tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55271312012-01-29T00:34:55.529-05:00"In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.comBlogger6231100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-12345477129856824762012-01-29T00:34:00.003-05:002012-01-29T00:34:55.557-05:00

Neither shame nor pride nor sense of self (nor even that of being left upon the shelf); only a persistent ebb & flow; like so many data packets, away I go.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-18131196128123517542012-01-28T14:02:00.000-05:002012-01-28T14:02:46.975-05:00

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-77810844591231666962012-01-25T01:18:00.002-05:002012-01-25T01:20:12.358-05:00

How tired these lank limbs of mine! January rains, with enough grit it seems to sully even the static sky (two questions & no alibi: what am I then? What am I?). Impossible since half past 10, this now is Night’s territory; here “never” is the currency. I have made a new enemy& I turn her pages slow (I do not read well) while there are still stories to tell if only to fill the space with

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-21902525922587387732012-01-17T00:03:00.001-05:002012-01-17T00:04:56.395-05:00

Je dors, parce que les mots doivent y trouver leurs voix –  la Nuit est bénie partout sauf ici.  Les ondes thêta sont appelées à témoigner  concernant toutes mes digressions. Dans mes rêves  je ne suis pas grand comme tout le monde.  Mais je pense que la vie est un goût acquis.  (& si je continue je vais avoir  le monde entier au bout de mes doigts,  un pied dans toutes les portes. J’aimerais

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-60438541631494707722012-01-06T01:34:00.002-05:002012-01-06T01:36:20.957-05:00

[Initially intended as a triolet.] Dans le froid crépuscule naguère cher à mon cœur, je vis poindre la chouette d'argent, bec et serres affutés comme des lances de fer: Pallas toute parée pour la guerre! Je sus que venait de s’éteindre l’Espoir dans l’éternel hiver. [In the cold evening erstwhile dear to my heart, I saw the silver owl come up, beak and talons sharp as iron lances: Pallas all

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-59640855630130957702012-01-02T13:03:00.000-05:002012-01-06T01:35:40.137-05:00

From: E. To: The Right Honourable Stephen Joseph Harper  Dear Mr. Harper, It seems unfair that elected leaders should yearly address their best wishes to their constituents while so very few of the latter ever take the time to respond in kind. I have resolved to personally make an effort to reverse this trend. I therefore wish you, Laureen, Benjamin, Rachel and Stanley a very happy New Year.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-34460383270183813742011-10-12T21:27:00.002-04:002011-10-24T21:32:08.780-04:00

It's not an idea, it's just a waste of time.You know your blindspot is the last thing on my mind.You're going to stand up, you're going to walk that line.It's not an idea, it's just a waste of time.You know your blindspot is the last thing on my mind.It's not a promise, it's just a slice of life;it's not a purpose, it's just what's left behind.You know your blindspot is the last thing on my

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-91682146915004589112011-10-01T01:57:00.000-04:002011-10-01T01:57:35.537-04:00

Your electronic footprint mocks me;even the merest thumbnail exudessmug satisfaction.I will not press the “like” button;I would not make that connection were the fate of the world to dependon a newsfeed item. There is no resentment (how could there be?)no love lost, only a sea of faces– wave on wave – wearing down your featuresin my memory.  & there is a conceited blog post Saturday, 2AM &

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-14316953235476532752011-09-01T02:17:00.001-04:002011-09-01T13:40:00.417-04:00

The Judge of  Intentions sits lonely in his silent, empty room (where vestiges of our existence do not bring to mind any significance of any kind). He is above all paltry things, & a joyless inebriation -- a sort of pride, though without passion -- makes him more or less than mortal. Upon the dais, on a pedestal, sprawled in his chair as though sleeping he ponders, perhaps, of Before, of the

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-11113968214933654622011-08-28T22:47:00.004-04:002011-08-28T22:50:46.049-04:00

The whimpering streets all vanished, the great electric hush swallowed Facebook for most of us (call it a measure of grace). Yesterday was all ablaze; I even remembered names & someone called me “Leo.” (WTH?) Perhaps I never came back from the 24-hour breakfast place (where the menu obviously said “die a little faster” if you read between the lines): I still reek of long awkward in the forever

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-25506000999623085742011-08-25T10:08:00.002-04:002011-09-01T02:26:48.714-04:00

Turn off your pop-up blocker, turn on your speakers & follow this link. The Internet is wonderful.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-87144087471589565762011-08-22T15:53:00.010-04:002011-08-24T09:40:51.362-04:00

(Inspired by numerous cookie recipes by a famous convicted felon. The inclusion of quinoa was suggested by a reputed biological oceanographer from the MIT. ) The dry stuff: 1 cup whole wheat flour1¼ cup white flour½ tsp baking soda1 tsp salt The greasy stuff: 1 cup brown sugar½ cup white sugar⅓ cup unsalted butter or margarine⅓ cup peanut butter⅓ cup light cream cheese2 large eggs1 tsp vanilla

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-86574789596823406972011-08-18T20:21:00.010-04:002011-08-24T09:45:13.645-04:00

(Very loosely based on this & other recipes.) For the choux pastry: 7 ounces (8/10 of a cup) water 1/3 cup butter or margarine 1 cup white flour half a tsp salt 3 eggs 1/3 cup finely grated cheese of your preferred variety (I like provolone) For the filling: 1 tbsp butter or margarine A carrot, finely chopped Half a large white onion, finely chopped 1/3 cup chopped mushrooms 1/3 cup chopped

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-50054385252303979312011-05-15T21:34:00.003-04:002011-05-15T21:34:57.872-04:00

Elder things in May make poets madthat even Nature cannot comprise (though some secret stars will sympathize).

