…on a condensed be at on some circumstance of metrics nobility just now, what would you enthral us with?”
Grief Poems provides daily mash-up send-ups of the earnest knuckle-cracking of online poetics. The posts “translate” original material, in much the same way a Mad Magazine fold-in translates an image.
The results seem strangely sensible when read at a quick scrolling pace. Parody of blahblahblah like sombreros on rationalists, internet watchdog via lite mischief academe, acne oddness of identity/poems/et al being all eaten code blah. It’s like listening to a fairground’s chatter during a ferris wheel’s descent. You can smell the cotton candy burning inside the belly of each plush prize polar bear.
Fun. Caryl says, smartly: “The horizon lines were both obsessive and surprising to me—a visual indication of breaking that became architecture.”
No, she says, skortly: “Many of those pieces are punctuated before ‘horizon lines,’ and account destined for definite uncanny and frightening occurrences that carry off the palm improper at a N cultivate.”
I suppose these variations are done with a computer; it’s my own “palm improper at a N cultivate” that hopes this translator is working manually, choosing each prepositional pile-up with a converted planisphere or odd operation involving many half-filled glasses of water he/she pours liquid from and into variously then orchestrates the singing of with a lip-wettened finger until the arrangement is just right, and then (to steal Bartone’s great phrase) he just pushes ctrl+PUBLISH.
I also love the small stakes of the project. Poetry chatter being small at its largest, it probably deserves to be brought down to smaller and smaller size. I once made a radio out of a potato.