Tad Garish
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tadgarish.bsky.social
Tad Garish
@tadgarish.bsky.social
1.6K followers 2.1K following 2K posts
Lawyer, #poet, shipwreck, excitable boy

I follow (back) poets, writers, artists, & other creatives, jokesters, academics, autodidacts, & other lost souls

#TTS friendly
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tadgarish.bsky.social
Sublime. The art of auto-voiced YouTube reddit story thumbnails has peaked 👌
#spectacle #ai #slop #art
This is a YouTube thumbnail. The 70% on the left is taken up by four increasingly dramatic statements in all-caps, each a different color, and the 30% on the right shows an AI image of a young, ludicrously thin woman in a black formal dress singing or speaking under a chandelier, holding the full attention of several people turned to watch her. The text reads: "MY FATHER PUBLICLY DISOWNED ME AT FAMILY DINNER," "'YOU'RE A LEECH WHO DOESN'T DESERVE OUR BLOOD,'" "THEN I BOUGHT HIS COMPANY AND BECAME A MILLIONAIRE," "NOW BEG FOR FORGIVENESS, DAD" [End].
March 2, 2025 at 2:49 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
I may have figured out how to write poems while happy!

#poem #poems #poetry #kindness #identity
This is a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "To a Raccoon." It reads: To a Raccoon -----   Wherever you have been crawling, hiding, There must be no sun or still water, Since, slumped in my gentle trap, you deny That you are a glorious jungle-cat who was Trained into this delusion that brings you To my drive, to my tree, to my garage, With its suspiciously comfortable corner-- Warmed, insulated bed, conveniently Near-dead prey slowly groping the air   And a new letter each night to remind you, In a language you don't claim to speak, Of your fearsome claws and roar.   Even if you never understand, Stay. Be fine. I won't wake you.
March 1, 2025 at 6:08 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
"Oh, they'll serve a useful purpose. A useful purpose indeed."
Gif of Mr. Burns going the "Excellent" gesture.
February 20, 2025 at 6:47 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
#poem #poems #poetry #longing #freedom
This is an image of text, a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Vulcan." It reads: [Begin poem]. Vulcan ------ There is only one furnace, and I keep it red, Tending it like Vulcan, lame and trapped. Go fly. Find wing-lit spheres teeming with Light and splendor. I will remain, Unperturbed and well appointed-- A ghost against a rich night sky.   The stars make my mantle, and I rise, Reeling toward the dark place to be born.   I am a king of emptiness. My blessing is free.   Come take it before I sleep. [End poem].
February 12, 2025 at 3:14 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
I've been too busy for stop and wait for inspiration to hit. So this is what happens when I say to myself, "I will write a poem about X."

Maybe you'll like it better than I do.

#poem #poems #poetry #writing #mysteriousdeath
This is an image of text, a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Dyatlov." It reads: Dyatlov -----   By the time the snow whipped sideways like a flock or sea--to their eye, a shearing wall--terror abducted all faith and planning and they fell into a new, indifferent scape.   The mountain was a pale shadow, its peak hidden. Nothing rose in view to goad them onward--they were guided now by the dread calculus of the cold and deep.   Let's not wonder why they fled the tent. Or why the tent was ripped. Or what monster may have pounced. Or where radiation may have lurked, or any secret facility. Enough to mourn their plunge into despair. We can all imagine that. The rest was meant for no eye. [End poem]. In truth, of course I'm fascinated by the mystery of what exactly happened at Dyatlov Pass, but, in a sense, that doesn't matter. The poem is more interested in that moment when the realization hits that you've made an irrevocable mistake-- in this case, a deadly mistake. I don't think I did that moment justice here, but I don't feel like working on this anymore, at least for now. [End end].
February 1, 2025 at 6:28 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Will some kind soul help me out, please? I'm stumped.
