He does receive emanations, impressions… the cry inside the stone… excremental kisses stitched unseen across the yoke of an old shirt… a betrayal, an informer whose guilt will sicken one day to throat cancer, chiming like daylight through the fourchettes and quirks of a tattered Italian glove… Basher St. Blaise’s angel, miles beyond designating, rising over Lübeck that Palm Sunday with the poison-green domes underneath its feet, an obsessive crossflow of red tiles rushing up and down a thousand peaked roofs as the bombers banked and dived, the Baltin already lost in a pall of incendiary smoke behind, here was the Angel: ice crystals swept hissing away from the back edges of wings perilously deep, opening as they were moved into new white abyss… For half a minute radio silence broke apart. The traffic being:

St. Blaise: Freakshow Two, did you see that, over.

Wingman: This is Freakshow Two—affirmative.

St. Blaise: Good.

No one else on the mission seemed to’ve had radio communication. After the raid, St. Blaise checked over the equipment of those who got back to base and found nothing wrong: all the crystals on frequency, the power supplies rippleless as could be expected—but others remembered how, for the few minutes the visitation lasted, even static vanished from the earphones. Some may have heard a high singing, like wind among masts, shrouds, bedspring or dish antennas of winter fleets down in the dockyards… but only Basher and his wingman saw it, droning across in front of the fiery leagues of face, the eyes, which went towering for miles, shifting to follow their flight, the irises red as embers fairing through yellow to white, as they jettisoned all their bombs in no particular pattern, the fussy Norden device, sweat drops in the air all around its rolling eyepiece, bewildered at their unannounced need to climb, to give up a strike at earth for a strike at heaven…

Threshold

 When the barrage of man gave way, caught up in the gigantic rift, the forsaking of the divine, words in the distance, words which were oath to be lost, tried to resist the excessive thrust. It was here the dynasty of their meaning was determined.
 I have run to the end of this diluvian night. Panted in the quaking morn, my belt filled with seasons, I await you, my friends who are coming. Already I sense you behind the blackness of the horizon. My hearthstone never tires of wishing your houses well, and my cypress stick laughs gladly for you.

Threshold

When the barrage of man gave way, caught up in the gigantic rift, the forsaking of the divine, words in the distance, words which were oath to be lost, tried to resist the excessive thrust. It was here the dynasty of their meaning was determined.

I have run to the end of this diluvian night. Panted in the quaking morn, my belt filled with seasons, I await you, my friends who are coming. Already I sense you behind the blackness of the horizon. My hearthstone never tires of wishing your houses well, and my cypress stick laughs gladly for you.

From “Triste Tropiques”

"And never, in all my experience with primitive Indian tribes, was I as intimidated as I was by the morning I spent with an old woman who told me, from within her enveloping shawls, that she likened herself to a rotten herring buried deep in a block of ice: intact to all appearances, that is to say, but menaced with disintegration should the protective cover turn to water."

Elisabeth Welch sings “Stormy Weather” in Jarman’s Tempest (1979)

theparisreview:

Come, try this exercise:
Focus a beam,
Emptied of thinking, outward through shut eyes
On X, your “god” of long ago.

Wherever he is now the photons race,
A phantom, unrelenting stream,

For nothing lights up. No
Sudden amused face,
No more, no far-out figment to obstruct
The energy—
                      It just spends
And spends itself, and who will ever know

Unless he felt you aim at him, and ducked

Or you before the session ends
Begin to glow

James Merrill, “In the Dark”
Art Credit Michal Rovner

spectrumvivace:

Unica Zürn - Huile sur toile 1956, sur fond de tempera avec grattage tout à fait représentatif de l’univers d’Unica Zürn.

(via intramuro)

Marie-Antoinette conduite à l’échafaud

"By stupidity (po gluposti) I came out with an unprotected head. Now the sun is roasting my brains. I have to interrupt my work.”