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in the sky
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The Day of the Carrot
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Clowns are us
Leave it
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From The Diary of a Snail
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House of


House of Mirth,
House of Wax,
House of Merz,
House of Laths,
House of Silver,
House of Coal,
House of Crystal,
House of Glass,
House of Embers,
House of Ash,
House of Purple,
House of Masks,
House of Moths,
House of Dust,
House of Doubts,
House of Doors ,
House of Quilca,
House of the Stare,
House of Mark,
House of Blur,
House of Endings,
House of Leaves.
Steve Bucknell. 02.11.15.
“I can’t see a fucking thing,” Reston whispers.
Which is true: neither one of their flashlights can effectively penetrate that far into the black.
Navidson grabs his backpack and pulls out his Nikon with the Metz strobe with its parabolic mirror.
Thanks to this powerful flash, the Hi 8 can now capture a shadow in the distance. The stills, however, are even more clear, revealing that the shadow is really the blur of a man.” Danielewski. House of Leaves.
a Rorschach space
cellar-head
walls close in
abandoned
misplaced stuff
damaged stuff
above my head
the distant door shuts
the cell shifts and pulses
I lie on the floor to
listen and breathe
soft bodies
exude through walls
under the skull
visceral cravings
cellar full of weeping
lick the damp walls
taste the sweet cuts
tongue the flesh
the blank eyes
tapetum lucidum
meniscus
event horizon
ritual words
premature burial
under the floor
of the so-called soul.
Steve Bucknell 02.11.15.
TO QUILCA
Let me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak;
Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke:
Here Elements have lost their Uses,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor Water boil.
Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains,
The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns;
And her chief Officers of State,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
Quilca
The empty Bottles all uncleanable.
The Vessels for Drink few and leaky.
The new House all going to Ruin before it is finished.
One Hinge of the Street-Door broke off,
and the People forced to go out and come in at the Back-Door.
The Door of the Dean's Bed-Chamber full of large Chinks.
The Beauset letting in so much Wind that if almost blows out the Candles.
The Dean's Bed threatn'ning every Night to fall under him.
The little Table loose and broken in the Joints.
The Passages open over Head, by which the Cats pass continually into the Cellar and eat the Victuals, for which one was try'd, condemn'd, and executed by the Sword.
The large Table in a very tottering Condition.
But one Chair in the House fit for fitting on, and that in a very ill State of Health.
The Kitchen perpetually crouded with Savages.
Not a Bit of Mutton to be had in the Country.
Johnathan Swift
House of Wax,
House of Merz,
House of Laths,
House of Silver,
House of Coal,
House of Crystal,
House of Glass,
House of Embers,
House of Ash,
House of Purple,
House of Masks,
House of Moths,
House of Dust,
House of Doubts,
House of Doors ,
House of Quilca,
House of the Stare,
House of Mark,
House of Blur,
House of Endings,
House of Leaves.
Steve Bucknell. 02.11.15.
“I can’t see a fucking thing,” Reston whispers.
Which is true: neither one of their flashlights can effectively penetrate that far into the black.
Navidson grabs his backpack and pulls out his Nikon with the Metz strobe with its parabolic mirror.
Thanks to this powerful flash, the Hi 8 can now capture a shadow in the distance. The stills, however, are even more clear, revealing that the shadow is really the blur of a man.” Danielewski. House of Leaves.
a Rorschach space
cellar-head
walls close in
abandoned
misplaced stuff
damaged stuff
above my head
the distant door shuts
the cell shifts and pulses
I lie on the floor to
listen and breathe
soft bodies
exude through walls
under the skull
visceral cravings
cellar full of weeping
lick the damp walls
taste the sweet cuts
tongue the flesh
the blank eyes
tapetum lucidum
meniscus
event horizon
ritual words
premature burial
under the floor
of the so-called soul.
Steve Bucknell 02.11.15.
TO QUILCA
Let me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak;
Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke:
Here Elements have lost their Uses,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor Water boil.
Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains,
The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns;
And her chief Officers of State,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
Quilca
The empty Bottles all uncleanable.
The Vessels for Drink few and leaky.
The new House all going to Ruin before it is finished.
One Hinge of the Street-Door broke off,
and the People forced to go out and come in at the Back-Door.
The Door of the Dean's Bed-Chamber full of large Chinks.
The Beauset letting in so much Wind that if almost blows out the Candles.
The Dean's Bed threatn'ning every Night to fall under him.
The little Table loose and broken in the Joints.
The Passages open over Head, by which the Cats pass continually into the Cellar and eat the Victuals, for which one was try'd, condemn'd, and executed by the Sword.
The large Table in a very tottering Condition.
But one Chair in the House fit for fitting on, and that in a very ill State of Health.
The Kitchen perpetually crouded with Savages.
Not a Bit of Mutton to be had in the Country.
Johnathan Swift
, , Smiley Derleth, Dominique-Lucy Renson and 11 other people have particularly liked this photo
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The composition is also very lovely.
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