#swears #cussewords #brains
This is a partial screenshot from a learning app called Kinnu. The app allows the user to choose a "brain name," and the image is from the brain-name-choosing page. There are three items of interest in the image. At the top is white text, the app's, that reads "Choose a brain name." Just below that is a lozenge-shaped field in which I have typed my desired brain name, which is "Phil'sLostBrain." Finally, beneath that is red text from the app that says, "No swear words please." I'm stumped as to how the app finds a swear word in the phrase--which, I should note for the vision impaired, is all one "word," with no spaces or underscores. It does use an apostrophe in "Phil's." So, "Phil'sLostBrain." Where the swear?
January 25, 2025 at 3:19 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Headless poem in topless sky
#poem #piems #poetry
This is an image of text, a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Untitled." The author is unsure how well this will work in translation to speech. There are extreme indentations of the 3rd and 4th lines. Anybody, ut reads: Untitled ----- Tell me the last act you would tolerate. No worry; I'll answer in kind (rake the old                                                     doilies off the                                                 useless tables) I've tolerated a cut to the spine. Amphibrachy of the lifetime, chronic and Semi-salvageable. No scalpel To my gory core--merely a rain of pharmacology [End poem]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry. The media is omnipresent, and so are we [End life-altering announcement]. [Begin purpling]. It's a secret to everybody! If you have noticed or listened to any of my ALT-texts before, will you please reply to this skeeeeeeet with something on the subject of food? I'm curious how many of you there are. Many thanks! [End purpling]. [End].
January 24, 2025 at 11:59 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Vespers, gnomic, awry.
#poem #poetry #breakingtrance
This is an image of text, a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, called "Hollow." It reads: [Begin poem]. Hollow ----- Cold isn't cold anymore, and I say that as a bald man.   No, that's not a weak way into some lines about the global doomslayer we awoke with our combustion. I have nothing to add there. People know. They care or they don't. And if they don't, I doubt they read poetry.   No, I just mean, "Why does nothing prick me anymore?" I feel like I have a paralyzed limb, and I can stab it while holding your gaze, with sinister calm.   I always wanted to live in an abandoned house, cave, or a hollow tree. Don't you? [End poem]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry. EVER GET THE FEELING YOU'VE BEEN CHEA-TED? [End].
January 22, 2025 at 12:25 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Rationalization is in the ALT text
This is a one-panel comic, an instance of The Lockhorns. The couple is stepping out from under the awning at the door of a comedy club, where they evidently just attended a show performed by an insult comic. The man is bald, frumpy, and out of sorts. The woman is laughing. The man is saying, "It was bad enough you laughed when he insulted me...but did you have to yell 'encore?'" [End description]. [Begin decentering]. As usual, the unspoken context is key. To read a Lockhorns comic correctly, one must know Lockhorns Lore. In this instance, it is important to remember that the couple is childless. This has afforded them the time and money to travel and take in any number of shows. But what shows? Well, you need another piece of the lore. Over the childfree years, with every house empty of interlopers or overhearers, they banged like crazy and eventually developed an S&M kink. Specifically, the man has a humiliation kink, and the woman, loving her man and wanting to satisfy him, indulged in and immediately found congenial. Now, don't misunderstand. She didn't take to it out of any animosity or wish to hurt. She is simply so locked into what makes her man horny, and so intent on his pleasure, that she learned to love it. In this strip, they attended the insult comedy show, which was her treat to him. When the insult comic started roasting our man, he was in bliss but in control. When his wife yelled "Encore!" he had a spontaneous émission, which is why he looks rumpled. Dude just blasted in public. And his wife laughs, knowing that this, too, will become a historical touchstone of their shared kink. [End decentering]. This has been aGarish Media hue and cry. Time has ceas'd. [End goofy legal statement]. [End].