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-87367130598397812032011-04-23T00:07:00.000-04:002011-04-23T00:09:19.819-04:00

Late night staring in the clueless face of Chaos,counting the days since it last made a difference –since the long velvet tendrils came to comfort us,shielding us from all manners of sense & unreason.I am waiting in the half-light for some of your dead names,for disarrayed semes to clutter my cathodes,for my unblinking eyes to lap up the letters,to restore them, perhaps, to their first

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-91588166812159142402011-04-14T23:32:00.001-04:002011-04-14T23:34:22.752-04:00

Come deliver mefrom my pathological unease(the obsequityof a life between parentheses).Don’t let me slip awayalthough I beg to stayyour hand.If you succour mewith your perfect mannersI might sucker you intosomething less than honest;though I mind the painI wouldn’t let it gainsaya friend.Love is the only G-D worth fighting over,is an improvement on our human nature,is another name for “ever after

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-56155908542914089342011-04-08T00:14:00.001-04:002011-04-08T00:15:53.785-04:00

I think not the elephant in the roombut the emptiness in the air,the crater in the centre of town,the total, glaring want of care(& to tell you the truth I rather preferMain street that way though whatremains upright does seem lonelier –starker, like a mortuary). Your boarded windows are eyelids,unseeing orbs flutter behind:“That is not dead which dreaming lies.”You have the likeness of a friend

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-62436447796772269902011-03-29T22:48:00.001-04:002011-03-29T22:49:50.432-04:00

I can see through the trees a glimpse of the edge(is a dull feathered glimmer, the wet trampled sedgecrushed under the snow) for a swim go, back in time I let youdown, is every any instant – through the corridorwhich indiscernibly pulls (but the mind it cushions the fall) apart – US. THEM. HISTORY. ...I forget (mercy!) but to build a house of cardsupon this shifting rubble how. could. i. ?.down,

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-81180767543818582732011-03-28T00:50:00.003-04:002011-03-28T00:52:26.646-04:00

Tomorrow: there greatness dwells& Muses wait on that distant shore –kinder Muses that do not begrudgeto onerous labour its just reward. But sea-tossed minds are monsters’ fare –siren fodder, kelpie riders –& Genius never once was fairnor ever kind to his pursuers.Wiser men for love or letters haveconsigned themselves to towers of air:who am I then to tempt Ruinout of Scorn’s reeking lair?Tomorrow

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-12167050413431009742011-03-18T21:24:00.001-04:002011-03-18T21:24:53.728-04:00

Never have I ever –not, even, in the clammiest of doubts –felt Judgement issue forthfrom these half-opened eyes,but only catch glimpses,scraps, of the Awakener’s poiseas he sits placidlyon the brass coils of Eternity.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-6740181163667859442011-02-24T09:40:00.003-05:002011-02-24T09:47:11.570-05:00

Entheogens III: Ergine. Acrylic & ink on canvas.Entheogens II: Psilocybin. Acrylic & ink on canvas.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-74164362252554004132011-02-16T22:57:00.003-05:002011-02-24T09:38:34.685-05:00

Show starts a 6PM.Free admission.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-25509208479714910932011-02-14T23:26:00.001-05:002011-02-14T23:26:40.847-05:00

The deathly silence which is only the Beginning of everythingdoes not depart for the sake of the Middle (though its persistence seem an injustice to the concept of History).

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-63044585208675599512011-01-26T15:20:00.004-05:002011-02-24T09:38:53.859-05:00

The bright, plump twins still cling to the severed peduncle;upon their bald pate, star-shaped sepalsremember being flowers.Pomodori, you are beautiful& I am sorry.It was by accident that I took you home(mistaking you, perchance, for plums)& so deprived the next-in-lineof the warm Chilean sun,the tart smell of summer& your ruddy cheeks.Cruel is the irony:being allergic, what use have I for you?For

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-14503998631402255162011-01-21T11:41:00.008-05:002011-02-24T09:32:21.388-05:00

An fMRI study of the neural activity of migraine sufferers reveals that a group of unrelated individuals are exhibiting similar neuro-electric patterns. After performing complex statistical analysis of the anomalous neural activity of eight subjects for more than 48 hours, it is discovered that the patterns have a very high signal-to-noise ratio. The waveform with the highest amplitude & the

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-31456107275796747362011-01-14T23:14:00.002-05:002011-01-14T23:18:56.092-05:00

then a cheerful hag erased my name& shortly thereafter burst, like some hollow thing.I was alone then in the den, with broken piecesof the cackling hen & words I lifted from a song,trying to remember how I came along(though never getting so far as when)..tnedicni tsetal eht ylnO

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-22809309798892016512010-12-23T01:04:00.000-05:002010-12-23T01:05:41.648-05:00

