how to boil a kettle of priests

Rubin's Vase, artwork by SRS/CR/MMDemeaning of life? I believe that the meaning and purpose of MY LIFE is to help X understand and experience what it is like to be ME.

If I may be so bold, I believe that the meaning and purpose of YOUR LIFE is to help X understand and experience what it is like to be YOU.

The meaning and purpose of President Obama's life is to help X to understand and experience what it is like to be President Obama.

faceless Freddy and other freaks

photograph of faceless family, by SRS Once there was a man with no face whom everyone loved because they didn't have to (in fact couldn't) express their love to his face. They called him Faceless Freddy. In turn, he loved everyone who loved him, because he couldn't face the prospect of not loving them.

remnants with guts (the old one's PEE)

The Mastress, illustration for cover of e-book, Nightmerries, by SRS[This is the last of the "Mastress" posts, you'll be pleased to know. I sure am.]

No stars sparkled above. The black shroud of night lay impenetrable and heavy on the land. In the breath of a feeble wind wafted the stench of rotting algae from the dead river beyond. On all sides loomed the dark ruins of the Lost City.

Around a defiant fire huddled the last Remnants loyal to the Imperium, survivors of the Barbarian invasion, gritty farmers and artisans with pain in their hearts and tin in their eyes.

They had fled, yes, when the Barbarian hordes had swept down from the icy hills and frigid fjords and ransacked the villagers and pillaged their muffins.

But they had fled with courage: these were Remnants with guts. They had taken to the very hills recently vacated (luckily) by the Barbarians, vowing vengeance and swearing allegiance to the Imperior forevermore and a day.

circumcised nose-pickers and other members (my entangled qualia)


Here's a little meme-game anyone can play: List the different sets of which you are a member.

I'm a member of the set of all vertebrates. And a member of the set of all bipeds, the set of all humans, capitalist wage slaves, tenants, pantheists, nose-pickers, fathers, sons, husbands, sentient entities (hopefully), people with circumcised genitalia, people who were born on a Tuesday, and many more.

I'm also a member of the set of all green-eyed earthlings. Which contains the members of the set of things with green-eyes, as well as all the members of the set of all earthlings.

please freeze fleas

jumping fleasWhat really happened was... no lunch, no wine, no tribespersons bearing platters of desert delicacies. No sand-ripened scorpion-hearts in sticky date sauce.

No. What really happened was that the thrice-dusted Islimiri drew himself up to his full height (rendering himself ahead behind the monstrous JackJill) and began shaking his robes vigorously.

As well, strangely enough, a tribesperson of diminutive stature and cognition, who had crept into the tent without anyone noticing, took hold of one of the buttock-rugs and began shaking it vigorously. Clouds of what looked like dust filled the air as Islimiri and his short shaker shook themselves and their rugs mysteriously to no apparent purpose.

“What in Belial’s name are they doing?” whispered Selestin into Clothilde’s ear.

the make-up of the universe

animated wolf juggling book, by CR/SRS/MMPreface to new edition of my e-book Awarewolf & Other Crhymes Against Humanity (Amazon)

What’s a preface? It’s what comes before the face. It’s what lurks under the face. It’s that which erupts under pressure. And it’s poetry’s job to apply that pressure.

Supernovae are gods squeezing their pimples. That’s how the heavy elements are created, from the divine pus oozing just below the skin of our gorgeous universe.

Who doesn't need a good base, a good foundation, on which to build a face? Even a creator has to look their best after a massive night of dark energy and a big bang.

pandaemonium

Pandaemonium, oil painting by SRS, June 2014, 28 x 35 cm An acrid smell hangs in the air of the suburban street. Grey plumes from the nearby processing plant stain the sky. The sun blazes relentlessly on two teenagers washing a car. An elderly man sits in a bus shelter reading his newspaper.

A little girl of five or six plays with her ball in the front yard of a box-like house. The girl’s mother -- a woman in her mid-thirties with bleached blonde hair -- talks over the fence at her next-door neighbour, an older woman wearing a surly expression.

the gospel of scissors, paper, rock

animation to illustrate scissors paper rock, by SRS/CR/MMRock blunts scissors:
The dead, massive stone of ignorance and superstition blunts the keen, sharp mind seeking truth.

Scissors cuts paper:
The sharp mind that is too keen, too hasty, cuts the paper on which truth is written into disconnected shreds of reductionism and limited perspective.

Paper wraps rock:
With lightness and breadth, truth enfolds and makes invisible the dead, massive stone of ignorance and superstition.

the dogs of death

Cerberus by William Blake (1757–1827). 
From Illustrations to Dante's 'Divine Comedy', Graphite, ink and watercolour on paper
“To thank is to partake of that for which the thanks is given, as if the thanker were the thankee, and the thanked the thankor,” said a pale and loitering man, tall and thin, his sedge withered.

His morose companion, a fat and rancid monk, rolled his eyes towards the heavens. Constidius (for thus yclept the monk) sighed and wished for better days. How long had they been incarcarcarcerated, stuttered Constidius’ thoughts? Hugh knew? But he wasn’t saying!

vox clamantis in deserto

Bookies get to work ---Betting on the Favorite, a wood engraving drawn by W. L. Sheppard (from a sketch by W. B. Myers) and published in Harper's Weekly, October 1870.
On the day of her birth, Cassandra was given godly gifts by Apollo and other supernatural beings (SB’s), who abounded in those parts of the multiverse in those peculiar days.

Among Cassandra’s gifts was that of a big brain with an unusually large number of neurons and an extra brain-lobe that made an ugly bulge at the side of her head. Sparkling within that lobe was a neural net enabling the power of true prophecy when activated.

One of the gifts was from the shapeshifting trickster god, Loki. It was just a cheap and nasty red plastic rattle he had stolen on his way to the baby shower, and slipped into Cassandra’s cot when the other gods weren’t looking.