks on the square,
the scent of manure in the municipal parterre,
not the fabrics, the sullen mockery of Tweety Bird,
not the fresh troops that needed freshening up. If it occurred
in real time, it was OK, and if it was time in a novel
that was OK too. From palace and hovel
the great parade flooded avenue and byway
and turnip fields became just another highway.
Leftover bonbons were thrown to the chickens
and geese, who squawked like the very dickens.
There was no peace in the bathroom, none in the china closet
or the banks, where no one came to make a deposit.
In short all hell broke loose that wide afternoon.
By evening all was calm again. A crescent moon
hung in the sky like a parrot on its perch.
Departing guests smiled and called, "See you in church!"
For night, as usual, knew what it was doing,
providing sleep to offset the great ungluing
that tomorrow again would surely bring.
As I gazed at the quiet rubble, one thing
puzzled me: What had happened, and why?
One minute we were up to our necks in rebelliousness,
and the next, peace had subdued the ranks of hellishness.
So often it happens that the time we turn around in
soon becomes the shoal our pathetic skiff will run aground in.
And just as waves are anchored to the bottom of the sea
we must reach the shallows before God cuts us free.


  1. The bass player's birthday is my favorite fucking blog post of the year, hands down. Nothing comes close. And this year, the bass player's big brother honors ME! by absolutely proving my eternal point that random line breaks make noseblowing into poetry. Best. Day. Evar. Happy birthday, Elric.

  2. the first moment of the necks youtube link reminded me of 'pictures of matchstick men' by status quo - i was interested to learn that the title phrase refers to paintings by l.s. lowry

  3. I continue to harbor an envious bitter lozenge from the transcendent live The Necks' experience I had while I was harboring the desire to be the one providing the experience myself instead of, say, Tony Buck who, like myself, had to have been listening intently and giving & taking cues to & from Lloyd Swanton. Such is the life stuck in the centre of one's own universe. But that's okay because whenever I listen to the bass player, I always bring cab fare.