The Polkadodge Organization

Excavation Confirms Ancient Tamblér Headquarters

clintirwin — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:59:40 -0400

NEW YORK — Last year, while digging at the cross-streets of 21st and Park Avenue South to install a new flying-car depot, a massive underground facility was found, which was suspected of being an ancient archive of the Middle Internet Age website, known as Tamblér. That conclusion seems to have been confirmed by the discovery of a massive archive of millions of platinum, archival disks, which were created to be read with a device with a simple needle. Dr. Cömberbutch, head of the excavation project for the University of Yeesus, said, “We have created a device just to read these things, and we have read at least 60,000 of them, which contain at least a quarter-of-a-million love poems fetishizing the collarbones. Who knows how many more of them there are?”
Love poems referring to the collarbones were a ubiquitous pursuit of the Middle Internet Age, circa 2010 — much like Chaste Love in Medieval Europe — and most peculiar to a website popularly known as Tamblér (Though Dr. Cömberbutch is quick to point out that the original spelling was “Tumblr.”)

Little is known about the founder of Tamblér, Devvét Kelp, but as Dr. Cömberbutch notes: “We know little about the Middle Internet Age, or the entire Internet Age, which begins in the 1990s. It was only in the so-called Singularity Era, beginning in the 2050s that historians and archivists began to seriously deal with the archival limitations of digital information at the time. Without stone etchings or good paper, there was little an archaeologist had left to refer to. Information came in so fast and was lost just as quickly over time by thousands of updates, and technological changes came in and wiped it out over the decades.”

Dr. Cömberbutch speculated that, Devvét Kelp, known to the ancients as, David Karp, may well have anticipated this change and began a secret project to thoroughly preserve at least his contribution to the Middle Internet Age. As Dr. Cömberbutch notes: “He is known as a visionary, if nothing else. Only he could do it. It’s very exciting to me personally, too. More than collarbones, we find constant references to what could be the origin of my name, which was originally pronounced, Cumberbatch, and other mentions of the name, Kanye, which may have been an early name for Yeesus.”

Father's Day Club

clintirwin — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 19:30:44 -0400

clintirwin:

Father’s Day is like a club. Everyone belongs to Mother’s Day, but some hate their dads, and some don’t; some have no dads and some do. Half of English literature is one way or another about how Father was a cold asshole. Luke Skywalker was not a member of the Father’s Day Club. Jesus’ dad had him put to death. On TV, dads are stupid, lazy and redundant, kept around because the big-hearted mother is just too good to let him go. I saw a list today of “Worst Dads,” but never saw that on a Mother’s Day. Dads are a go-to for child abuse dramas. Mother’s Day was a no-brainer in 1914, but it took until 1966 to make a Father’s Day. Mother’s Day is Christmas and Father’s Day is like some other weak-ass holiday that not many really give a shit about, like Easter; it is the difference between getting presents, and looking for fucking eggs. In a real patriarchy, the mother is a saint and the father? Patriarchies are full of boys who hate their fathers because dad is there to teach them how mean the world is, to be feared rather than loved. A bad father stands out, makes great drama; a good father goes easily unnoticed, finds the attention awkward. I’m pretty sure the latter is the majority of fathers, though I can’t speak personally.

joshuarobertlong: It’s two o’clock in the morning, it’s...

joshuarobertlong — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 22:09:49 -0400

joshuarobertlong:

It’s two o’clock in the morning, it’s raining, and there was an incident (Stale Fish)

M D M B A B Y T E E T H

joshuarobertlong — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 01:40:40 -0400

M D M B A B Y T E E T H:

Baby Teeth [Madeline Mcgraw] on Amazon.com. *FREE* super saver shipping on qualifying offers. Poems about loss and redemption, all based in a sparse Western landscape. This debut collection of poems by Madeline McGraw spans the early years of adulthood.

thedoeling: Quick embroidery of a dead fox on a vintage...

thedoeling — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 19:15:21 -0400

thedoeling:

Quick embroidery of a dead fox on a vintage handkerchief. Something simple to keep me from going nuts in this heat.

V

thegreatestactor — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 14:44:25 -0400

thegreatestactor:

He’ll be swimming through you
for five days

you tell yourself

as you wade through the
whitewash of Sunday morning,

the paint chips on the ceiling
just as pronounced as

the lull of your heart
waiting for him to call,

twisting your neck to the
sound of the phone, though

it’s only your mother
wondering where you’ve been

for five days.

