Working on the Coleridge thing, especially since I haven't spent the time getting gnoetry running on linux running as an alternate to windows -- oh wait I have an old desktop --

It was to be some sort of poetry built from the vocabulary Coleridge used to write his science articles, since the other part of his fame was from more colloquial speech

finding lots of O! and particles to fill out meter though

I must've taken something more than the science articles...



Who rolls does not skim foam, but gravel sticks to clay, remains, agglomerated, incorporated with its movement: which is the form, which is its beginning?

The dung-beetle, curled into a ball, grows bigger, hardens, could start an avalanche. Whoever thinks of exposing his heart must expect the amalgam melt him entirely. Will the surgical blade of analysis or religion arm us against ourselves? Will it meet an ivory core - or only waste, waste, clot of waste in the unrecognizable center, dust pulled by wind?

Whole rolls but does not amass mousse, but glazes or collects gravel, debris, well agglomerated by movement, well incorporated, that one finds the form and its point of departure from it. La pelote du bousier grows, durcit, suffices to loose an avalanche. Qui songe à mettre à nu his soulable to see the sweet amalgam of his foundation, entire in his hand. Cette lame chirurgicale dont l’analyse ou la religion nous arme contre nous-même rencontrera-t-elle un noyau d’ivoire – ou seulement déchets, déchets, ramassis de déchets jusqu’au centre méconnaissable, poussière entraînée par le vent ?
The sky is pale, immoderate; the sand banks, pale, scarcely gilded by a pale sun. The sea has withdrawn, leaving behind it one narrow pale green-channel; it is on this perilous path a path fishing boat ventures, its green hull merging with its green sails like two fine wings. I see it advance and I imagine its inevitable fall. This narrow green brook will not lead it to port. The port is dry.
The north wind swells its thin sails; she approaches so slowly she seems not to move. The last ray of the setting sun lights me. I distinguish a cord, part of a net on this pale table: the boat is anchored in the middle of the channel.

The child's immoderate skin is pale; his hair short and light, pale, hardly gilded by a pale sun. He sits and holds between his tight fingers a pale blade of grass; and it is from this leaf a grasshopper has taken flight to a nearby field. Very pale, its green body merges with its green wings which quiver like light sheets. I see it advance and imagine its inevitable fall. This narrow green path does not lead to freedom. The child would trap the grasshopper. Where does she want to go? The breeze agitates its thin wings; she approaches so slowly that to tell the truth she seems not to move. The last ray of the setting sun illuminates me. I distinguish a wire from silk, the only feature of a net on this pale table: the nimble grasshopper is attached by the leg to the middle of the field.
Wild Thing
Claude Cahun

I will bear you toward the frightening sea which is still and rebellious like an overcome deer, glass sea bucking and buckling androgenous, so that you completely alleviate its storm.

You will fear neither his collected body, nor his lion's mane, though its wet, thin strips whip you, and his firey face spits at you. Your eyes will make laughter with its tears, a laughter which breaks your mouth, resounds and covers and floods which overrun the gilded sand bars of their immense cage.

In nature's circus your puerile confidence, absolute, disarming, protects you from disastrous animals and cruel monsters.

Like an overcome deer which bucks, the stormy sea: I would carry you to it so that you calm his storm.


I will bear you toward the worm-choked forest, the forest with large lianas like snakes, boas, towards the crawling bush, so that you charm a song out of season from it. You don't fear the traps hidden under the winding-sheet, the stench of their violet rot, the somnolent reptiles rattling with poison, the beautiful poisonous flowers, the trees drawn up and whistling with changeable bark, twisting in the disappearing body of sun.

Your disarming confidence protects you, in the circus of nature, from disastrous animals and cruel monsters.


Towards the City which deploys the vast wings of his black factories, towards the town of prey, I will carry you so that you tame these raptors by the simple, sovereign capacity of your pure smile.

You will not tremble in front of the blazing city, or enter into its cool greenhouses that shelter, below the infernal sky, herds of small children, only to rip them apart in its smoky belly. Eagle, falcon, owl, you will confuse the proud diurnal one and the nocturnal voracious one. Innocent, you will be able to scorn their haughty nobility.

And your disarming confidence, in the circus of nature, will protect you from the disastrous animals and cruel monsters.


Towards my Revolt with each restive word, towards the defensive disorder of my spirit, order cruel gestures, soften raucous voices. I will lead you so that you cherish my sentences, my child.


some broken audio