You have memories, sure, but then who doesn't know where you live these days? Camping out in the wilderness until the controversy blew over seemed like a good idea at the time, of course, but that was before the anaesthetics kicked in and you lay there, boiling, and unable to feel the sweat rolling down your leg. They hacked it off with a kind of efficiency that was easy to mistake for care but who's complaining now? Not you! Because you've still got your wits, and the planes don't fly so low anymore, and you never were a big fan of running anyway. Yeah, memories, how about them, now that you get to control when they appear, for example, or when to delay them, send them bawling into your dreams with a swish, the warlords gesturing over 3-D maps of mosques, glistening rivers barely visible between the cracks of competing glaciers sliding across dead moonscapes, ordnance going off, adrenalin bangs in capsule form, and still you bray 'Bring it on, Charlie!!', like you mean it, like you never had forgotten where you hid them, typing in your new password without even looking, or deliberately keying in gibberish answers to standard security prompts. Name of first pet? Eklhferlhl. First girlfriend? Gpwjfrqe;ngqgnntqgwgq Nhwereferhhpfqhppqqhpi. That should keep them busy for a day or two, at least, and in the interim you can retrace your final actual step, backwards into the gun nest, the hot weapon slinging wetly into your palm, as laser-guided melodies peep-peep you to sleep, deep in a dream world you created with a click.
We do not go on fishing expeditions. We do not obtain IP addresses and then go seek the internet of what they have looked at. That is web browsing.
Neil Gaughan, Australian Federal Police, 16 October 2012
Go seek the internet of what they have looked at: check out the intranet of what they have cached. Lock up their upskirts with interweb colophons; jack off their search histories with hypertext jam. Tag all the ones with their intertube braggings; patch into interwebs of their grimy hackathons. Phish for rhyme schemes inside HTML buttplugs; WordPress simulacra of all the sad expeditions. Cut 'n' paste previews of lightbox pretensions; authorise sonnet stealers, lurking, 'n' browsing. Hose down the strict implications of OMGWTFBBQ; deprecate cascading shit-storms of fecal policing. LOL at open tabs, all their darkwebs & dreamings; then go seek the internet of what they have looked at.
One of the strange but perhaps obvious beauties of the new social media confabulation is that platforms like Facebook and Twitter can be used by people across different timezones and locations in order to get together and share their thoughts on a particular issue. Like Eurovision.
It’s really pleasing to see how Cordite Poetry Review has flourished since Kent MacCarter took the reins back in 2012. Kent has truly injected a new sense of energy to the journal, and has just published the journal’s 50th full issue, NO THEME IV, featuring 50 new poems edited by John Tranter and a whole swag of goodies including podcasts, films, essays and reviews.
What a great issue!
If I had to write a complete list of all the things creative types do that really give me the jitches, I’d be here all day. So, in my own therapeutical interests, here’s three literary devices that cheese me off no end. What cheeses you off?
Now if anyone wishes to vent a little spite against me, or take a casual swipe at me, I can count on his bringing up my Lubeck origin and Lubeck marzipan. If some ill-wisher can think of nothing else, he invariably thinks of connecting me with comic marzipan and representing me as a marzipan baker. Such stuff goes by the name of literary satire. But it does not bother me . . . And I certainly do not feel in the least insulted about the marzipan. In the first place it is a very tasty confection, and in the second place it is anything but trivial; rather it is remarkable and, as I have said, mysterious. And if we examine this sweet more closely, this mixture of almonds, rosewater and sugar, the suspicion arises that it is originally oriental, a [Haremskonfekt] confection for the harem, and that in all probability the recipe for this barely digestible delicacy came to Lubeck from the Orient by way of Venice. And it turns out that those wits are not so wrong as they themselves think, that Death in Venice is really ‘marzipan’ although in a deeper sense than they ever meant it.
Thomas Mann, ‘LUBECK AS A WAY OF LIFE AND THOUGHT’ (1926)
Inevitably, choosing a new WordPress theme (in my case, the wonderful Lovecraft theme by Anders Norén) involves going through old posts and cleaning up dead code and formatting. Given that there are over 1200 posts on this site, it’s quite a job.
But, I’ve been working away in the background and have now re-jigged the first four of my reviews of Chris de Burgh’s lyrical output in the 1970s: Far Beyond These Castle Walls . . . (1974), Spanish Train and Other Stories (1975), At the End of a Perfect Day (1977) and Crusader (1979).
Specifically, I’ve added record covers, quotes and links to the lyrics, in order to make the reviews (even) easier to digest.
Right now I’m also working on a review of de Burgh’s first 1980s collection, Eastern Wind.
More on that shortly!
i sing the dead body of a dolphin drift-netted, snatched from the envelope of the glinting sea & i sing her name replaced (& i sing her gender inverted but that jingle? you'll never hear me crooning no one you see is smarter than he coz he was a she & her real name was Cathy i sing the remorse of her tanned TV trainer's tears—they struck a false note, as i recall, on the day he returned to visit long after the cameras had packed up & left her, forgotten her body, her brain captive on film stills in a deep tank, discarded just like yesterday's meat she swivelled & turned to sadly fix her one eye on the old man's boat shoes, their salt-water stainings, sand engravings & mackerel scents, memories of bud & little sandy (wunderkind brothers, grown-up, with fame in their blood faster than lightning (or was it boned-up on speed could they give a rat's about Cathy the dolphin? did they ever come to visit? can you spare a light? sorry, no smoking in Sea World, but if i had a dollar for every youngster who knew her I'd pass my hat to her sobbing old trainer who'd punch it & shout: you killed her! all of you idiots killed her! gaaaaaaah! (although apparently dolphins can commit suicide, the tears in his glass eye never did seem to dry when he described her last moment in the tank & the bubbles as she sank to its fake sandy floor & just . . . stayed there, forever, or at least until her breathing stopped (it, too, neglected, abandoned, no longer just living in that world full of wonder, let alone flying there under ( . . . ah, under the sea a slave to its glinting theme-song death march: no-one you (no-one you see (is smarter than (smarter than she, she, she, she . . .