Daniil Kharms

5 larksons of elly yo

1. Cleaned out under my fridge today and found a fillet knife, dust-gorillas, and a chapbook. It is called “thunderstorms as familial convulsion.” Ryan Call as good as any at using weather as something more than weather.

2. Made me think of this sonnet by Kathleen Kirk. It is “Roof Leaks, Mimi Calls.”

All across the city the tyrant ice
pries up the tar and flashing, disturbs the peace
of shingles, their social order. It’s not the freeze
but the thaw that ruins us, the sudden spies
wiring the closet walls with new secrets,
the trickle-down effect in our kitchens,
cups and buckets competing for attention,
disintegration: sheetrock into dust.

The phone rings, your mother with the news.
The ceiling shifts, sure it wants to open.
Nothing falls, not even the sky.
Your voice is like a level, its yellow tube
tipping the bubble of air toward hope
and back. Cancer—just another tyrant.

3. Tumbling Old Women.

4. I have decided those who get bothered about quotation marks bother me. Dialogue isn’t about those little cheese curls. Do it right and you won’t have to do it right anymore.

5. Hold up. Tao Lin (actually Kacper Jarecki) wants your money. Wants your money. And then they ate whale.

Roundup / 18 Comments
May 3rd, 2010 / 4:19 pm

ropes, strings, poppea and 3 stories by Daniil Kharms

Watch all 3 parts.

They are lovely like fish.

Author Spotlight & Technology / 2 Comments
February 3rd, 2010 / 11:22 am

Back Flash: Daniil Kharms


People sometimes scoff flash fiction by noting its recent flabelliform of popularity. I occasionally refute by bringing past authors of flash to the now. I hope you may one day gather this feature and create a joiner’s mallet.

Enter Daniil Kharms.

He felt cause and effect were funny, buy not ha-ha funny. I once thought serious silliness the only real answer to life (but I digress), so was/am happy the day I stumbled upon Kharms. Automatic and lifeless makes us into a thing. This is good or bad?

Excellent site here of his work.

Here is a flash for you, titled, “How a Man Crumbled.”

– They say all the best tarts are fat-arsed. Gee-ee, I really like busty tarts, I love the way they smell.

Having said this, he started to increase in height and, upon reaching the ceiling, he crumbled into a thousand little pellets. The yard-keeper Panteley came, swept all these pellets up into his scoops in which he usually picked up the horse muck, and he carried these pellets away somewhere to the back yard.

And the sun continued to shine as ever and splendiferous ladies continued to smell just as ravishingly as ever.

Author Spotlight / 37 Comments
January 6th, 2010 / 7:15 pm