deathstrumpet.html


1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47

<!DOCTYPE html>
<!-- Template for compiled 'Autocento' documents -->
<html>
<head>
    <meta charset="utf-8">
    <meta name="generator" content="pandoc">
    <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0, user-scalable=yes">
    <meta name="author" content="Case Duckworth">
    <!-- more meta tags here -->
    <title>Death’s trumpet | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
    <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="css/_common.css">
        <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="css/verse.css">
            <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="css/elegies.css">
        <!--[if lt IE 9]>
    <script src="http://html5shim.googlecode.com/svn/trunk/html5.js"> </script>
    <![endif]-->
    </head>
<body>


    <header>
        <!-- title -->
        <h1 class="title">Death’s trumpet</h1>
        
                <!-- epigraph -->
        <p class="epigraph">
                        <p>So Death plays his little <a href="apollo11.html">fucking</a> trumpet. So what, says the boy.</p>
                    </p>
                <p class="epigraph-attrib">
            &mdash; Larry Levis
        </p>
                            </header>

    <section class="verse">
    <p>He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,<br />top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine<br />begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.</p>
    <p>He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining<br />it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized<br />it was a terrible metaphor.<br />He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?</p>
    <p>Death looks at <a href="moongone.html">himself in the mirror</a> as he plays.<br />The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.<br />Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving<br />but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.<br />Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.</p>
    <p>He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.<br />He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy<br />since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.<br />The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.<br />He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,</p>
    <p>there’s only a <a href="angeltoabraham.html">little boy</a> with dead eyes. So far so good.<br />He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him<br />and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.<br />Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.</p>
    </section>

    <nav>
                <a href="#" id="lozenge"> &loz; </a>
            </nav>

</body>
</html>