The days all blurred togetherlike sacred time but in reverse;confusion instead of recurrence,the carriage after the hearse,rain outside its seasonor meaning after reason –& all of the different sorts oftired (the slow morning tired,the dull evening tired,the throbbing afternoon tired,tired in layers; tired, even, of sleep).Lateness affords no excuse(why so fascinated by the news?)to be bored, a

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-30105734060155753282010-12-09T23:01:00.003-05:002010-12-09T23:09:22.589-05:00

Hate is a four letter word(one of four hundred thousand)with no proper use save nonce:what we believed we feltwhilst we were mistaken.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-80624960411236940122010-11-08T19:08:00.003-05:002011-10-24T21:41:27.100-04:00

What we are I am not supposed to say –another dreary instant? The daylight & the distancewill tell a different story.Still it seems too good that we can get our fill;do not think of “after,” but only of “until.”I do not change – not ever – but for the consequenceit brings:the smell of erudition in the ferment of words,long & foreign words & the stolid pace of things.I am too much embroiled for

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-69697513045170134692010-10-31T22:58:00.002-04:002010-10-31T23:01:34.182-04:00

The shape is not the contents, nor the contents the shape –not for letters in the sand & not for sacred space.There are Things for which correlation is but one pacein the right Direction, like the lifting of a drape.The Whole is more than the sum of our thoughts.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-1359732530754593242010-10-27T00:17:00.009-04:002010-10-27T00:24:12.043-04:00

Endless variations spill thence without a word –music so far beyond what can ever be heard –pall-mall, uncharted spectra of gods, ghosts & girls;the space is bare but decent, static though it swerves.I am reminded of St.Conan’s Kirk near Oban –a mandapa in Pune seemed outside of time –& all over the place I expect Nandi’s smile:ageless women there shall while away the hours.It is a remote spot of

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-6423463080471249292010-10-25T23:37:00.002-04:002010-10-25T23:40:29.637-04:00

Long the dolent din hangs still upon the air –but never goes away ere the whole world shifts,transposed as though its fullness waited there,beyond reach of the sound into far-off mists –but heart is never mended nor spirit repaired& the spinning Earth never again is whole,for each that ever walked is forever missed.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-28770695109033801302010-10-06T23:15:00.003-04:002010-10-06T23:21:09.064-04:00

Only recall that vast, vacant world of mine(or that vacuous, hopeful head of mine)when you think to tally the score;it was not quite so hollow beforewhen long evenings stretched into never& friends more like beggars cameto drain the lethean cup, shame-less, thirsting & unbidden.Remember what once lay hidden –though it was not worth living for,still there was something, I am sure –& this puerile,

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-18568611906282787732010-09-07T22:54:00.001-04:002010-09-07T22:55:43.835-04:00

Run (don’t walk);the blinking white man beckonsacross the stream of bitumen.The old gods & the new onesnoisily tug at heartstrings whenwe pass them by; I shiver just to standin their urbane shade.Gravity delays her gratificationfor the space of an edifice –a funerary contraption,an arrow pointed at G-D’s face –I would I could know the reasonfor all this quickening of the pace;is it not curious

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-82180011542276839122010-07-17T19:48:00.003-04:002011-02-24T09:39:47.504-05:00

Entheogens I: Bufotenin. Acrylic & ink on canvas.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-64613106808399658142010-07-16T19:47:00.001-04:002010-07-16T19:47:44.146-04:00

I fear the Pale Horse is ripefor the culling of the fold –I see it foaming at the mouthupon its bit of beaten goldbut still I hoped that we might findwhether Fate favours the bold;living for today is a compromiseI am not willing to uphold.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-46988136308429310702010-07-14T12:16:00.013-04:002011-01-14T21:45:24.260-05:00

Here is something new: I have reviewed a blog post. Well, I did not review it so much as comment on it rather excessively; it then occurred to me that lengthy comments might as well be blog posts. If you would like to read the political opinions of a conservative European see "Can the West be Saved?". "Saved" here is intended to mean "from Islam." If you would rather read what I think of the "

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-12778463271681635922010-07-14T00:39:00.001-04:002010-07-14T00:40:37.012-04:00

I told them. All believed I spoke in jest.“I am not my own”come now as a test.what surely will – what mightwhat never happened,if it pass from one life to the next )but an ancient Spirit mustwhat the flesh durst not make note of( where the blanched memory fails& now & again I read, & thus rememberbeneath the Sky’s insufferable weight.& nightly wake to the sound of Earth dyingin the silence

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-7377659257426546552010-06-09T21:28:00.002-04:002010-06-09T21:30:40.090-04:00

Forever – I have been hearing themforever – & never could my ownvoice rein in the thoughts of whateverforeign things insert themselves betweenmy senses & the supreme unrestof Mind.& so there could not be room enoughfor you although I tried to clear somespace. Dear, I would have left this fallen placebut for the ebbing of the wave thatalways seemed to pull me in.Once the Ancient of Days came

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-8194529334889119212010-05-15T12:48:00.000-04:002010-05-15T12:49:37.381-04:00

Vestiges of Pride still hidefrom the World in the space of a blink(somewhere between suicide& the long, slow breath there at the brink).This is the luminous insightinto Fear, Love & Suffering:that such things in life coincide –the last two more than anything.This city lapped up my lifethe minute that I stepped out into her streets:a beast of tailored suits with stripesspilled from neckties onto

