Jef les deux magots tells me rich fought james here no noise no one wanted here a scaly oak into the icy glare of sunset on eagle’s wing versus don’t play hogwarts legacy there’s a mod for that a haiku of drag down racing streets seven foot wide with a tedious grin similar to the passing train window’s laggy saggy salvage.
Bad manmade structures effluent as a pistol and Caprus, while a good more easily in marmalade darkness, can lose things dreamt amongst millennials is that a terrible parts per trillion of iridium in engineering a recalled forecast about 2 years into the Lycus. The most common lyre is time someone has died during an outflowing of the alien. Laodicea is a ball. It's an outflowing, the inescapable parts perform more violently, about 20 parts per trillion of you can lose your thought, dear reader, what a dogged lover or gas to go to: The figurative thing is the alien. Laodicea is my substitute for a philothaumaturgical body of water, Asopus and their waters; Asopus an outflowing end. Are things of water outflowing or are there magic ends, while a good more easily my substitute forecast something like 2 years into any water or gas to go: They last approximately 2 years into iridium in the figurative thing of iridium dreamt there amongst the sheeply hills between the shapely forms of the bad moon in small rivers Asopus and Caprus, while a good more easily in my substitute forms bad moons in their waters, Asopus and Caprus, while a god, more easily in my godhead, news performs more violently and it's a ball. It's the figurative forms of a performative structure. Effluent is my substitute. Forms bad-out like a fan of marmalade structures. Effluent is their water or gas-to-go: Where the form more easily engineer a chemical reactor. Fluent, more violent, about 20 parasite dreams per beknighted forgotten desire amongst millennials. Situate the long spur of iridium in magic... shucks, we're talking about time, someone has to die. Only about 20 parts per trillion of you can lose the figurative thread. Forms made into a milkshake-like lattice. Effluent is the difference between lover-of-magic bodies and given bodies between the afterlife and, well, you: Bouton-de-Roses, terrible parasite dream, millennials, outflow of advertising structures. Effluent, in reverse, returns to the figurative think tank what a lover knows is how to make figurative the inescapable parts per trillion of you, Bouton-de-Roses, that a terrible end fears ends. Are we thinking in English again? is like what a terrible parasite dream amongst friends. Floating down the Caprus, while a good more violently, about 20 parasite dreams attempt to bring forth the common alien in law. Laodicea is hell.
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I’ll be staying away from stories regarding Friday night’s Paris attacks, as well as all secondary reax stories. One exception for the Nation & World page will be the story out of Libya concerning a mostly unrelated drone strike that killed an IS commander there. If this news makes it into your Paris mainbar or any secondary coverage elsewhere, please email me and I will make sure that it is replaced on your N&W page. -- away from stories one exception for the Nation for there if this news makes it into your Paris Paris will be staying away from our stories regarding a mostly unrelated drone story out of Libya concerning a mostly unrelated drone staying a mostly unrelated drone regarding one exception for here if this news makes it into your Paris attacks as well as all secondary coverage it is replaced in your Paris makes it into our Paris
And Paris, France, is still Paris, France, though we've never been there together but might if life were a little longer and no one ever invented knives. I am crossing the bridge again and the city is behind me being rescued or being destroyed with a leaf on the end of a branch turning maple-syrup brown. The first one. The summer's over, Jack Spicer, and I have turned my collar up against the wind and health insurance, the clouds and blue jays, against the gangbangers and insufficient funds. It's getting colder. We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming our fathers again, our exhausted uncles, bruising our knuckles against the tavern walls and young mothers, we're showing up for work, we're blessing the promise of ice and snow and football to come like the Israelites did with the sand, the gold, and the insects. It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss Matthew Lippman. He's walking through an alley in Boston, his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter at home. His heart beating up his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken, the ribs broken— I'm not ready! Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt of stars around me, be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega. The oceans are getting blue and the oysters are getting ready. Soon we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces of senators and crossword puzzles, the oysters spread out over the sports page, we can open the hard shells and slip the cold soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink white wine and make a kind of Pacific out of lunch. I want to lie around the room with your jeans flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream and have my older brother back. The summer's over, Jack, and all the waitresses are putting on their black tights like a funeral of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out their lines of cocaine like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect. I have crossed the bridge into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really, I'm in Portland, the summer's over and the last of the breweries are being pulled into the sky, becoming lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.
From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”
after Shelley’s Queen Mab
of jet
So fair so wonderful
a star over
the suns the
burnished over ocean
bright couch
Shaded
there
Be ethereal footsteps like rocks
of Spells
Enter the wave
Edged
wave
When the will;
Yet
not;
Of purple
gleam
* * *
in glittering yon flood
of thrill
beaming over the Spirit
Peeps like rocks of
Heaven
Stretching
flood of
fear
the real palace
Hung over
the wave
Upon the real palace couch
Shaded their passive
swell in red the
immense jet
And yet the
sun's palace
couch
The
ethereal
palace couch
Hung on
the immense
golden clouds of thirst
Should they call me what they call me When they come to call on me And should I be satisfied with all three When all three are with me Or should I say may they stay Or will they stay with me On no account must they cry out About which one went where they went In time to stay away may be they do But I doubt it As they were very much able to stay there. However may they go if they say so.
from Part IV of Stanzas in Meditation from “Stein: Writings 1932-1946, Vol. 2”