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| from Pulp Drunk |
There is so much to say about soap. Precisely everything that it tells about itself until the complete disappearance, the exhaustion of the subject. This is just the object suited to me.
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Soap has much to say. May it say it with volubility, enthusiasm. When it has finished saying it, it no longer is.
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Soap was made by man for his body’s use, yet it does not willingly
attend him. This inert stone is nearly as hard to hold as a fish. See it
slip from me and like a frog dive into the basin again … emitting also
at its own expense a blue cloud of evanescence, of confusion.From “Soap,” by Francis Ponge
The Art of the Paragraph
How Not to Interview Black People about Police Brutality By Jericho Brown
The true story of Little House on the Prairie
Sqirl.co is a new app that links novels to the physical locations mentioned in them.
In the US, where poetry can feel like the exclusive domain of MFA grads and disaffected teens, I would never say to someone, “If you really want to understand America, read some modern poetry.” But in today’s China, where it seems like everyone is writing poetry, that might be just the thing to do.
Eating and the Pleasure of Denial
The Moon Upoon The Waters
Tom Raworth
for Gordon Brotherston
the green of days : the chimneys
alone : the green of days and the women
the whistle : the green of days : the feel of my nails
the whistle of me entering the poem through the chimneys
plural : i flow from the (each) fireplaces
the green of days : i barely reach the sill
the women’s flecked nails : the definite article
i remove i and a colon from two lines above
the green of days barely reach the sill
i remove es from ices keep another i put the c here
the green of days barely reaches the sill
the beachball : dreaming ‘the’ dream
the dreamball we dance on the beach
Finnegans Wake – the book the web was invented for
Borges' 'Library of Babel' comes to virtual life
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| from Pulp Drunk |
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