"typographic" poems
Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets? That's grotesque.
And gravestones are a special case as well:
A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
A certain kind of typographic hell
With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
Don't worry ‘bout me: I have a nice panga,
A pretty assegai, a Chukchi yaranga,
And I can start fire with some thin tiny twigs
By touching them a bit with my fishnet stockings.
In the Atlas I tamed the last of the lions;
In the Ngorongoro cheetahs feared my irons;
In the Rocky Mountains I made all grizzlies pant;
And in Tamil Nadu tigers purred in my hand.
‘Cuz for kisses, it’s true: I do never resist,
And every man I like, I track him on the pist,
I find him and ****** and finally kiss him.
As for peeled vultures though, hillbilly noisy dogs,
Big black or green mambas, stinky naughty warthogs:
I do always cook them but never embrace them...
Read by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth :
Please note: In the link address, the word "UNDERSCORE" (2x) has to be replaced by the typographic sign of the underscore (Alt+095).
https://www.cjoint.com/doc/18UNDERSCORE05/HEzhgrx8p4AUNDERSCOREIn-love-in-the.mp3
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
Who is silent now, who speaks?
To whom?
Cinches of lead stifle the lungs
in long typographic nights.
Then beyond. On the blue, chymic flight.
In the space between words, in the fluid and phosphorescent body,
in the eternal field of alien light.
(The dawn which comes. Watery dawn in the diencephalon.
Red triangles dead center in the pupil of our time.
A continuous buzzing upon our tympanums. Excited
thoughts, irritated senses.
And no one comes here, to the utmost floor.
We're not afraid. We've got sharp blades
of steel, of silver, of copper. Delicate necks,
strong nails. Soul fully
at anyone's disposal.)
Who is silent now, who speaks?
And to whom?
Liviu Antonesei
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Ioana Ieronim
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
I can't figure out
if I'm supposed to be
an oddball Eros-laced
poetic artist of sorts
this revolutionary
evolution redesigner
with wake-the-fuck-up
typographic punches
or a sower of seedlings
via silly rhymes scheming
with wacked-out visualizations
for story-time imaginations
to mold future generations
ideally,
I want to do all three...
praying for the mind
time and energy
to manifest all
I can
Be
(including
rocking the ****
outta this day job
that's molding me
into a better model
who knows how to float
merrily upon her dreams
obsoleting false me)
happythankUmoreplease
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC