And while we're at it, baby
My poem "In Sight of the Seasons" (Not One of Us #34) has been favorably mentioned by The Fix, along with two poems from Goblin Fruit.
kythiaranos,
alankria,
tithenai,
mer_moon: go, all of you.
Also look to a future issue of Not One of Us for "The Second Ghost," written for
kijjohnson.
And my collection Singing Innocence and Experience has been reviewed by Joe Bernstein. It seems to have been a mixed match with the reviewer's tastes and I am not sure the following statement was intended as a compliment—
I lack a word to describe Taaffe's prose; but perhaps if I say that it is to Patricia McKillip's what McKillip's is to the average spec-fic writer's, you'll get the idea.
—but I do take it as one.
I have the Pixies' "Alec Eiffel" stuck in my head. It has been there since last night. I do not own a copy of this song. Of such things are small corners of hell made.
Oh, Alexander, I see you beneath
The archways of aerodynamics
Oh, Alexander . . .
Also look to a future issue of Not One of Us for "The Second Ghost," written for
And my collection Singing Innocence and Experience has been reviewed by Joe Bernstein. It seems to have been a mixed match with the reviewer's tastes and I am not sure the following statement was intended as a compliment—
I lack a word to describe Taaffe's prose; but perhaps if I say that it is to Patricia McKillip's what McKillip's is to the average spec-fic writer's, you'll get the idea.
—but I do take it as one.
I have the Pixies' "Alec Eiffel" stuck in my head. It has been there since last night. I do not own a copy of this song. Of such things are small corners of hell made.
Oh, Alexander, I see you beneath
The archways of aerodynamics
Oh, Alexander . . .

no subject
Because the complete statement is: "I learnt last fall, studying colour, that "indigo" and "violet" at the blue end of the spectrum are not funny names for "purple"; rather, purple is a colour not in the spectrum at all, the true mixture of red and blue. So prose transmutingly beyond purple is not ultraviolet, and I lack a word to
describe Taaffe's prose . . ." Which I still take as a compliment.