thee istsfor manity reader

flarfish 28: atigrado phellem

He loves to throw himself on the red cushion, play with the mouse

In the ’60s as a custom color, so it’s rarely found in vintage models today.

Another house loves it … Seasonal advance: Duvets with white

Tim Burns’ tabby cat had gone with Ethel, the landlady, to

The elaborate fabric structure & juxtaposed areas of satin and satin

a set of dog breeds whose physical constitution makes them very adept

I think the vein is very marked in this, and it mixes a lot with crunchy food

“…mess, mess, mess, mess, art. It looks like it won’t pull together… but you have to trust that it will.”
— Sarah Sze

Habeas Crapus

Pasted and made agent, once again, I earned the title of Chancroid of Elfador. I understood public relations and quickly assembled a fleet to sail to Festicularis. Never had so many sumptuous furs been made execrable by laying upon them and evacuating our bowels upon them. The Chancellor of Quas made an appearance by summons of habeas crapus. In our midst he exhibited a prowess for combat with crabs and lice, in a manner so expert, that we allowed him to search and clean our bodies. This was a satisfied accomplishment — maybe even an occasion for pity. We were all destined for history in the outcast country. We would certainly overtake the heathen and Papist alike. We had the flinders of the saints. We had them by the short hairs.

“The most important thing is you can’t write what you wouldn’t read for pleasure… You need to write what you would read if you expect anybody else to read it.”
— Nora Roberts

flarfish 31: rampike myrmidon

Along the crest of the ridge, among the rampikes,

a villain nabob: a bigwig myrmidon: a faithful follower 22 figures

silhouetted dark and large against the sunrise, moved a great herd

cyclopean: massive gorgon: a monster rampike: a dead tree reflex:

unthinking behavior of caribou, feeding as they went. Charles

moves north of there and kills him with the Iron Sword rampant

rampart ramping rampion rampole ramrods ramsons ramtil

Meditation vallecular Scot, his prepositionally quarrelsome rebate:

nubbliest and elasmobranches dental and repulsive Billie

unmoors their rampike concatenating or re-export tails

Richardo soothing remixing their social chancroid blindfolded.

“Having picked flowers, knowing they’d die,
you understand the urge to pluck
the exotic, the beautiful—any diversion
from fear, which is in itself a disease.”
— Richard Levine / “Sheltered in Place”

Thee Entoptic Entopic Entropic

Fleeting soft monsters and fretting rock lobsters juddering — an entopic graphomania projected inside my eyelids:

Today we awoke to pulverulent streets around our neighborhood. A construction crew broke a water main two blocks away.  Many children were carried away in the ensuing flood. 

She enjoyed that.  She’d trade a dusty street for fewer kids every time.  

Now I’m waiting for the postdeluvian flood. I move forward and remove the branks from her head.  Despite the split tongue she begins to regale me — the logorrhea commences:

“Lots to say about the showy shrubby flower, a botanical bawd of bedlam — as if Behemoth or Balam themselves were speaking… the only good band is a jangly guitar band… there’s no business like blood business… she stabbed him in the neck, desirous of proving his theorem…. he listed to the right, feebly waved at the steak knife jutting out from his throat, and fell “face-on” into his bowl of lye hominy… the restaurant patrons burst into applause with shouts of ‘brava, brava!…’”

“I’m a warrior momma, and I say that trucks aren’t what they used to be when I used to steamroll over sheep a few times a year… I had a cowcatcher on the grill, god damnit… they’re built of tin now… they’re useless… we used to be great…”

“I’ve got the end of the tour psychosis blues… chortles and snorts… and I’m not missing whiners or trembly insignificant little men who fancy themselves dabsters of hipsterism with their bushy beards… nobody brings me the head of Holofernes anymore… now that Salome is hooking down on Biscayne Boulevard and 79th street… I’m bored with hedonism, and by extension life… so either it’s a shot to the head or an Ursuline nunnery for me tomorrow… bring on the demoniacs…”

There was a click and a whir, and another film unspooled before me: a flashing comet streaked across the darkness down to a pin prick… followed by 10,000 days of silent black  film leader.

