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An incomplete history of the ephemeral town of Swallow Forde, astonishingly found and translated from the Gaelic by our own Donnie D. Hazelfish (courtesy of The Struggler Press)
The period of 1634-1655 in Swallow Forde was a time when, in fits of rage, the Council reimbursed the townsfolk, consistently and generously, because of the discovery of the harpoon by a common fisherman. What the council didn’t know was that Death Whales weren’t nearly as harmful, weren’t even in the same range of destruction when they were sedated with cis-platin, a compound derived from platinum oxide, 2,1-hydroxylic octane and a catalyst, fox quarrel, which was simply the argumentative wavelengths of unhappy foxes trapped in a sound centrifuge. The product
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great stuff!
i found some more fascinating history from the archives. even more great information on the lost town of Swallow Forde!
The product of the complicated endothermic reaction was cis-platin, already mentioned, but highly effective on Death Whales. Nevertheless, as history often unfolds itself, the compound wasn’t available until 1966, the year of its discovery. And since this miracle was unknown to the Council, armies of whale murderers were trained over the course of months, to the point of drooling and insubordination to all citizen, uniformed or plain-clothed. As it went, the Death Whales were hunted, killed, stuffed and set as trophies on the great mantle in Harvey Coco’s archaic beachhouse. To say a little more about Harvey Coco is absolutely necessary, as he was the main light source of the town. Although dated by a later 18th century technique and
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Although dated by a later 18th century technique and outrageously mocked at nowadays, the process pioneered by Coco is one of intrigue. It consisted of his taking a wooden Plakl, a thin hand-held shovel, and digging a two-inch hole into his shin, usually of the weaker leg. At this point Coco would faint, dreaming about his belle Maria or a new constellation. When he awoke he ate bread and peas. Boiling whale fat was then poured into the hole in his leg until it spilled over. While liquid, a small wick was inserted and held until the oil solidified. The citizens called it The Nerk, although other regional towns just referred to it as Crazy Harvey’s makeshift leg candle. Those other towns often starved during harsh winters.
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4-26-01
For the small and diagonal
It’s raining outside and the drops are mischievous.
They fall in guilty patterns.
Quite deep in your mind, a thesaurus for anti-recreational ideas
is my best friend. We just lay around sometimes,
counting spackled tack spots, changing the bulbs,
marking up each other’s backs with sticks of butter.
The guilty patterns on our backs are usually crude road maps
or house plans; she aspires to walk the earth,
the architect in me is falling off a bridge.
They say that when you step out from your home
for the first time in days, the surroundings that have
been so innate now become foreign.
The birds hiding in the unfamiliar tree
have become enthralled by their own eggs.
Not quite a metaphor, wires and cables sprout from all places above.
The alley further back is like a universal
gateway molded from our fullest breath,
lungs arising constellations as a by-product.
We can’t see this though because
our attention at the moment is targeting
the alley and beyond the gateway that leads
to the black pond where you gave
away to me your hatched plans. The pond
itself is small enough to
fit into the palms of birds.
I’m hoping that, for at least a week,
we could fit into the palms of birds.
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3-29-01
Halfway is better than no way
It must be a way out of the garden,
this path here, blue pebbles scraped
out to the sides, the dusty blue middle
scampered with three-toed footprints,
probably a creature that has defied classification
so far, not because it can’t be named
but because it can’t be found.
And there is your partner,
leading the way to the white rowboat
in a transparent silk wrap, her body
part gazelle, part wraith down the blue path
to the certain mundane rowboat
which at this point, serves as the grounding
agent in this unseemly adventure.
As I mention this simple vessel,
I am grooming you for a big surprise; I have
made precautions against you wanting to
really see the boat and now you are becoming
more interested in the boat, it is teasing you
like a drug of choice as it simultaneously tries
to lift itself out of an abstraction that it has now
made of itself, and in here it struggles,
it begins to consider the virus
of its lifelessness, and in defense
it gradually weakens as matter
and becomes simple fibers,
then a dogged breath, then just an idea
given weight only through its past
as it finally shields itself into a plume
of pure contemplation.
At this point, you stop along the blue path
and look for the silk woman,
who has also disappeared
and your looking has only taken you
into the next part of the poem
where you start second-guessing things
and feeling somewhat grumpy and tricked
like the kids that go to the house
with lights on during Halloween,
that has no candy. So right now,
pretend this whole diatribe
is a trap door that you fall through,
into something like a dark chasm with earthy sides,
the roots twisted like the neck of someone
under great physical stress, and you
are falling, falling, just as you normally
would if suddenly confronted with
the disagreeing boggle of having
a goddamn trap door emerge at your feet.
You would fall, rest assured, but for how long?
As a first, this is up to you to decide, but you only get
about 1.4 seconds and you take a 15 foot fall into
the dark chasm, which soon enough
turns into a soft light,
where you fall into the perimeter
of an ostrich plantation, into
the part where they collect the feathers.
Because of this, you are relieved
and soon delighted to meet
these ostrich farmers, who emerge
from behind a fence,
not at all surprised,
in their feather-covered overalls and straw hats
with comforting gazes
and the bright look in their eyes
that says, simple and soothing,
“welcome to the middle of our daily chores.”
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2-20-02
Not Magritte swallowing The Moderns!
How did you get the horse to run on the car?
It's simple, you take the hammer
and throw it through the window,
and like that
what you didn't expect is there.
Victoria will collect the hammers
but her day will be ruined
until later when she naps and dines.
THE HORSE! Dimes?
You're thinking about a coin-operated horse.
Today was a callous.
Some things multiplied and shot to the moon.
On the moon! Carrots, dimes and hammers!
It was mentioned that a horse maintained stride
on a car. That which is true stays around.
Victoria didn't have breakfast.
When she cries, she cuts out her insides
to make space for transparency,
which is true and interesting.
She has a collection of 44 boots,
all waterproof.
Her tears are coin-operated,
but only after they leave her face.
There is a car on the horse!
The hooves are rough and calloused
from a lifetime of running from
cameras and the hated perfect photo.
No horse wants its image preserved.
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