tamiflu shanter

Some poems by the Baroness.

It is a kind of flutter
like the beatring of moths' wings,
a Lethean stream
in which to dip forgetting eyes.

Are there so many terrors
among the things that just aren't so
Golgotha is a valley
where flutter the fragrant gonfalons

The Infinite Nothing.

unsold heavy water

the earth will sweeten this spot
with the years, with the years
forgetting all our spite
the earth will sweeten this spot
the things we did for sport
& what the faith requires
the earth will sweeten this spot

with the years, with the years

Quill.

chola eyebrows

"It struck me how this poetry from the 1950s still maintained a living bond with old high modes of poetic diction, stretching back to Shakespeare, & Chaucer, & beyond to Dante, & the ancient poets. It's high-toned, scholarly, informed, intelligent. This matter of tone or diction provides the poet with a way to explore cultural, historical & religious phenomena on a sort of "intimate" basis. The everyday demotic speech of the present confronts a chasm of incomprehension : the tools of articulation are no longer there."

dord of the lance

(via via @creepypasta)

Good k-punk overview.

"Sonorous dirgings and melodious storm" --Horne

Alyth's Rising.

"Having escaped
the gray parrots"

--Celan

"This is an attempt of some people to invent themselves through playing. This is Jetztzeit rock"

the crack in larsen c

"An apocalypse is the opposite of a dream. A dream is falser than the outer life. But the end of the world is more actual than the world it ends." --Chesterton, op cit

(pic by michael puttonen on fb)

demonstratively cumbersome henna

"...they could see the whole of London shaping itself vaguely and largely in the grey and growing light, until the white sun stood over it and it lay at their feet, the splendid monstrosity that it is. Its bewildering squares and parallelograms were compact and perfect as a Chinese puzzle; an enormous hieroglyphic which man must decipher or die." --G K Chesterton, The Ball and the Cross (1909)

mike pence-satan slash

(jenny k thomas via new mexico nomad on fb)

"NOR IS IT WRITTEN

Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy; long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
To ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
Lean to the cloth awhile, and yet awhile,
And even may your eyes caress
Proudly the used abundance.
It is not written in what heart
You may not pass from magic plenty
Into the straitened nowadays.
To each is given secrecy of heart,
To make himself what heart he please
In stirring up from that fond table
To sit him down at this sharp meal.
It shall not here be asked of him
‘What thinks your heart?’
Long may you sorely to yourself upbraid
This truth unwild, this only-bread.
It is not counted what large passions
Your heart in ancient private keeps alive.
To each is given what defeat he will.

--Laura Riding