day of the windy werewolves

(@archillect)

to survive till November
on zaqqum
if without much faith

& I can't even think of it as karma
unless one "walking into checkmate"
& this fadeout, ghost by ghost

Earth's tenebrous guest
gives up stuff

sad face emoticon

nazmoudiq
was Uz agroof
Imlac sooth
but idyll bilk
squall twinkle
making us lunch

"In our countries, where we speak one language and write another, the price of pleasing the audience is costly. The poet has to find his precise equation as if he were walking on glass..."

half-sandwich regimen

(via susan polgar on fb)

Ganick interview. Another.

"The way we have lived for so long is there as a ghost pattern, fading slowly the way even a vivid dream fades away [as] the day gains momentum..." --@svenbirkerts

A night-time river road.

"MURDER OF CROWS (Triolet)

A murder, from a garden, rose
and left us in the dying light.
The sky is red now—no one knows
a murder from a garden rose.
It’s rare to see so many crows,
and now they’ve gone to gather night.
A murder from a garden rose
and left us in the dying light."

--Anthony Etherin

Reporting live from you know where.

(michael puttonen on fb)

Nowhere.

Won't cures eruct now?

    “Snake Eye

1.
Pyjamas, the first thing on the list
when they said hospital. You chose
the pattern yourself, whorls of snakes
in blue-greens, intricate.

I packed your bag crushing
the pyjamas under apples and books.
In pyjamas I do not know you.

In bed I wake.
The moon threads the curtains,
the brasseyes of the bed stare.
The dream-serpent wakes me.

2.
In the leaves of the jungle—
gummy greenness.
Netted against mosquitoes,
I watch the snake’s guerrilla

colours slide from under the Virgin’s
foot. No. I will not move the net
to look. In the fabric of your pyjamas,
in the cross-hatching of my skull,
he has found a home.

3.
In sudden winter
the house lies
down in snow.
Fear sloughs off
his skin and lodges
in my eye sockets;
the guest, shifteyed
ophidian, secures
his habitation.”

--Clairr O’Connor, in: Pillars of the House: an Anthology of Verse by Irish Women 1690 to the Present (ed. A A Kelly, 1987)

high digger

(via carol-kara-dnvers on tumblr)

pocket repaired with safety pins, leisure TILLED
ss if an ICEAGE

instead of
Necronomicon for a LECTOR

but i have no sense of fear,
any more than the wizard of LATVIA

thinking about the fallen
this clouds the good manners of an EGOIST

Graywyvern
his rank would DERATE

viral apathy

SEAMY
landscapes · EERIE
absence of ARENA
in our minds these are the MINOR
plague YEARS