January 20, 2025 at 12:14 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
I've been used to free verse so long that my metrical chops have atrophied. I've gotten away from writing long lines, too. So this somewhat an exercise
#poem #poems #poetry #meter #rhythm
This is an image of text. It is a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Rhythmic Try 1 -- Elliptical, Domestic" It reads: [Begin poem]. Rhythmic Try 1 -- Elliptical, Domestic ----- I gulp a final bite--a hiker, stickless--I'm Preparing to pully power to my grasp From carbs in chocolate bed-left Clif bar (Remains of morning's forced--down food (for once)) To strength, resolve--or August beam on tree, sky on snow (A beauty come across by chance and Law of Large Numbers)-- To mount the letters (cleats enable my ascent) of these lines when they come, To jump from T, say, down to p, but safely, kept whole, That last criterion being ... rare of other Climbers' tries, I've read the journals, seen the notes, found the stats, I'll make it. I was sleeping half last year, But now I'll make it. [End poem]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, year LOOKSMMXXV [End goofy legal statement]. [Begin End]. So, like earlier, I don't have time to do much with this extra space. I need to sleep. Maybe I'll dream of feet. [End]. Rhythmic Try 1 -- Elliptical, Domestic ----- I gulp a final bite--a hiker, stickless--I'm Preparing to pully power to my grasp From carbs in chocolate bed-left Clif bar (Remains of morning's forced--down food (for once)) To strength, resolve--or August beam on tree, sky on snow (A beauty come across by chance and Law of Large Numbers)-- To mount the letters (cleats enable my ascent) of these lines when they come, To jump from T, say, down to p, but safely, kept whole, That last criterion being ... rare of other Climbers' tries, I've read the journals, seen the notes, found the stats, I'll make it. I was sleeping half last year, But now I'll make it.
January 19, 2025 at 8:41 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
More Poetry About Law and Litigation
#poem #poems #poetry #law #lawpractice
This is an image of text--a poem by the poster, Tad Garish entitled "Ligature." It reads: [Begin poem]. Ligature ----- Cry panic and set loose the dogs of law. Shall I compare thee to a docket call? Thou art more ego-struck & temperamental I would rather not call you. You scream about rank bullshit, O money-toad. Your subjects despise you, and so do I. You amaze me with your blunt ignorance Like a murder weapon.   There is no cause to act this way. If your client has lost confidence, I'll take Credit, but you owe blame. It was my scheming but your lack of imagination That did you in.   Sorry. You deserved it in almost every way. [End piem]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry 4(1000/2) + twonty foov. [End goofy legal statement]. It seems a bit strange that I haven't written much at all about law or practice of law. I'm almost as intent on the minutiae of improvement in my vocation as I am in my avocation as doggerel-factor. Is it because law is too dry for poetry? No, it's mainly because legal cases are hostile to poetry. They are increasingly dry, even when fascinating. But how dry I am, you don't know. So I keep on. [End].
January 17, 2025 at 11:57 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Lunch poem based on a case I was reading
#poem #poems #poetry #funwithnegligence
This is an image of text--a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Revelation (Blind)." It reads: [Begin poem]. Revelation (Blind) ----- The helmets were in the street, boring a tunnel for wire--"blind drilling" horizontally. Shoving a ruthless bit hidden through soil, Under pavement.   Blindly, they hit a gas line, the oafs at law, And we don't account for the throughways Beneath us--the paths of animals, worms, water--so no one thought where loose gas Would choose to seethe. Once released, it fogged through the crevices--blind and indifferent. The nearby restaurant was shown to be along the shortest path or least resistance When, flooded throughout, with a spark It went up in a fireblast.   One died. No one learned. [End poem]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, year of the hypochondriacal snake. [End goofy legal statement]. [Begin the end]. Sorry. Lunch is almost over, so I don't have time to add absurdity to this text. Instead, try to remember a specific time you walked around the house naked. [End].