The shower

nooneknowsnothing — Fri, 31 May 2013 22:51:50 -0400

The woman inside the shower: "If life makes me feel you, I will take the chance..."
The men outside the shower: What are you singing?
The woman inside the shower: What are you doing here?!?!
The men outside the shower: I was looking for a book in the living room when I heard you. What's wrong?
The woman inside the shower: Come on, I'm your guest here! You should not get into the bathroom when I'm taking a shower, dear!
The men outside the shower: I'm sorry, but I felt it.
The woman inside the shower: What did you feel?
The men outside the shower: Your voice.

The pounding of water against the wall filled their abrupt silence.

The men outside the shower: Are you ok?
The woman inside the shower: Yes, I'm fine.
The men outside the shower: Are you sure?
The woman inside the shower: Of course I am... Are you ok?
The men: What are you wearing?
The woman inside the shower:What?! Come one, you know I'm inside the shower...
The men: Say it out loud.

The silence caught them again by surprise.

The woman: I'm wearing my own skin.
The men: Nice answer...
The woman: What are you wearing?
The men: Anything you want. Pick an image.
The woman: A suit, maybe?
The men: You wish!
The woman inside the shower: Friend, remember: we are going to dinner tonight. You promised. It's my first night here!
The men: Try to focus your mind in this moment. Are you afraid?
The woman: You are playing a rough game and you know.
The men: A game?
The woman: Yes, how do I know you will put your hands over the board game this time?
The men outside the shower: What do you mean?
The woman: You never finished a game with me. Do you remember our past coversations?

Silence.

The woman: I bet you cannot put a finger over me right now.

Silence.

The men: You better not challenge me, sweetheart.
The woman: You are closer now, so you will.
The men outside the shower: How do you know that? You can't see me thorugh the curtain.
The woman: I feel your voice much closer. Will you embrace this words at last?
The men: Will you let me into the shower?

you're not the only one

prufrockslovesong — Fri, 31 May 2013 17:41:00 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

my dear nameless love,

when you wrote, you neglected to sign your name, thinking you’d remain a mystery, but I know better: I would know you anywhere. you are the sort that doesn’t need a name. your endless eyes plaster the walls, and echoes of your voice litter the floor, so much that I have to be careful not to trip. this house is haunted by you.

I know you’re expecting a tirade as venomous as the last time we were together, and I wouldn’t be lying if I said you deserved it. diligence is not a crime. our feelings were undoubtedly mutual, so why did you retreat in the heat of the battle? I know you weren’t exhausted; I know you hadn’t given it your all. I thought you thought I was worth the best fight you could put up. at that moment, when you left behind your white flag and let the rain cloak you, I realized I must have been wrong. never again will I assume the best about you.

but at the same time, I’m still clutching your ghost.

I’m wishing your fog-fingers would thread through mine,

I’m wishing for afternoon walks and knowing we see each other perfectly even with our eyes closed.

you may have failed my test, but I would give anything to stand before you again, and just as your mouth would form the syllables of an apology, I would cut you off.

I would say that I understand why you walked away, because just before you yelled your surrender, I was contemplating doing the same. I confess that I am not strong enough in uncertainty; I need concrete glances, not those flitting between sunbeams or hiding under starlight. I didn’t want my insecurity to be my downfall, choking under the fear that if I let you completely inside, you’d be the one to begin the inevitable avalanche.

please, return to me, so that I can see if your hands would be willing to take mine and if your eyes are full enough to drench me but barren enough to give me a home.

sincerely yours,

the words scratched into panels of your walls

The Void

araby-bizarre — Fri, 31 May 2013 00:04:00 -0400

cotardtheliving:

In Venice I dreamt
that you pulled a sheet over
our heads in the night
and poked a thousand holes inside
with a bloody fountain pen.

Your lips were like parentheses
around the word “silence,”
which posed a question mark
at the end of my name.

It all sounded the same
when we were coming
up for air, the dark stringing
holiday lights over
our shorn bodies, like a couple
of drunken convicts.

Look, you said, and pointed
into the void with fingers
thin as skeleton keys.