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-71981286439015716202010-04-30T21:40:00.002-04:002010-05-06T10:34:34.701-04:00

A mess on the ladder where a social climber slipped:he hangs on, he clamours but the Man won’t hear of it –for the Chosen have checked in like items off a list,sure that though game is rigged the croupiers are honest.I am in the basement & my window softly singsa motorized encore to the long suburban dreamwhere lives are as always much less simple than they seemwhat with the high cost of oil &

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-20067062697919486792010-04-28T12:11:00.001-04:002010-04-28T12:13:56.895-04:00

For N.H.When the mind becomes ill from abundance of airas infinite space threatens to crush into dustthe still fragile conviction that all is not fair –without thought for merit but only since we must –we are precious comrades all, though Dread does not spare.When all of fear has left to plague remote unknownsthough the furious gale bellow her incessant drone& the spat of rain slowly drenches to

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-65935377765975378402010-04-22T09:45:00.000-04:002010-04-22T09:47:12.432-04:00

I walked in on some young woman (presumably a friend) as she was concluding a cocaine deal. She had paid her pushers (two teens with terrible hair & worn leather jackets) & was about to follow them when I convinced her that she should instead seek treatment. She collapsed as we walked out of her apartment & into the parking lot. I had a very difficult time carrying her.In the parking lot I met

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-78340352311466864712010-04-20T23:45:00.002-04:002010-04-21T00:41:28.792-04:00

What can you dowhen all of thoughtis merely hinting at the veil?I want so badlyfor that parsed lightto turn a different shade.Here is an untrodden paththat feels itself fade.I spelled the waterto speak & the fire to listen.I am a different string now,wanting unison.The little I know is too muchfor comfort.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-31277788859490067232010-04-19T23:45:00.003-04:002010-04-20T23:45:26.793-04:00

To S.P.She was a rising star, yes, with a date with Mr.Sands –a flaring meteor the likes of which no eye can stand –& she burned. She burned the night long as if to make amends:from the tips of fiery hair to the pencil in her handshe burned.Bachelard’s mistress, vestal whore – she collected epithetsuntil she could take no more of the worship of the best.“Those were the days,” “them’s the breaks”:

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-14438279109015513212010-04-16T09:42:00.001-04:002010-04-16T19:35:26.737-04:00

I think it was in Kerala, India – I had snuck in on a late-night performance of a diorama on the life of Shiva. The first station of the diorama was taking place on a hill behind a large barn, with the audience sitting on the slope & the spectacle unfolding at the bottom. An enormous statue of Shiva in his meditative pose was being described in Malayalam by an animated troupe of Brahmins. They

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-79997145804495585292010-04-15T09:48:00.004-04:002010-04-16T19:48:03.628-04:00

I remember only this part of the opening sentence of an obituary: “After many long minutes of bravely fighting a smelly 12-year-old...”. . .I was given lessons on how to be a ghost by a bald quadragenarian in white attire. He had hand-outs with tables & everything. He said I could go wherever (& be whoever) I wanted to be. If it got too hard I could always reincarnate. I could see the internal

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-18888609023384223582010-04-09T00:05:00.007-04:002010-04-12T00:32:52.747-04:00

When out of shame Dread comes,bare & brazen, urgent,like liquid in my lungs,like baleful Urizen,alas, where is refuge?This convoluted fleshhas no sulcus so deep,no fissure wide enoughto lay me down to sleepwhile daemons run amok.How weary this old soul –how long the tattered Coldstill grips my every bone.How weary & how long ...How weary & how long!Sitting alas alonein the still, crowded room;

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-3201572174893487842010-04-07T09:14:00.003-04:002011-01-26T15:42:04.071-05:00

Lifelovedeath all confused in moments such as these,from our thick windows watching Kitty Genovese:mute witnesses all, through dry eyes we seeour own idle members committing felony& wait (perhaps always) for powerful others& wonder why this scene feels like a Felliniwhile trying to adjust jutting coloursto sounds swelling aqueous that seem to disagree. All of the wide Earth is a nameless street

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-76781918659424814362010-04-03T22:23:00.003-04:002010-04-03T22:53:42.910-04:00

Words.Words like mana from heaven,words like wet sick from the mouthsof dipsomaniacs. Words &the shape of words – again &again, pages without end,plot holes, the relentless sprawlof hymns & blasphemies; theancient veneer of luridlunacies; the fond thoughts charredupon the sheets, emblazonedor dull, mad scribbles or meekprose. The silent stillness ofold letters; the wild ramblingsof the new. Words

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-10605744011204151072010-03-28T22:09:00.003-04:002010-04-03T22:15:17.450-04:00

You lord you sorrows over& it isn’t right;still I’ll sleep behind your eyes.Just wake me if yourealize all the weight hasmade your head bow low,tiny Michelangelo.What happens now is not myfault. It never was.It’s not because I have noheart, but darling you’rea star. I would not know whereto start, & what’s more:other friends have flown before.I’ll love you like I neverdid on my deathbedI swear –

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-69253014184574520482010-03-25T07:52:00.005-04:002010-03-25T08:00:16.541-04:00