January 17, 2025 at 7:49 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Vesper transmission

#poem #poems #poetry
This is an image of text--a poem by the poster, Tad Garish called "The Gift." It reads: [Begin poem]. The Gift ----- Human life is a rare form of disgust, An emotion known to every animal, Whether or not it boils With contempt for its habitat, which,   Unless advances in dolphin-decoding Of which I have heard nary a breath Have demolished all assumptions Previously held about the species,   Has never been expressed except from Within the species itself, which means That only the most disgusting of animals Can be disgusted with itself. Let's count it. [End poem]. [Begin fainting couch tableau]. Ohhhhh! Oh dear! [End fainting couch tableau]. [Begin screed]. Them dicks at Hardees. Them assholes. Worked for' em two different, right? Must not've been horrible, right? They never cared I did time from the start. And now they're gonna use that as their excuse? Bunch o' bullshit... [End screed]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry. The year is DANGER. [End goofy legal crap]. [End].
January 17, 2025 at 2:40 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Full Draft of a fragment I posted a week or so ago

#poem #poems #poetry #poetics
This is an image of text--a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, entitled "Poet as Sadist (Full Draft)." It reads: Poet as Sadist (Full Draft) -----   It starts with an aching for the sharp line, a pang for concision. There duly follows a ruthless phase called Luther, in which you will attempt to transmute your own blood, ripped to the Surface by your own hand With a tool of triune-triune tails, Into piety, or the poet's equivalent. But that is not the initiation.   .   Rites fall to us from elderlang, as ever-- Catechism, cathexis, catharsis, Cups of kings' blood overflowing Onto our scrolls, covering the call & Response text, the litany, hypnosis, repeated ad incognitum, in excelsis, In Michaelis, in Leonardis, in Caravaggionis, in ascendamos. Rise! Gather to burn in Glory!   *   A plea burns with execration slapped 90°, A sorry-cheek grouse to a robe. But built to labyrinthine demolition by nos. By numbered glyphs, held so To the sun * That may not rise. That may languish-- Ague, malingering, faux / the catalog Is never complete. The hoods shuttle w/ Satine hiss. The imitation blood that floods Your extremities and basks you in gaze Tears guttural through implication. Regal purification is the secret. We entrance every comer. Tous les punters. Any grievance, we are sublimed. * Then the focus screws hard, claws in. Derringers whip forward in palms. Summoning the list has become blue Collar as a vocation. The rumble rises Like a switchblade and now, at last, We are ready to make a sharp line.  [End poem]. Today I saw a genuinely beautiful sight-- rather, two. On the drive home, I encountered a blamelessly snowed pasture bathed in skylight swathes of bluewhite, the appearance of which was accentuated by the slanted sunfall hitting orangeblack foluage as a foiling frame. [End purple playout]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry. Ask your moms what year it is. [End]. P2 P3
January 17, 2025 at 2:14 AM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Corrected version:
#poem #poetry #poems #FrancisBacon #process
This is an image of text--a poem by the poster, Tad Garish, called "Gloves (Frag.) (V. 2)." This is a corrected version of the quoted poem. It reads: [Begin poem]. Gloves (Frag.) (V. 2) -----   When Frank got beat good Frank could paint blood Transsubstantially, Gloves-off beat, screwed down Into his horrible self, a lewdness He called crucial--   Scathing death, fire-nude and screaming From a throne rued demolition, and His ordinary senses      interfering--   All stewed into gory counterpunch, A glued mauler pummeling, Imbued with alcohol and anguish [End poem]. [Begin brief remarks]. But what if... [End brief remarks]. [I'll take your questions now]. "Yes, you, from the Post." "Usually you like to leave some mistakes as is. In fact, more than once you've noted that you're not totally happy with what you're posting. Why not just leave this one as-is too?" "What makes the difference is whether the mistake irritates me. Sure, I love chance and John Cage and Jacques Derrida 'n shit, but sometimes I want the sign to be riveted properly, all three parts, you know?" "What irritated you here?" "'Scorching' instead of 'Scathing' was enough on its own, tee bee aytch, but I kept finding things and I was like, 'OK, this needs doctoring," so I pulled on my surgical gloves." "Always at hand?" "Always at hand." [End Q&A]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry. Time is a function of your four-dimensional limitations [End].