“Dark and light, dark and light, dark and light. That was how I had been taught to view the world.”
— Geraldine Brooks / Year of Wonders

Flarfish 8: chaffer creek (English version)

It is a fact that I am shorter than you … story is based on fact
Live in the middle of dirt, suffer serious illness
There are vehicular or railway tunnels under the river
Sites for riparian restoration … known by several names in Spanish
There I met Domingo, a young chauffeur of the dairies
Where for the roll of the two languages lower than you
Administrator at Criadero at El Riachuelo … that story
Is inevitably linked to the world as metaphors
Provides for the creation of the Tripartite Authority composed of
The province of the Infantes … The left side … and a stream
Suddenly the “chauffeur” carrying his hands to his face exclaims; “Oh God…”

“Reading is more important than writing.”
— Roberto Bolaño

blinders / blunders

i could feel it now…

i was crawling with pierced eyeballs
wringing my twisted mind
off the edge
shaking out 5 senses

a hole in my heart
glued over with spit


“I think hard times are coming.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin

Get Thee Behind

To live and to adapt is what we do. The distempered took our feeling of safety in one fell swoop — so quickly that we didn’t know it immediately, but it was inexorable. It’s the dirty work of death. It’s the daily work of having been born. It pains me.

And yet:

Abortifacients in thaumaturgical liturgy —
What is this skulks toward me from Tartary?

You become a devil when you claim in jussive voice: get behind thee, satan.

House hoist hoise the hoisin sauce, motherfuckers! I’m here to tear your hearts out and eat your tongues… I’m here to speak the truth here to speak the syllogistic logic of samizdat… balalaikas tinkle in high registers — no, I don’t like it up here. Bring it here where I rub myself with stuffed grape leaves that leave oily streaks across my body — I bid thee absolution and a rough ablation of the layers of your skin as you scour the scourge that Is mankind that lives within you. Don’t ask what a stook is if you’re able to look it up yourself.

Please leave me alone. Please leave me. Please leave this country, this continent, this hemisphere… please leave this earth.

“Every author portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will.”
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

flarfish 34: bonhomie manso

For all the good relations and the general tone of controversy was

a general air of tapas-nibbling bonhomie and sleek content

We need around 120 people to be getting the ball rolling

on Sunday. And what a crest-fallen coach – a former

air of contagious literary affectation” that he bought

where a client’s fate never disturbs the lawyers online creative writing courses

“It was not the least of our misfortunes that with our infection, when it ceased, there did not cease the spirit of strife and contention, slander and reproach, which was the great troubles of our nation’s peace before.”
— Daniel Defoe / A Journal of the Plague Year

Combustible

There wasn’t any friction during the Mother’s Day conversation, except about the use of capital letters and hyphens — there was a heated discussion there. “Excessive uses! Much too much!” one of us said.

Hang up.

There is no equitable fashion. There is no forgetting. I wrote nothing by design of distraction. By watching Python, Dreyer, Wenders, and Herzog all day long. Nothing but this at the eleventh hour.

How do we stay safe in this combusting world?

How tired are we of being cooped up without viable alternatives?

This is better than nothing — although I did kill 5 or 6 moths today.

They just keep coming…

“DEFEAT THE BLANK PAGE!”
— Sigrid Nunez / The Friend

Affix Us

A vicious penny farthing flashes across the window, as the dreadful coins are placed upon her eyes. The incantations from the holy man’s mouth sound like blaspheme as the sky grows bright outside.

We move across the floor in time to the funeral dirge, we move across time with the conviction of mute ascetic monks. When we stop the shadows affix us to our places; we stop sobbing and silence fills the empty spaces.

As the sun arcs out the top of the window, we remain frozen in place. The shadows grow long in filtered light and we grow as we stand here still.

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and lightning.”

— Mark Twain