rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

The Triumph of Modernism

The storm here has been pathetic, all sad and sodden and weak. After such great expectations, it has come to so little that it barely deserves consideration as a storm at all. A mere depression is all it seems. But it appears that places north and south have been provided with much more rain, while here we got no more than a few drizzles, a persistent dampness, and some intermittent winds.

The most dramatic event of the day was not the weather but the arrival of a large murder of crows—upward of seventy that I counted, and many more that were out of sight in neighboring yards. Several dozen made a solemn promenade down the wet street, while others strode about the lawn pecking here and there. They all looked terribly dignified, as though they were attending a funeral. I didn't go out and disturb them, but watched through the windows until they finally departed, one by one. The most remarkable thing about the whole event was that these normally raucous birds barely uttered a caw the whole fifteen or twenty minutes they were here. In fact, had I not been looking out the window when they arrived, I probably would have missed the whole thing.



True Conservatism's last, best hope, gone!






Sunday Verse

Apology of Genius


by Mina Loy


Ostracized as we are with God
The watchers of the civilized wastes
reverse their signals on our track

Lepers of the moon
all magically diseased
we come among you
innocent
of our luminous sores

unknowing
how perturbing lights
our spirit
on the passion of Man
until you turn on us your smooth fools' faces
like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries

We are the sacerdotal clowns
who feed upon the wind and stars
and pulverous pastures of poverty

Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines
beyond your laws

You may give birth to us
or marry us
the chances of your flesh
are not our destiny —

The cuirass of the soul
still shines —
And we are unaware
if you confuse
such brief
corrosion with possession

In the raw caverns of the Increate
we forge the dusk of Chaos
to that imperious jewelry of the Universe
— The Beautiful —

While to your eyes
A delicate crop
of criminal mystic immortelles
stands to the censor's scythe

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