January 12, 2025 at 5:18 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Morning experiment with "sliding rhyme." This will probably be one of 4 sections or so if I follow through
#poem #poetry #poems #art #FrancisBacon
This is an image of text--a four-stanza poem (or fragment of a poem) called "Gloves," by the poster, Tad Garish. It reads: [Begin poem]. Gloves -----   When Frank got beat good He could paint blood Transsubstantially, Gloves-off beat, screwed down Into his horrible self, a lewdness He calls necessary--   Scorching death fire-nude and screaming From a throne rued demolition, The ordinary senses,      interfering--   But all stewed into a counterpunch, A glued maul of impression on impact Imbued with anguish [End poem]. [Begin bonus ramblings]. As the main skeet (skrrt!) says, this is an experiment with-- for purposes of this disc hurled into the air for target practice (skeet, you know)--what I called "sliding rhyme." If you would like to figure out what I mean by "sliding rhyme" without my telling you, please stop listening to/reading this ALT text, because I'm about to explain it. [Begin pause for those stopping here]. ... ... ... ... Pausing ... ... ... [Recommence impirtant diatribe]. Start with the second stanza. The end-rhyme in that stanza "slides" backwards through each line until it begins the last line. It's that "lewd/rued/imbued" series of rhymes, first an end-rhyme and then internal rhymes. (The scheme does not appear in the first stanza because in that stanza it has not yet "slid into" the poem. It's off somewhere in the infinite space to the right of the line.) You'll notice some of the rhymes are de-emphasized by making them part of a longer morpheme. That's called "sneaky." [End of future time-capsule inclusion]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, year 1 of the Bad Times [End].
January 12, 2025 at 4:40 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Afternoon sketch

#poem #poems #poetry
This is an image of text--a poem entitled "A Call to Prayer (for Masochists)," by the poster, Tad Garish. It reads: [Begin poem]. A Call to Prayer (for Masochists) -----   Let the blessings blossom on your body. Come to the place where it rains Blows and you could become every color By dint of knuckle.   Long have we minted our treasure from our molten pain, and you will be no different from us. So we vow.   Gather here with us. Gather and burn. [End poem]. I've been a bit fascinated with masochism since I saw a documentary on Francis Bacon (the 20th century painter, not the Elizabethan courtier), who, the documentary said, tried to pour everything he understood about his subject into the painting. This, it was left unsaid, helps explain his hellish form of expressionism. This seems to imply that the artistic experience is a transaction. The coin of pain has been paid to boon the coin of beauty. I'm uncomfortable with this notion. It seems too close to sobering I would have believed as an undergrad, when I was goose-crammed with myths about art and the artist. My liver was en. Gorged. Only after having children, and a great fall, did I learn that things can be put together any damn way that works. I wonder if Francis felt imprisoned like I do: by ourselves, I mean. We are our own COs. Desperate measures of escape are still measures of escape [End bonus nonsense]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, perfect vision plus five [End].
January 11, 2025 at 10:24 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
I like this haiku I made
This is an image of text, a two-line haiku called "Cross," by the poster, Tad Garish. It reads: [Begin poem]. Cross ----- wind plucks the washing line, singing-- Dear, we have so little in common [End poem]. You may notice that I found a way to cheat on the syllables: I left it unclear whether the title is part of the poem. If the title is part of the poem, then the haiku exceeds 17 syllables. If not, the syllables add up to 17, but "cross" loses some association with "wind." That loss is perfectly acceptable, though, because it makes the word "cross" like a whisper that fades as the poem begins. The meaning is still there to be picked up on, though: "cross-wind." It is also a "cross" wind in the sense of "angry." It plucks the already taut washing line (not "clothes line," for reasons) much like a single utterance from another person can "pluck" something inside us that revs us up to anger. But that's already too much explanation. [End of exhibitionism]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, in some godforsaken year [End].
