An astonishingly complete novel by Frederic Brown. A thrilling publication. Tetrahedra of space. A hall of flame classic by P. Schuyle Miller.
her hand in front of the mower
broke witching stick
fish eyed philosophers
in the little time left we’ll try to ford finnegans wake
amidst the uncanny fragility of consciousness
saddled with this body
roots pulled out from under
from horn to stirrup
isolated in iceland
baby in a car
facebook hung like an albatross
a google reasons to abandon ship
Everything I got is done in hock. When I’m dead and gone, that’s when I’ll take my stand. Can you hear the ocean down the well?
The candle’s burning for an old flame. Don’t turn away. Hard times come again no more. From the land of sky blue waters, where the rockets red glare. I fall to pieces.
Tonight i’m going to see my machera mio. Son of a gun, its jimini hendrick’s.
I know a man three feet tall. It was junebug versus hurricane.
The birds sing in the moonlight,
the router bubbles on all cylinders.
I pour another shot of rot gut
and climb into the bosun’s chair.
The girls in the band all had their meatpacker’s badge.
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban’d hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on some still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
little girl blue come blow your corn
the cock’s in the meadow all swollen and sworn
just a bit stiff towards the old upper lip
No one has endurance like the man who sells insurance
At the woodchoppers’ ball.
He smells like an artifact from the seed bank.