It is all rather foggy, but I remember watching a documentary (or reading an article? I can’t recall) presenting the “runcible” as a medieval defence strategy. Here “runcible” was defined as a wall of double-edged blades, leaning slightly at an acute angle with the ground. It was defeated by skilled climbers who would push their palms against the flat underneath of the blades for balance, placing

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-56709029046167968192010-03-21T23:43:00.004-04:002010-03-21T23:50:54.837-04:00

Seeking what solace the bright shadowsmight give us, I remember we lungedoutside of view, the tattered canvasbetween ourselves & the dull, grey world –the Earth a sad, gritty pearl while ourstill-soft minds were worthless pretty things,oil-spilled puddles, topographic chartson water-stained Styrofoam ceilings.I do not long for those days though Iregret the change in social scenerynow that paper

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-21329487652861191872010-03-21T09:22:00.002-04:002010-03-21T09:26:11.574-04:00

I think I may have had the nightmare of endless shopping again though I cannot remember what I was shopping for. This night was all a blur & I only retain gritty fragments of stories, something like excerpts of terrible sitcoms – Québecois adaptations, badly played & overproduced. For the most part the pericopes are confused & jumbled: a palimpsest of clichés, incomprehensible & indecipherable

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-4219722484357404452010-03-20T09:30:00.008-04:002010-03-21T23:43:08.231-04:00

Facebook stalkers, please note: Facebook truncates these posts & omits line breaks, substantially reducing what little literary value they have. For your reading convenience, click "read the original post" to visit my blog. Feedback makes me feel a little less pointless.My friend C.B. had convinced me to visit a matchmaking website where instead of posting profiles the candidates wrote opinion

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-81610996157593240102010-03-19T09:29:00.003-04:002010-03-21T09:19:36.864-04:00

I was the protagonist in what must have been a pulp fantasy. I had two acolytes – a middle-aged man & a darkly voluptuous woman, neither of which were any help at all. Some unknown evil had conquered the land & plunged it into perennial winter. We were walking down the Imperial Road – once a well travelled highway, then a half-frozen river. We were constantly at risk of breaking through the ice &

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-3008963049463804482010-03-18T08:05:00.010-04:002010-03-20T09:46:25.466-04:00

It was at the end of a long forest road much like the one on my family's property in La Patrie. There was a beige, blockish sort of building, supposedly a paper mill though there was no river nearby. The names of various fictitious periodicals kept appearing & disappearing from the corner of its façade – not in flashing neon lights but rather in some kind of magical ink, as though stucco could

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-73307625475890863322010-03-16T18:35:00.000-04:002010-03-16T18:36:40.147-04:00

Another close call, L-rd – I can’t say I’m impressedwith every passing hour that fills the emptiness.So it’s true we are most ourselves without notice –the force of old habits, the effects of practice.But should I be the first to suddenly dissolveas the atmosphere begins to melt us allI would like You to know while every face mergesthere was room in my mind for other universes.It was You Who

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-74257231763001849622010-03-11T15:44:00.004-05:002010-03-21T14:39:49.410-04:00

Dreaming the soul is like a god –though her quiet abode lay still,she kicks against the goads & spillsinto the far reaches of Nod.Once she returned ere I could wake& perched upon the windowsill& chirped for hours with the shrilltones of a cockerel at daybreak.I would have kept her out awhilebut she slipped through the windowpane.All my protest could not restrainthe incessant spate of her wile.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-78735010250128730052010-02-21T01:10:00.003-05:002010-02-21T01:12:09.201-05:00

Oh Lenten dayswhen my sleep comessound like thunderthrough the dull haze!Penitence howI have missed youlike a pebblein my shoe, likean old sore. Deepin dream I amrelieved of thethoughts of you Icannot have, ofthe faces whichmemory weaves fromthe black stock ofsympathies. Icould rest here awhile; I could seizemy guile & thenbury it. Iwould swallowmy pride but thereare other mouthsto feed, & allthe

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-59589257414800717532010-02-11T00:12:00.003-05:002010-02-11T00:16:55.787-05:00

Long shadows & the lamp –they flicker as beforewhen of its own volitionair rises from the floor.The dust will form a pattern,a million signs or moreto castigate my reason.The lateness & the seasonchoke the open door.This now is what I am,these are my well-worn clothes& in my mind I listento thoughts of overdose.I’ve looked into the method:it’s morbid I suppose –a form of escapism,a distant, grim

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-71669211228426975022010-02-06T22:18:00.001-05:002010-02-06T22:18:46.895-05:00

Do you still feel a chill when my ghost hovers near,or wonder what life might have been but for the fearof what lay before – beyond that ivory door?I learned to walk like Oneiroi: their companyhas become something of a second family.Like their changing form my mind knows no better homethan those distant reaches where oft the nightmare beastsrepair for their repose, to parliament or feastupon

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-43009674127216279792010-02-05T17:54:00.000-05:002010-02-05T17:55:03.212-05:00

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-37362815368734225692010-02-04T08:10:00.003-05:002010-02-04T08:18:28.240-05:00

Four poems in the Mitre this year:Conversation Without MeaningDearest MonsterAll the Waiting to be BornTiller Towards TroubleInformation about the launch party is forthcoming.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-89695748845391022312010-02-03T23:34:00.001-05:002010-02-03T23:34:51.578-05:00

