The Nacreous Oughts

29 November 2005

Lalla Rookh.

The Meyer Hat Store in New Orleans has reopened! (I bought there the best hat I've ever owned.)

Baghdad Burning, the blook.

K. S.

27 November 2005

"Sentimental capitalism holds in effect that everything small, local, private, personal, natural, good, and beautiful must be sacrificed in the interest of the "free market" and the great corporations, which will bring unprecedented security and happiness to "the many" - in, of course, the future." (via Rebecca Blood)

The ghat of the only world.

Rogue Classicism.


K. S.

25 November 2005

Rongorongo is cool.

(via toyen dot uio dot no)

K. S.

24 November 2005

Federico García Lorca
Gacela of the Flight
I have lost myself in the sea many times
with my ear full of freshly cut flowers,
with my tongue full of love and agony.
I have lost myself in the sea many times
as I lose myself in the heart of certain children.
There is no one who in giving a kiss
does not feel the smile of faceless people,
and no one who in touching a newborn child
forgets the motionless skulls of horses.
Because the roses search in the forehead
for a hard landscape of bone
and the hands of man have no other purpose
than to imitate the roots below the earth.
As I lose myself in the heart of certain children,
I have lost myself in the sea many times.
Ignorant of the water I go seeking
a death full of light to consume me.
Translation from Spanish © Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili

K. S.

17 November 2005

A Desertful of Roses.

K. S.


K. S.

15 November 2005

(via photojournal dot jpl dot nasa dot gov)

"Clean living under difficult circumstances."

"The solar letters are: Ta’,THa, Dal, THal, Ra’, Zayn, Sin, SHin, Sad, Dad, Ta’, DHa’, Nun. The lunar letters are: ba’, jim, ha’, kha’, ‘ayn, ghayn, fa’,qaf, kaf, lam, mim, ha’, waw, ya’."

Waits plays.

"As for Lovecraft, he may well be regarded as the last of the great New England regionalists..."

K. S.

13 November 2005

Nothing but a name.

Russian Gothic Page.

Levels of meaning.

Politian performed.

K. S.

09 November 2005

"...and in every corner of my soul there's an altar
to a different god.

Perfume blogs.

K. S.

06 November 2005

Better than a blog.

"Inside the poetry world there are no costs, no risks (except being ignored), and therefore almost no chance of making any difference. Online that's even more true, since neither I nor any other blogger has to persuade anyone else to put resources at our disposal. Being middle class, we've all got computers and a net connection and we can pretend we're publishing. We can even pretend we're doing something new, making progress.".

(via solar voyager)

"You really have to wonder what kind of bloated house-bound moron could think slumping polls and plummeting approval ratings would worry a gang of fanatics who stole two elections in a row, invaded a country they knew couldn’t defend itself, and gave a male hustler White House security clearance."

The "Amazon" of myrophiles.

K. S.

04 November 2005

   Ernest Vincent Wright: When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes
   When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
   When father carves the duck.
Then all of us prepare to rise
And hold our bibs before our eyes
And be prepared for some surprise
   When father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs the fork
   Whene'er he carves the duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
   Until he's carved the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
   From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip
   When father carves the duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip !
   Potatoes fly amuck !
The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy on our face,
And father utters Hindoo grace
   Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around
   The dining-room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
   Our share of father's duck,
While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother jeers at him because
   He couldn't carve the duck.

(In: Poems That Live Forever. This is the same Ernest Vincent Wright who wrote Gadsby.)

K. S.

01 November 2005

My Canadian confusion. (via wood_s lot)

"...if you ask to be a member of the Oulipo, you will not be a member of the Oulipo".

K. S.

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