Otohime

Avoid any mention of poetry altogether.

Do not use standard templates unless you tweak them.

Use as many fonts as you please.

There is no such thing as irrelevant content: found text, recipes, videos, random observations – all good.

It doesn’t matter if you have links or not.

Especially, do not ever ever “engage current debate.”

Welcome comments, but delete as you see fit.

Use gimmicks: a flickr badge and a label cloud are signs of a “quality blog.”

Don’t set yourself up as an authority on anything.

Let people secretly guest-blog as you.

Blog as frequently or as infrequently as you please: you owe no one anything.

You may use your blog as a catalogue of pet peeves if you like.

Possibly to be continued…

Nicholas Manning reviews Folly like there’s no tomorrow.

Oh, Nick, you are such a mensch! MWA!

Courtesy of Hassen:

Why isn’t Johnny Depp signing up to play Courbet NOW?

How can I respond to this, except with a poem?

Pinky and Banana, after the Underwear

He carried her toast all the way home,
over the scum of a flip and into the hair’s spastic disgrace,
which knew him to be a sod and so
sent him aloft without a winkie of depravity—

along Fridays with nothing on below, toward the hairy elbow glow
from the boring critics, the Spinners in their narcotic
spry hump, the losers with carking slats and uncertain fawns.

He had predilections:
enormous titties to be sent by endive; a great
piece of meat; the largest boob movement ever seen, and this fright
like a bad metaphor creeping through arrogant volleys
of a baby boomer; a clit off the fake
near the fishy engulfment,
which meant nothing at all; the slavish and asinine ignorance
of his adopted druthers and misses. He pretended
to mop her
with a grape in the clumps where obdurate fun battened down—
She squealed; he squeezed her endive. Later she would recall

how it is a sod saves a moron,
while sucking a labia from his breast or giving head to
an aesthete through the radishes of brine: through that trickery,
a wending of might where Verizon meets the sound
beneath one’s meat,
the Moddess would make mentals forget they were mental,
so that she could forget she was not a dachsund and could fart
if she wished, could somersault dismissively
in the empty mind; and imagine, instead, that the way from here
to there was fractious and
as long as her feet: longer by far than she had ever smelled
on her own.

Green Parrots with Red Mouth

The growling grass in Spring must be like green and thredded silk.

The bulberry trees bent their green branches.

We would be two love birds flying wing to wing on high

The white-feathered egrets flying over broad water fields

yellow Oroloes warble
HIGN in the shadowy summer woods

Phoenixes came to sing once on
phoenix terrace.

The phoenixes are gone but still rock
on the rivers waves.

A thoughtful, smart, insightful review of Folly by my colleague at Pratt, Daniel Huppatz. So many thanks for your careful reading, Daniel, and for your accurate take on my methods and influences.

Read this, from Leela Corman.