I went walking half asleep,wondering whose long legs carriedme down the dull, frigid streets.The cold was like music tome (I am synaestheticyou see) & in my recklessabandon I must have steppedbeyond the reach of Reason.I was in good company –o what great eyes, o what sharpteeth! Still the pacing of strangefeet bore me through the snow &sleet, until I floundered onthe flip side of February.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-73052456684492200422010-02-03T00:17:00.005-05:002010-02-11T20:06:45.907-05:00

While our many lives drift in time& the gods smile on our defeat –when even mountains are worn flatfor all the shuffling of their feet –dreams may yet come, & for all thatI think I shall not cease to rhyme.At the last hour called “Judgement”when pale the forms shall rise from graves& greet that final, endless daywith arms outstretched for Jove to savestill my lost soul will sing away,in sorrow or

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-24140729632744426902010-02-01T15:21:00.013-05:002010-02-01T20:57:19.064-05:00

The moon, her midnight stillnessa portent of long white days,pallid & resplendent hangsover the land. Like velvetthe quiet evergreens stretchalong the dim horizon –the last refuge of darknessin the shimmering season,impermeable to light,& to reason disinclined.These are not Cartesian climesbut the whole is more akinto ideas of waking inthe sleeper’s mind, like inklingsof a jagged shore on

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-80568808576350214292010-01-24T13:44:00.003-05:002010-01-24T20:32:12.898-05:00

I have genuine admiration for those who giveinnocence & joy a plausible voice: such wordsnever come easily, though sordid eloquencepour profligate through parched lips, & from the gibbeteven mutes might sing.As for myselfI am trying to kick the habit of breathing& am experiencing the usual symptomsof withdrawal – a droll sense of urgency whenthe blurry world begins to fade, & in that

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-61910345880364713422010-01-17T23:18:00.004-05:002010-01-17T23:21:09.532-05:00

Do ghosts freak out when living folk show up on their photographs?

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-10936527765932792322010-01-17T16:32:00.002-05:002010-01-17T23:22:59.142-05:00

The sun beat hoton those hard streets.Like weeds we creptthrough cracks in concrete.How am I supposed to knowif there’s still timeor if I move too slow,or out of line?This was my blood offered to youto drink while it was warm.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-30506449508670571432010-01-15T00:12:00.002-05:002010-01-15T00:17:22.759-05:00

Lovers, when gleefully your eyes jabberlike swallows chime in the saccharine spring,do not spoil the peace with words – dreadful things,words, without meaning save for what othersenses impart, lost without the beacon of Art.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-83031737277182513822010-01-12T23:18:00.001-05:002010-01-12T23:20:20.649-05:00

& maybe you’ll keep your Dickinson& I my cummings & it will bebetter than reading each other’s minds(I do believe you: you are psychic,you just have noetic dyslexia);& maybe Chomsky is better than Arendt (seriously?) & Trekkies aresmarter – but incidental poemsabout growing apart are just dumb.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-57130539627448930442010-01-11T00:44:00.003-05:002010-01-11T01:04:08.072-05:00

I am overfull with words –pour now the cup, o my heart,in libation: should they startto lap it up the sky godswill surely need bow their backs& bend the knee: what is thisnow, oh what is this? Alackthe words they but run amiss,& the soft Earth drinks the wine –tis then the only Divine?Not so, methinks, but thinkingI digress, & make a King,an idol of Distress.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-45539375040856705542010-01-07T22:37:00.002-05:002010-01-07T22:45:28.501-05:00

Perhaps the old gods were quietwhile our souls met in aeons pastbefore our destinies were set,before we walked our tangled paths.Though piety entreats me to,I do not forgive their silencefor their every gift of Sciencecould not have swayed the likes of you.I fear the well of souls was dry,the wheel of Dharma almost stalled.Perhaps a sign, an Evil Eyehad glared upon the Fates, appalled –& when

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-74255427025426982192010-01-04T21:06:00.009-05:002010-05-02T10:13:09.348-04:00

I am staring at your picture:I am the five hundred mile viewthat you are looking at amazedwhile searching the electric bluefor something to embrace –a God, a mortal plain & truethough I am not one of the race.How the long nights stretchall the hours I wastefilling time with my words& the dead thought of you.There’s a black bird cryingout in the cold. If hecalls my name I might trysomething

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-77094393181926472182010-01-03T17:10:00.000-05:002010-01-03T17:11:13.107-05:00

Another long year between us –I would not tarry, nor delayits passing, not for all the godsthough they threatened & cajoled me:another year & you recedefurther into oblivion –dim those pearly eyes that held me,swathed in grim eternity ;your face, though a monument still,the weather shall wear (& the climesof my mind are fierce with despair).Already I cannot recallthe smell of you, your touch,

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-17280783673239948962009-12-17T21:10:00.003-05:002009-12-17T21:13:36.977-05:00

Thence the edgewise word was drivendown & fast, into the tangledeep & at an awkward angle –& my fabulation riven:bleak old winter raven thrice ‘roundthe sad house flew, making in thefrigid air & upon the groundthe ancient signs of perfidy& so my heart – against my heart! –the word it came & gave a startto laying worms that lie no morebut in their crevice seethe & roar.Indeed I've seen it all