When I peered through
the white ceiling looked
like a paper galaxy, the holes
expanding and then trembling
like a person who has
very little left which they could lose.

They swung back and forth
like a spiral pendant
at the end of a hypnotist’s chain.

They were the eyes
of all the ones who have
ever loved me; they were
the eyes of all the ones
who have ever gone away.

For the first time in a long time
they made me feel safe.

Jealousy Doesn't Cover It

prufrockslovesong — Wed, 29 May 2013 21:32:10 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

Burning embraces
fall from the illusion
of glamorous romance
and pink taffy perfection.

Your arms are
a melted chocolate wonderland;
too bad I’m not your Alice.

Grey sky
only helps to
make her eyes
all-the-more vivid
and tantalizing.

It’s an apocalypse
of everything you called “love”
and guess who didn’t survive:

I was too preoccupied,
set on self-destruct.

Buy me a pretty rouge ribbon
and pale periwinkle lace;
tie them with a knot
around this cracked heart,

and try to give it
the appearance of
some-sort-of beauty.

“Hello, how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. And you?”
Silence.

Expose what you thought was
a sugar-coated apology.

Darling, it’s nothing more
than the confession
of a broken girl.

Romeo, I drank the poison.
Too bad I’m not your Juliet.
Oh, don’t worry about me.
Just carry-on in your fantasy
as if I never existed.

My memory is a plague;
you can’t escape without
a scar to remind you
of what could’ve been

Purple Lacerating Sameness

prufrockslovesong — Tue, 28 May 2013 17:14:28 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

plastic grass
beneath a grey sky
everything as a monotone
black & white repeating

just one glance…

the ground cracks
shattering shadows of chrome

and a blossom bursts forth
so delicately shaped
no painter can attempt
to mirror its simplistic beauty

one splash of
such a gorgeous violet color
overpowers the landscape surrounding it
and puts the false-glamour
of grayscale perfection
to shame

prufrockslovesong: Another painting on my wall. It was inspired...

prufrockslovesong — Tue, 28 May 2013 08:02:18 -0400

prufrockslovesong:

Another painting on my wall. It was inspired by the song “Hanging On” by Ellie Goulding.

naliterarymagazine: Our 5th issue (our first to be printed with...

onehundreddollars — Mon, 27 May 2013 22:51:05 -0400

naliterarymagazine:

Our 5th issue (our first to be printed with color and feature comics and illustrations!) is now available for purchase through our website!

For only $5, you can hold a physical copy of the magazine in your literature-loving hands.

Featuring work by:

Victor Espeland
Cean Gamalinda
Howie Good
Kyle Hemmings
Liz Herzog
Isabelle Johnson
David Lewitzky
Luke Pelletier
Bob Schofield
Lily Shell
Jennifer Smith
Lisa Sterle
Matt Whitman
Em Young

Also, to celebrate our new issue, back issues of the magazine are now ON SALE for only $2. Snag the last few copies before they are gone forever!

- N/A

prufrockslovesong: This is one of the paintings up on my wall....

prufrockslovesong — Mon, 27 May 2013 18:00:39 -0400

prufrockslovesong:

This is one of the paintings up on my wall. It hasn’t really got a title, but I mentally refer to it as “Next thing, we’re touching,” which is a line from Ellie Goulding’s song “Starry Eyed.”

Haunting Gaze

prufrockslovesong — Mon, 27 May 2013 16:36:00 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

sorrow-soaked rubies
sink into a face
unable to
laugh

winged lips tremble
against anxious skin,

without asking for
permission, they flit forth,
stealing her words away

desperation echoes behind
features chalked into
feelingless marble

but her naive eyes
are a separate entity,
betraying everything
an unbeating heart
cannot begin to
comprehend

no longer

prufrockslovesong — Sun, 26 May 2013 23:20:00 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

torment
clothed in
thirteen blue stars

May winds
toss your name

immaturity’s impulsiveness
haunts no longer

No one knows nothing: NEXT APPOINTMENT FOR BOOK RELEASING OR "SOWING"

nooneknowsnothing — Sun, 26 May 2013 17:03:10 -0400

No one knows nothing: NEXT APPOINTMENT FOR BOOK RELEASING OR "SOWING":

nooneknowsnothing:

The idea is to “release” (leave) a book in a public place (pharmacy, supermarket, bar, public transportation, cinema, museum, etc.). You may participate of this event by releasing a book on Juny 21st, 2013, wherever you live or may be at the time.

