Woke up with that in my head, be in yours. Colonel Sanders was born one-hundred twenty years ago today. I saw that, thought, Hey, the Colonel Sanders scene in Elkin's The Franchiser when Ben Flesh is fooled by a fake Colonel Sanders, I'll post the spectacular paragraphs when Flesh realizes and reacts, fine bleggal-metaphors abound, but then I realized I loaned my copy to Pheven Stillups, I know you're reading this Pheven, if you've finished the book return it please, if you haven't finished the book finish the book and return it please. No, that's not bleggalgazing's end: I've been adding good new links, especially to Because Left, I've discovered Blooger has a limit of 125 per blegrell, so I've begun moving the moribund to Canned Hiatus below. No one has been purged; I doubt any of them read this bleg, but still. Also, suggestions for good reads always solicited. Also, as always, thanks for the Kind.
- Now that's in my head.
- Carnival to commons.
- Give us more time! They'll get it, everybody chill.
- Ten reasons not to vote for Obama.
- Is Romney ready for the kill list? Yes, again.
- Van Fucking Jones.
- Caliban and the witch, for those of you who do.
- Monopoly and capitalism.
- This is the second time I've seen not voting for Obama compared to voting for cancer.
- I work at "the very heart of American empire" apparently. I once was worthy, now I'm not.
- Stinging rebuke.
- It's not just for enemies of the state. Or yes it is.
- Help us destroy Jesus!
- How many Jews know that their God was amphibious?
- Sideshow's links.
- Want to drive up your pings? Don't think about google repercussions of a post with Ducking Fogs in the title. HEY! There are no fogs ducking at this shitty blog. Jesus.
- The steady pounding of repeating.
- Ragtag bloggers.
- Frank O'Hara's great cat Boris.
- On centenaries.
- Swans Swans Swans Swans Swans Swans Swans Swans. Swans.
- Boatloads of John Peel Show recordings.
- Orbit Baby.
- Great pianists of the 20th C.
- Summer's Cauldron.
- Pink Flag.
- Rudder.
- OK, now this is in my head:
DOOMSDAY
Amy Gerstler
The dark that’s gathering strength
these days is submissive,
kinky, silken, willing;
stretched taut as a trampoline.
World events rattle by like circus
trains we wave at occasionally,
as striped, homed and spotted
heads poke out their windows.
Feels like I’m wearing a corset,
though I haven’t a stitch on.
Burn the place setting I ate from,
OK? and destroy the easy chair
I languished in. Let birds
unravel my lingerie
for nesting materials.
Fingers poised on the piano keys,
I can’t think what to play.
A dirge, a fugue?
What, exactly, are crimes
against nature? How many
calories are consumed while
lolling in this dimness,
mentally lamenting the lack
of anything to indicate
some faint mirage of right-
mindedness has been sighted
on the horizon? The world
is full of morbid thinkers,
miserable workers and compulsive
doodlers. Darling, my mother
used to croon, you were a happy
accident, like the discovery
of penicillin. When I sense
the zillions of cells in my body
laboring together, such grand
fatigue sweeps over me.
Once in a blue moon I smell
the future’s breath,
that purgatorial whiff
shot through with the scent
of burnt hair, like when sailors
have been drifting at sea
for a long time and suddenly
they see gulls circling
and the ripe composty odor
of land unfurls in the air,
but they’ve no idea whether
an oasis of breadfruit
and pineapple awaits them
or an enclave of cannibals.