January 11, 2025 at 9:20 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Whenever I wonder what motivates people to do dumb things like make vegetative comments on YouTube, the question instantly turns into this album's title.

Anything sufficiently dumb and pointless and my brain will demand, "What makes a man start fires?"
This is an image of the cover art for an album by the 80s punk band Minutemen entitled "What Makes a Man Start Fires?" The image is mostly taken up by a reddish-vrown background, with the band's name in the upper left corner and an image inset in the bottom right corner. "Minutemen" is rendered is a sans serif font, dirty-canary yellow contrasting with the background. Taking up the inset image is the same yellow, with a deliberately amateurish drawing on it. In the drawing, a misproportioned figure is shown running out of a room in which can be seen two flaming beds. The figure is far too short to be an adult, judging by the size of the door frame, but also does not appear to be a little person-- despite the shortness, the figure keeps a tall person's proportions. Curiously, the very small man evidently has access to a good tailor, as he is wearing what may be a business suit and tie. . [End image description]. [Begin bonus nonsense]. I know what makes a boy start fires, anyway. I was a firebug in grade school, and so were my friends (one got put on probation after lighting up his church). I don't just mean sometimes I liked to burn stuff; I mean I often burned different objects in the clearing near my house, mostly to see how they differently burned. Styrofoam, as you can imagine, was a memorable lesson. I did love to watch the flames, but not, I don't think, the way most firebugs would. I was fascinated by its variability, not its destructive power. It's easy to understand why the ancients thought fire was an element. What *is* it that you see when you watch it lick and jump? As I understand things, fire is not a thing but a representation of an event. It's what we can comprehend as we watch the way physics does not destroy, after all, but only converts. [End of bonus nonsense]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, year Morris Morris Jackson Lincoln [End of goofy legal notice].
January 10, 2025 at 6:13 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
I don't know how much sense it makes to prepare to write theory by writing poems, but the great thing about art is that no one cares
This is an image of text--a poem by Gad Tearish called "Study (for 'Features of a Neurodivergent Poetics')."   [Begin poem text]. Study for "Features of a Neurodivergent Poetics" -----   Repetition claps shut a maw. Monet, we claim you. Haystack haystack haystack haystack haystack haystack haystack haystack haystack, more haystacks In this light, now this one, on this day, done this way... Objects are nothing but waves, you discovered. The purples never appeared, but you knew to paint them. We claim you.       . [End of poem]. [Beginning of extra-character exploitation.] Nu   When I was maybe fourteen, I was caught, as I usually was, in cross-tide of piety warring adolescence. I think we all know what to bet on in that conflict, and you'd be in the money. I've never been to a whoregouse/cathouse/nunnery, but that's largely because I couldn't find a hookup if it snagged by bunghole. For example, weed (its appearance in my hands, I mean) was always a miracle and a faint shame, a 15th-chakra beatdown (whatever that means; your ghost is as good as mine) elevating my sordid brain pan to heavens of tripe, getting full, descending.   [End of bonus nonsense]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, megadeuces + 5² [End].
January 9, 2025 at 10:33 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Good news! My internet is working horribly! Due to my mortal fear of burning through data, this will likely mean fewer posts from me today--in other words, I'm taking this as a lesson on how to SHUT MY BIG YAPPER
This is an image of the great Chris Farley as motivational speaker Matt Foley, who lives in a van down by the river, wearing a checked jacket and green tie. He stands mid-scold, left arm raised in a wild but inevitably feeble gesture toward the Real World, for the sinful potheads on the couch, David Spade and Christina Applegate, need a reality check. They need a check up from the neck up. They need Jesus. They've been smoking doooooobies, and if they persist in thinking that's funny, and if they keep on down that darkdoobie rroad, they, too, will end up in a van down by the river. [End image description]. This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, sloppy wight deux milles 25 [End].
