Friday, May 8, 2015

Put The Pig Down and No One Has To Get Hurt
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.
Soap has much to say. May it say it with volubility, enthusiasm. When it has finished saying it, it no longer is.
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 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

Pulp Drunk - Mexican cover art
from Pulp Drunk


Unknown said...

The great man, moves painstakingly down the street. He approaches a nubile girl of perhaps eighteen. He senses, the yawning gaps in her perceptive abilities. His nasal hair waves gently, with each intake of her scent...

Anonymous said...



The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau