After getting tipsy on communion wine in church, our narrator stumbles upon a hen and rooster mating (top the simile herein, poetry-writing smarty-pantses!):
"Poor Victorine, it looked as if her whole Sunday was used up preparing her for a sexual act and it had taken place in the barnyard, played by very minor stage-hands. Well, the greedy ardor and the final mounting disgust can sure be described as merely physical like too much lobster, and no harm has been done by the extraneous to her soul. A good and dreamless sleep in which she plays no part at all, the sleep of the young and the good and the exhausted, will purify her heart and give her strength for other daylight nightmares - the big exaggeration of real life that does seem to the very young like a king-sized, out-of-drawing and hypnagogic bad dream, as if the lenses in their eyes were borrowed from colts and fillies, and the very size of the extravaganza, the enormity of it, implied hostility."
-- from Maude Hutchins - Victorine, recently reissued; for more on roosters and writing click here!
The other day I went off on a tangent & compared Kent Johnson to Oscar Wilde (I think Sterne might've been better, though they both end with "e"s, so whatever). Well my favorite tempest at the moment is brewing over in one of my favorite teapots, John Latta's "Isola di Rifiuti" blog:
Gadfly par excellence (if one measures the species by how regularly it irritates, or causes hysteria-fuel’d blinding rashes to erupt around the eyes of the prematurely “set,” the self-satisfy’d, the in-need-of-a-downpegging), cogent and sure-finger’d provocateur particularly at home amongst the “post-avant”’s most cherish’d and shibboleth-bound sentries and soldiers, buster of all institutional sod-bodies, be they man, beast, or edifice, Kent Johnson...
- is at it again. O what's he doing now?! Frank O'Hara/Kenneth Koch fans and scholars, behold the true account of the true account...