Saturday, November 24, 2012

The cost of listening to Martian radio~ ~~

this grey porch

‘It was through thinking on these mysteries and marvels, and on that horrible change to silence and decay which he felt sure must sometime come to him, as he had seen it come to so many of his flock—as it came to all living things except the birds—that Haïta first became conscious how miserable and hopeless was his lot.’—Ambrose Bierce “Haïta The Shepherd”

afternoon… fell. grey old porch that does not remember the fire words of the lantern-eyed poets who laughed here when the world was full of flags and eggs (there was tea, sometimes scotch, whilst they hailed Atlantis and dedicated their meadowlarks to Hypatia), or any mouth that spoke of the shape of green leaves.

old man, long time after immortal vanished. his elbow is rooted to the railing.

empty hangs from the trellis.

nowhere feels foolish (and irritated) for not sleeping.

he’d like the earth-flavored breath of a cigarette, or a drink, but both have quit his cupboard.

unseen tonight, the stars that repealed company are cold and quiet.

open eyes can’t see the mailbox on the silent street. not for the likes of you

looks at his hands. hands that no longer spit at the war. closes his eyes. the utter blackness does not cease.

(for my friend, Mike Davis)
[Lyle Lovett “This Old Porch”]

Letter to a Dead Man (or) this grey porch ~~ the sequel (sort of)

(for Cavey!)

bEast: [at WAR w/ one word in the text.]
Muse: Just get on with it . . . Idiots.
bEast: [looks at cold-hearted bitch w/ all the napalm he can muster.]
Sam Beckett: I believe our Sisyphus is not having fun today, John Henry.
Doc Holiday: ‘Long pacing in the to and fro of the gloom.’
Lyle Lovett: Do you think he’d do a “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” if he had a boat and could row fast enough to get out of the Tower of Song?
Doc Holiday: My money’s on him empting both barrels, then sitting back down and crying again.
Jack Spicer: [looking up from the map that goes on forever.] Ghost of Lorca… empty boats, all the roosters booing, stairs the postman won’t climb, that’s a big, dark carpet to try to escape.
Doc Holiday: [sees the bet. raises.] No one gets out of here alive… that’s the fragrance of this river.
bEast: [creaks a bit and keeps spiting vocabulary at the WAR…]

[Lyle Lovett "An Acceptable Level of Ecstasy (The Wedding Song)"]

(c) 2012 Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.


Thursday, November 8, 2012

BIBLOMANCY raves for Portraits of Ruin

The sage critic of Biblomancy ventured forth and sidestepping the hut and curse of Baba Yaga and the ill punishments of the Old Castle entered the exibition to view the portraits stretched over the cracked walls of ruin. Broken apart by tilted cadences and profane velocities he's returned to talk of the wallop that possessed him.

We were very pleased by his recent visit to Carcosa and are delighted by his current promenades deep within our ruined labyrinths.

You can read his review/report/travelogue here