January 9, 2025 at 8:15 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
This is an image of a poem, entitled "My Relpies: a Guide," by international terrorist fugitive-à-deux, Tad Garish. Tad livres to encourage. To the degree that he once tore a shell off a box turtle-- the kind he could easily find in the skirts of the woods that abutted his childhood domain-- and witnessed its nude helplessness. [Poem begins.]: My Replies: a Guide -----   Always sincere. Start and stay with that. I want you to succeed, find love. My replies may or may not help with that, but the intention is there. Keep with me. For every good you back, I will fall, Like a rocket stage They don't film for the news . [End of poem.] This has been a Harish Medis hue and cry, year irrelevant. [End].
January 8, 2025 at 11:42 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Say huh?
It shows amedium Dodge. Just kidding--it shows Buckethead, the guitarist who wears a presumably empty-at-time-of-receipt KFC bucket upside-down on his dome. The guy can play like no one else, but he's mostly enjoyable in theory. Does it add anything to your enjoyment of the music he records to know that as he produces what you're hearing he either smells chicken or should smell chicken? And what about chicken pussy? I mean, what's the story? [End image description.] [Begin goofy legal notice.] This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, in the year of Garglax IX 32 and 5 deaths. [End].
January 8, 2025 at 10:20 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Thank you, my friend!
This is a gif of Ashley or Kate Olson, clipped from the 90s TV force-choke-type experience called "Family Matters." She is delivering her iconic line, "YOU GOT IT DUDE" in impact font. As she does, she makes the hand gesture that goes with the line, a pre-K thumbs-up (fine motor skills are still developing in children of this age, which we all understand, I think, and this is why you are slapping your knee right along with me: that malformed little fist is so damn funny because no one expects reliability from a child. Not a pre-K-er, anyway. So when we're hit with the double whammy of adorable incompetence (it has been shown that when we perceive a person who we already think of as "cute" (i.e., harmless and needing care, or proportional to a toddler, just like MaKo, here), we are even more inclined to feel that way (tinged with unacknowledged condescension) because of the ineffective fist. This small child(ren) will punch no one. If she did, that, too, would be funny because weak little child. Given all that, is my response sincere? Yeah. I just like writing ALT texts, really. . This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, anno mirabilis MMXXV. [End].
January 8, 2025 at 8:21 PM
tadgarish.bsky.social
Erasure poem based on my own previous poem
#poem #poetry #poems #tts #ErasurePoems #ErasurePoetry #erasure
#Real-TimeDeformation
Image of text: a poem called "Snow (for David Berman) (Melted Version)," by Tad Garish. This is an erasure poem that uses a previous poem by the same author as its source. Unfortunately for those of you that rely on the audio, the long spacing between retained bits of the original is an inportant visual component. But, as I said, it's an erasure piem, so, if this bugs you, you can still compare it to the original to get a sense of the gaps. It's inconsiderate of me to make you wait through all this preamble, and the poem is coming imminently, but I will admit that this one time, that's part of the point of this ALT text. This once, I felt like using the extra space here backwards. Instead of putting extra content after the poem, I'm using it to delay its delivery. That's amazing, right? Do you chafe at Kenneth Goldsmith too? Yet? OK, enough nonsense. The poem: [Begin poem.] Snow (for David Berman) (Melted Version) -----   Indolent snow sobs             the letdown so far     covers more Or less whatever                                           the manager                                        is doing her best                          downfall   Every few hours another outburst                                                fraudulent.   The manager turns out the lights. She'll be on tomorrow                                        Keep the bottle. She'll make . [End of poem.] This has been a Garish Media hue and cry, year two pheasant and twin E five, innit? [End.]
January 7, 2025 at 9:58 PM