southerners and vitamins felt on the drumstick artful showers / groovy serializations / trippy visual sexes innovative campground muckrakers shopper-bug cup finches / impulsions on villages
the boyfriend ogres
trippy opiates / closing serializations / including atonal flickering / experimental imagery rectangles compete positive and negative expletives lsd raging from felons of euphoria to intense aquamarine elixirs of the avant-garde
allow your head to be rearranged
What I’m Reading:
They love me. Each morning they fill the strongbox in my chest with grass and salt pellets—I have good hallucinations. I think I am a caterpillar. I think I am a wall. They spray me with anti-freeze, they turn me each spring, I watch the buds spread open, metal lips fluttering.
my nightmares forsaken and bubonic my pestilential inner eye palsied my parsley looks like paisley
i am contusion-adjacent in black the quinces are in the tinderbox and i am ill with the human condition
send colonists and hogsheads o’ vermin we’ll rule the world in a century or two
i apologize for the indemnity of loud nonentities i apologize for the quicksand martini glasses
oh bondage, up yours oh bondage, no more
What I’m Reading:
Maybe it was a revelation. She’d felt so little anything in her life (longing, rage, hope), but out in the elements, with only a protective wrapping of simple cloth, she felt herself part of Earth, moving with it, drifting in outer space.
The Story of the human race is War. Except for brief and precarious interludes, there has never been peace in the world; and before history began, murderous strife was universal and unending.
— Winston Churchill / The Aftermath
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky— feeling my clothes about me, the weight of my body in my shoes, the rim of my hat, air passing in and out at my nose—and decide to dream no more.
— William Carlos Williams / “Thursday”
At least 35,000 more people died during Europe’s four record-breaking, back-to-back heatwaves this summer than would normally be expected, according to incomplete figures from barely half the continent.
Excess mortality in three of the EU’s larger countries – Germany, France and Spain – alone has already exceeded 25,000, according to the provisional national figures, and experts say the toll will rise significantly once August totals are consolidated.
— Jon Henley / “At least 35,000 excess deaths recorded in Europe’s back-to-back heatwaves” / The Guardian
Here everything is documented. Now we die forever. Now we’re live. What matters is Desire doesn’t keep. This is what life is like when Away.
— Temperance Aghamohammadi / “Behnt: Automata”
Last week, a flash flood in Nepal killed more than 1,000 people and left thousands missing. Today, UNEP published a report saying we’re about to breach the 1.5°C heating threshold countries agreed to limit ten years ago.
The two events are not unrelated. What happened in Nepal is the report’s warnings, translated into real life.
Even the best-case scenario now shows warming peaking at 1.8°C in the coming decades. But if we act now and fast, warming can plateau sooner, and we still have a chance of getting back to 1.5°C or below.
Overshooting 1.5°C and coming back down won’t undo everything. But the report is clear: every fraction of a degree avoided reduces risk. Every year by which overshoot duration is shortened reduces exposure.
Despair is exactly what coal, oil, and gas companies are counting on.
We’re not giving up. Are you with us?
— 350.org / Facebook post
what I am looking for doesn’t matter. that I am looking doesn’t matter. I exert no meaning.
— Donika Kelly / “When The Fact Of Your Gaze Means Nothing, Then Youe Are Truly Alongside”
We are, all of us, moving through the void.
— Cal Flyn / The Savage Landscape: How We Made the Wilderness
What I’m Listening To:
While really we keep on living like monkeys Incredible things are happening in the world Magical things are happening in this world
. . . and with a deep suspiration she set her thumbs to tapping on the gorilla glass:
a disconnect with attainment of desired goals a disconnect with engagement of daily responsibilities a disconnect with realizing this awareness and affecting change
an over engagement with the virtual world a disengagement with the physical world
few, if any, goals are actuated by the aforementioned
it’s fight or flight time . . .
then on with the headphones, on with her iphone, on with sic alps’ message from the law and on she danced to a new transcendence . . .
What I’m Listening To:
I received a notice from the board They were telling me get out, get out
But i worked for me, my rent was cheap I died In the kitchen I cried Barely looking back Squarely on the map
But it’s nothing but crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap Save me
we dream about a walkabout. we exhume gutter politics before they’re buried in the rattle brattle bund. we sling jagged zeugmas. we qualify this and that—our words signify nothing—we fill the interstices with air. the beckon calls for dr. bombay wanted down at zeugmatography go unheeded. we list and keel for what could have been—it inflects every point in our day. it infects every bitter requisition. a far away voice revives a chant:solidarność, solidarność, solidarność—opportunities taken, opportunities missed. a dead man says, a dream has the power to pollute the day. anoxic water is all we find—a blue-green algae, then a blood-red tide. we ramble on with viper thoughts … reality’s dark dream.
What I’m Reading:
We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
the muck amuck amok i see faces repeating and repeating in these morning flakes in the bread crusts drear in the wake of your leaving as the motes of particulate air roil about the emptiness you created by vacating this space inside my now soiled heart
a conspiracy of eyes and mouths a cabal of carnal teeth fangs bared and aglow limned by the maw of dark impulses a face in the strawberry preserves jesus laughing at me on the face of the rubbery naan you left on the plate of hashed teeth
What I’m Reading:
but my hand is full of words like grass perforating the old lattice
leave your eggs here in the helix of my ear safe in the ‘world-class banking scheme’
the stained pink rayon nightgown beneath his torn clothes was unexpected no one says a word
he was not in the water but he was taken by the 8-foot wave nonetheless rough surf justifies a rough serf
higher and higher both he and the waves he had plenty of sunscreen slathered on slippery as a forlorn right whale the right whale for harpooning back in the day
humidity is up but it’s only monday im bleeding he says
so he’s got that going for him
What I’m Reading:
… Scream it. Automata! Automata! Yes, I am behnt at the edges, powdering my cheeks A coccyx electricity gets me going, arranging my limbs mechanically, oiled ambrosia in the patinated city where swans whirr in fixed loops.
She is Splooting on the Sward (When Shooting Won’t Do)
One strong throat emerges to tell the straitjacket-story of a gifted and complicated mandible:
Her despots are both deeper and weirder—splooting rib-deep on American fangs. Her handguns—blue steel euphonies—flexible, transcend fanfare fortifications.
Her epistles rifle in candid installments. Her work seamless on the paintbrush—especially on maxims of broiler politicians about to lift-off, gerrymandered igloo divots, and ferret interiority. The most passionate voice ever on the matter.
Her pantoums never show properly on the third Tuesday of the month—on lesser tongues they sound tinny and pedantic—rhyme schemes rhizome into the fallow earth.
She is thee chaplain-malingerer: tormentor of numbskull litanies and bittersweet honesties. She is the genuine curve. The careful reproof. A committee of candid insteps not bound to overpronation.
She is an amphetamine throwback that emerges without deficits—a profound tonal restoration.
She is a healthy octave above will.
What I’m Reading:
“When I say ‘man,’ I mean ‘mankind,’ ” explains Moses. “Your speech is codified in patriarchal microaggressions.”
thee istsfor manity reader 