From the daily archives:

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

by Christopher Brownsword

IV: ESCHATON

IV.I (JUNE MMIX)

Our thighs are greased with pieces of the crisp azure, darkening in places where a dense whorl of cumulus offsets the great expanse into which a blot of swallows have nestled (a false sense of distance is thus created by which one might almost believe himself capable of unveiling, with some degree of accuracy, I might add, the combined density and radius of the topmost regions of the atmosphere). From this, and whilst refracting the last dregs of light, dusk ascends, beginning its flight along a dihedral plane until gradually it embraces the azimuth.

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Albert Camus in Dark Sky Magazine

Dig 'Em Up

A front is blowing in. The temperature is dropping and the sky is gray. I’m thawing a turkey. Its pale mass grows soft in my sink. It is a dead thing and tomorrow I will fry it.

There is death everywhere. It comes with the season. Bodies are massacred, buried, or being exhumed. Even the bookish are doing their part.

If Nicolas Sarkozy has his way the French will dig up Camus’ corpse. Kode9 is launching Sonic Warfare. James Wood is scattering dirt on the work of Paul Auster. Bookslut is talking translation with a woman who has spoken for the dead. And Robert Lopez is doing his part to bury the comma.

Oh, the humanity. –Brian Allen Carr

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