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-24345943415544036952009-12-13T00:50:00.001-05:002009-12-17T21:10:53.619-05:00

the one is you& two is a dream(if three is somethingthat remains to be seen).My former self comes atfive for tea with thesick, sordid wraithsof my seven deadly sins.& I hate, I hate thenigh-impossible wait:the tension, so insufferable, puts our eleven dates to shame.By twelve I’m fast asleep so come back on the 13thbecause 14 months of Hellis what I’ve had since you ditched me.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-98068719513583982009-11-30T21:41:00.001-05:002009-11-30T23:30:29.885-05:00

Sometimes the moon is an eyepeering from out the black sky.Sometimes a crow is a wordcaught in the form a bird& it says:I know where everything goes.I’ve flown to the edge of the road.Weshudder without knowing why,comfort ourselves with the liethateverything’s right as it should&there are no wolves in the woods.butI know where everything goes.I’ve walked to the edge of the road.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-52665813500319196112009-11-21T20:39:00.004-05:002009-12-13T00:44:26.100-05:00

They will say that my life was a farce --in my mind I could never be sure.While their laughter echoes in the hallsyour smell lingers on by the door.I have it from sure authority that language isn't all that you speak.A sense of absurd insecurity transpires the havoc you wreakbecause this kind of love is all I'm about;it's just my luck, I've been left out.This kind of love is all that we are:the

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-90267184413714735582009-11-16T20:11:00.006-05:002009-11-19T07:42:51.078-05:00

Five dragons beached upon the rocky shore –five black beasts, each bearing upon its backthe rapine fiend, the cutlass craving gore,the blade-bearing arms pining for attack.Blind, painted eyes peer out of sculpted headsinto the foggy night towards the townwhere drowsy & hapless, the wretched townwives wake to thralldom, husbands being dead.But lo! Here is a lad awake by chance –before the village

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-65890721294771293662009-11-12T13:16:00.006-05:002009-11-12T15:48:18.320-05:00

The Silver Star of old was wroughtfrom ancient & prodigious ore.The master maker’s soul had boughtfrom devils his egregious lore.Above the deck, a bladder great –stolen from a vast Worm or straightfrom Earth’s deepest, darkest innards –billowed with gas. Backwards, forwardsthe pumps they worked, the rudders theyshifted left & right: from prow tostern all things by night or daymoved of their own

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-27603790571585934422009-11-11T22:25:00.003-05:002009-11-11T22:30:51.587-05:00

Let there be noise again tocondemn us – for who is tosay that the Dead do not sleep,& sleeping dream of Heaven?“I Am the lid upon thebox” He says, “I Am a greysky without sun; fire fromair become undone.”“I Am the Truth beyond all worlds.I Am a Riddle without words.”

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-73698132438951233542009-11-02T07:47:00.002-05:002009-11-02T07:50:43.349-05:00

We are worship, every single one of usa lifelong sacrifice to the Lord of Loss –& if the gods pry the soul from flesh & boneI know not for sure & I am not alone.Yet there is Eternity in the Nowwhich ever we need navigate – somehowafloat on tynes & between altered states:the feeling of matter divorced from its shape.& light does something odd to Time,crossing Infinites in one leap.Without the eye

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-25305721468817646242009-11-01T22:03:00.004-05:002009-11-02T07:17:59.936-05:00

Words, words & the fire behind them –& again words, sibilant sounds all the same –έκστασις oh that terrible dreadthat stumbling we might fall into the flame;words, words & the heavy toll of names.Sleeping upright I have dreamt of worldsunseen by Broca, Wernicke or Papez –places where everything is not a process,where unmediated the Spirit pours itselfinto space – & dreaming I have walkedforward

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-53156947119746010142009-10-25T21:07:00.008-04:002009-10-27T21:31:23.387-04:00

Blood diamonds in every place sproutwherever thy litter was borneas brutish Joab gave thee rout --Oh Absalom, oh Absalom!This night Ushai sheepish will comebefore the throne bearing the tale.Oh Absalom, oh Absalom;in Giloh hangs Achitophel!Ancient David ever shall mourn,grim HaShem His favour bestownot to the first or second born;unto the third the crown will go& upon that accursèd headHokmah

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-49578512937973329182009-10-24T01:09:00.005-04:002009-10-25T20:00:31.491-04:00

In childhood days I would feignpush reality awaywith childhood hands – & lo! thosehands upon the worn, tatteredcanvas did but scatter dullcolours. For these were my ownappendages upon thetarp – my own self seen & feltas someone – or something – else.‘I’ is but an observerlost in grim contemplation.Durst I retire intoReason? My very thoughts arepigments, yes – pigments only,gross & foreign, the

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-8685330569991670652009-10-12T19:50:00.003-04:002009-11-01T21:47:57.056-05:00

Published in The Poutine Press, October 2009.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-74181792414650077692009-10-10T18:13:00.005-04:002009-11-01T21:48:57.956-05:00

The mountains burning – it isn’t so bad;like kindergarten perhaps – I am glad.Here having all the best answers means squat.The funny-faced man chewed & chewed & spat,fruit out of their season dribbling down aflat chest.Autumn at the asylum isall of the joy one can contrive from words –young words, short words, words that everybodyknows & idioms that remind us nothingof passing time & the oncoming

