Dear Sir: |
Dark indeed were my nights until the advent of Blurb into my insomnia driven rages against the tyrannies of Lord Morpheus. Yet now, no longer. Blurb is become my velvet sky, starred with the scintillations of typographical errata. Blurb is become my fiery comet, roaring with the prosody of vapid prose. Blurb is become my paper moon, cratered with the graphite of reified artwork.
Who could have conceived such a collection of solipsisms? What muse of ostentation stalks the streets of Sault Ste. Marie? Where lie the heads of those imagineers of these perditions? When will it end? Why did it begin?
Perhaps I shall never know, and thus be damned to wander the stifling necropolis that haunts my dreams. For now, dream I do--succumbing to Lord Morpheus's tender ministrations, guided as I am by the music of the spheres; the sophomoric twaddle that dances boulder-like across the pages of Blurb Magazine. For now, dream I do a sojourn for the answer to the question of how one could best Theophilus Marzial's magnum opus.
And so I send you my felicitations, my salutations, and my gratitude, for Blurb Magazine is a most amusing read.
J. Phillip Coen, Ph.D.
Judge Joe Brown Endowed Chair of Arts and Letters
Muncie College of Business Administration
What in God's unholy name are you talking about? It's good to know that, whilst I am eking out a meager survival in this forsaken wasteland and sustaining a literary magazine for illiterate hillbillies, your 'intellectual' ilk continues to preserve big words by throwing them around like shit in a gorilla paddock.
I grow weary of it all. If I cannot overcome these melancholic waves of destitution, created in the fusion of my marital angst with your lack of vision, I fear I may not see my divine ordinance to completion. Unforeseen darkness has fallen upon my once-pure vision. There may be only one way to reach salvation … and I am only beginning to understand my true destiny.
Don't waste my time.
"A Tragedy," by Theophilus Marzial|
[from The Gallery of Pigeons (1874)]
The barges down in the river flop.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,
And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"
And my heart shrieks -- "Die."
* * * * *
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
* * * * *
A curse on him.
Ugh! yet I knew-I knew-
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end-
My Devil-My Friend"
I had trusted the whole of my living to!
Ugh; and I knew!
So what do I care,
And my head is empty as air-
I can do,
I can dare,
The barges flop
I can dare! I can dare!
And let myself all run away with my head