To participate, leave a book in a public…

Night

prufrockslovesong — Sat, 25 May 2013 21:08:00 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

chaos bleeds
upon velvet shoulders

twilight-lit holes
incinerate onlookers
with devilish precision,
as tattered folds
flirt with the wind

unaware, she strokes
yearning copper hearts
with passion’s
low sighs

Midwinter

prufrockslovesong — Fri, 24 May 2013 14:58:00 -0400

sarahlucillemarchant:

frozen underwater
organs trapped mid-pulsation

but truth radiates beyond obstacles,
overcoming inconceivable odds,
and makes its resting place at your side

no matter what logic claims,
science has no power over this
foreign force, this magnetism

darling, though our hearts are scarcely beating
we continue drowning in gravity-defying love

Joshua Robert Long: How To Watch a Deer Get Hit By a Red Volvo VN770

joshuarobertlong — Fri, 24 May 2013 06:51:59 -0400

Joshua Robert Long: How To Watch a Deer Get Hit By a Red Volvo VN770:

joshuarobertlong:

My entire drive home I was trying to place whether it was seventeen or eighteen. In my gut it seems that eighteen would be more in the right. At this point all of my friends had finally graduated from high school. They had that sort of shimmy to them, I probably had it too, but mine was all burnt up and buried in the side of the hill. Nineteen seems a little too gone and seventeen seems a bit too young. So for the sake of the story, or at least the way my mind remembers it, we will say I was eighteen years old.

(after some more careful consideration, it was definitely age eighteen as it was the summer of two thousand and two)

Somebody I knew had mushrooms. Around the time, I was a car transporter. One of the particular trips we had to make involved approximately seven miles of highway between the towns of Sidney and Piqua, Ohio. I remember on this particular afternoon of bringing the cars back to Piqua, a deer attempting to cross the highway as we were driving on the other side into Sidney.

(maybe it’s different nowadays)

After getting back and waiting to get paid, which usually took no more than a few minutes, I’d popped over to a friends house and set about the evening. I had taken traditional acid before that. Or what I consider to be traditional. It was probably just a watered-down version by 1960s traditions. This more or less promised that I knew what I was in for.

Again, I can’t recall anything specifically, and it’s probably for the best considering. There was a semi truck that had gotten in its way. It more or less exploded. The semi was a Volvo and it was red. That, and driving back a Ford Tempo, which would eventually belong to my sister and then me, but that is an entirely different story.

God help me if I could ever begin to consider who that person actually was. I can barely tell you who I was at that time. But someone had the mushrooms. We had turned to drugs a lot at that point. All varieties at that point. Not like being fourteen or fifteen and simply into smoking weed.

The highway ran in the middle of basically nowhere. Those two things and the way it sort of exploded were basically all I can remember from that trip. I’d never factored the afternoon into the experience though.

This is probably good advice, ask your brother.

They knew regardless of what they deemed acceptable and unacceptable, teenagers would still be teenagers. My parents were very good at being the nonjudgemental type of hosts.

Eventually though, at some point, my mind came back to the highway, to the red Volvo semi, and to the deer. It made the electricity pour out of my body. It was like a spiritual sentencing. Something beyond the county jails and hallways I had known before.

Usually they were never nice cars. All you were ever bound to see was corn or deer or both. Occasionally a coyote I’d say. If I’m not blurring this with one other one, my dad had actually eaten some too. A bit of proactive parenting I suppose.

The buzz wore on. Did all the typical mushroom stuff. The walls, wallpaper, chain smoking and enlightened social commentary. Yahtzee. Typically they were older and heavily abused.

Rode hard, as they say.

It was an easy enough job. I would move cars between dealerships that other dealerships had bought off of each other. It had no real set hours and paid a flat rate. All of which are things that suit the life of a teenager very well.

This had made me turn to my mother. She had told me a few stories about death that she herself was familiar with. About relatives and animals and both taken right in front of her, and even on down the street as well.

It was late at that point. She was in bed. If I can remember nothing else about my teenage years aside from that, that will again and forever be enough.