Neil Halstead teased a rumor of a Slowdive reunion, hence today's cascade courtesy of Mr Alarum. I really dig Slowdive/Mojave 3/his solo stuff, but this is in Mr Alarum's wheelhouse. Here's a video of the new John Cale single. Song kinda sucks, fun to look at. Once it would have generated a stand alone post, a late afternoon blogwhoring, get me to the top of floating blogrolls post, always a gross side consideration I admit but jesusfuck, I never don't blow off responsibilities to get to a United home game, I never dismiss an icon's latest lame effort and fail to promote it as another addition to a saint's discography. I'm small. I'm failing miserably, but this pathetic effort to not hurl like a partisan beer-bonger into the POTUS pukestorm seems to effect my damn-levels in every other not family damn. Strangest days of my life. Poetry still works, I've never read better. Loved ones are loved. I wish it bothered me more it bothered me more I think that Cale song sucks, wish it bothered me more I didn't try harder to get to the game Wednesday night, but not much.
- Last night's blogheader - did you like it? - the main building at Allegheny College from our visit seven centuries ago.
- Of course they are liars, it's all good for Kevin Baker to bwah. So fucking what?
- Of course they are liars, it's all good for all the fact-checkers and publications to bwah. So fucking what?
- Bwah bwah bwah.
- Romney's head tilt.
- Work isn't working.
- Pantomime and power.
- Magical capitalism.
- Vote 2012.
- Citizens united.
- Farewell to Romney.
- The erotics of theology.
- Ignorance of death.
- On the road with Wallace and Wystan.
- Silliman's tenth anniversary bleggalgaze.
- New Bob Mould!
AFTER THE LAST BULLETINS
Richard Wilbur
After the last bulletins the windows darken
And the whole city founders readily and deep,
Sliding on all its pillows
To the thronged Atlantis of personal sleep,
And the wind rises. The wind rises and bowls
The day’s litter of news in the alleys. Trash
Tears itself on the railings,
Soars and falls with a soft crash,
Tumbles and soars again. Unruly flights
Scamper the park, and taking a statue for dead
Strike at the positive eyes,
Batter and flap the stolid head
And scratch the noble name. In empty lots
Our journals spiral in a fierce noyade
Of all we thought to think,
Or caught in corners cramp and wad
And twist our words. And some from gutters flail
Their tatters at the tired patrolman’s feet,
Like all that fisted snow
That cried beside his long retreat
Damn you! damn you! to the emperor’s horse’s heels.
Oh none too soon through the air white and dry
Will the clear announcer’s voice
Beat like a dove, and you and I
From the heart’s anarch and responsible town
Return by subway-mouth to life again,
Bearing the morning papers,
And cross the park where saintlike men,
White and absorbed, with stick and bag remove
The litter of the night, and footsteps rouse
With confident morning sound
The songbirds in the public boughs.