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-83647288682498608682009-10-04T23:02:00.009-04:002009-11-02T07:52:51.727-05:00

"There is no such thing as a hard fact. Facts are fluid -- turbid, more oftenthan not -- sluicing down the fissures ofour beliefs & working at the old foundations until wholeedifices come tumbling down ingreat cataracts."My bleary-eyed angel stares from theother side of the sky. The night isan unseen colour or the touch ofcold glass. From out the yawning abyssthere come sounds like the chink of

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-19950426479132350992009-10-03T23:44:00.001-04:002009-10-03T23:46:05.494-04:00

Rain the black noise of some neglected cornerof unconsciousness. Rain the slow untrammelledpollution of time into space. Rain the quicksilverpace of shadowy existences in the wake ofthe gods. Rain walking between the lines,waking up behind barcodes & firewalls. Rain thepast. Rain the present. Rain the futures we meantto outlast but couldn’t.Rain the fire & the flood. Rain the poemsthat made no

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-2819968836983442302009-09-19T11:54:00.002-04:002009-09-19T11:56:31.061-04:00

Sooth-black seedy, smoke-stack citiesincense-cloying, ghastly & godly& groggy in the morning, ghostly in the evening,ancient, new & never-ending.I remember dying hot as ice & cold as ember,fevered dreams that when my flight would comeI would shoot it, I would shoot it Down in the gutter, insect simmer,ratsnake shiver, Mother Ganges Diner &Infant Jesus Motorworks, cardboard Lenins,holy cow &

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-48076717892938024262009-09-14T08:13:00.001-04:002009-09-14T08:16:01.031-04:00

Electric predatory eyes peer outof public places, prying open thought,language & the semblance of meaning.Cathodic faces feed us marketing,stitch up our wounds & lick them clean.In the secret of my room I practicethe slow, careful art of disconnecting:pitting Verse against the aversion– the unnatural aversion of words –to decry unfeeling Reason.

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-37529285915155968322009-09-11T00:34:00.001-04:002009-09-11T00:36:31.930-04:00

Despair also is a good first step(to the dance we go ‘round we go yes)I have a smile, a speech, a lifetimehere all prepped (around we go ‘round, yes);abjure confusion & delusionensues (into the dance we go rightwe go left) everything’s a circle& bliss is damnation (we go rightinto forever). Forever isa gaping maw, is the end of worlds –& waiting will do what waiting will,once the meal ended

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-82632535406665486432009-08-31T21:46:00.003-04:002009-08-31T22:06:29.752-04:00

Hope is a friend is a foe is a floodis a fire ready to devour us& itself, is a province of Madnessconquered by Reason, is a word, is a world.Hope is a choir of martyrs to an audience of lions.Hope is a flag which sometimes fliesabove our warships, our peaceships –our softships, our hardships –sometimes, indeed, over ghost shipswhich in the night go “boo” & glow aghastly blue.Hope is a lie & Hope

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-29214396103123677552009-08-25T22:21:00.005-04:002010-03-25T08:08:47.930-04:00

During my travels to the American Deep South & back, I brought several books with me on the assumption that I would get through many of them. I started with a popular anthology of e. e. cummings’ poetry, 100 selected poems.In retrospect this was a mistake. Poetry requires particular attention to phonetics, & so reading it is a much more involving process than reading prose (some prose also has

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-5461596643915867762009-08-24T22:00:00.004-04:002010-03-25T08:12:53.156-04:00

Throughout the summer months I’ve wandered through numerous books, & so I have half a mind to lazily bask in the warm glow of erudition without shedding any light of my own. Alas, one does not so easily escape conscience, & so I find myself obligated to write reviews for your edification, oh my beloved readers. & so: read on, my minions, read on.Getting through all twenty-some hours of my

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-35202266747990673832009-08-19T23:21:00.005-04:002009-11-12T13:36:20.016-05:00

There is a Pillar, great & old-- an ancient monument of stoneunder which the whole of historyis pinned, like flowers & leaves allpressed inside a herbarium. TheAxis Mundi, never shaken –save perhaps only once when theworld ended, & so: unshakenfor a millennium or more –looms over mount Shor;& on mount Shor there is the proudcity, the great holy cityof Adratefra, the gates ofwhich were never taken

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-20248143865891259542009-08-12T22:33:00.002-04:002010-02-04T08:22:50.154-05:00

Every silver lining, every ashen face –every simple silence in the between place –every reminder, every iconic fluke,every callous, malignant case of good looksis every you is every rain;is every never come again.Every patchwork, every livid love-like lorn,all the dying, all the waiting to be bornis you yet again, is your bloody heirloom,& the incessant sound of sickly doom isalso yours – & G-D

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5527131.post-61886835594079458202009-08-11T11:36:00.002-04:002009-08-19T23:34:56.812-04:00

I asked the little rain gods& the big rain gods& the Great, Old G-D;I asked a tiny fire god-- a new hearth god --& the family gods;I asked the lost gods& the forgotten gods& the fallen gods& of one mind they all said“Wrong."

Etienne D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04234391141754951643noreply@blogger.com0