DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | En Garde, whole no. 8, December 1943

Transcribe
Translate

En Garde, whole no. 8, December 1943

Page 11

page 11.

"What in harundle did you do?" asked Frool.

"Oh, I prindled his proggle and he snoozed me out," answered Bordlo, thwartingly.

So the little, cocapanish couple who were so much in bornch went home to their little bornch nest and bornched.

MORAL: Never bornch in the frintch patchoe or you might run across a glooby thing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the way he told it to us: He had wandered into the studio. The model was posed in the center, and the artists were gathered all around her, busily sketching. He circulated around the room, inspecting the work of one artist after another. Finally he came to one right in front of the model, who was especially intent. Then he discovered that the guy couldn't draw for sour apples. But there he was---with a piece of charcoal, and a leer!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

MAL MINSTREL
By Al Ashley

My song is a song of the things I see
When the moon rides high; of a blasted tree
That is faintly limned on a black, bleak sky;
Of shadows that whisper and weirdly sigh
As they weave and glide through the shifting gloom;
Of a crouching wraith on a wind-swept tomb.

Or, I sing of the elfin flames that dance
On a distant ridge, as they place and prance
To a faery, tinkling, silver bell;
Of a shriveled plain where a star-chip fell
From far, where the gods shape a dwelling-place,
On another world, for an Elder Race.

IMAGINARY LIES
By Al Ashley

Indigo imprisoned isles!
Insects iridescent,
Insolently inundate
Images, ignoscent. 

Idols indefinable,
Inlaid in ivory;
Inexorably inclosed [enclosed]
In ice, illusory!

It's in incoherence, I
Ignobly invocate
Inexplicably, inflamed
Incubi, incarnate.

DAWN HERITAGE
By Al Ashley

Down time's slow, relentless pathway,
From some dim and distant dawn,
Comes at atavistic yearning
Like a reddened echo drawn
From a heart, for long, forgotten.
In a gust of burning hate,
Comes a wild, primeval fury
Only flowing blood will sate.

In a burst of bitter madness,
In an all-embracing surge,
Primal-born and overwhelming,
Comes a grim, sadistic urge;
In a demon-driven flood,
Comes a wild demand for blood!

Saving...

page 11. "What in harundle did you do?" asked Frool. "Oh, I prindled his proggle and he snoozed me out," answered Bordlo, thwartingly. So the little, cocapanish couple who were so much in bornch went home to their little bornch nest and bornched. MORAL: Never bornch in the frintch patchoe or you might run across a glooby thing. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is the way he told it to us: He had wandered into the studio. The model was posed in the center, and the artists were gathered all around her, busily sketching. He circulated around the room, inspecting the work of one artist after another. Finally he came to one right in front of the model, who was especially intent. Then he discovered that the guy couldn't draw for sour apples. But there he was---with a piece of charcoal, and a leer! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- MAL MINSTREL By Al Ashley My song is a song of the things I see When the moon rides high; of a blasted tree That is faintly limned on a black, bleak sky; Of shadows that whisper and weirdly sigh As they weave and glide through the shifting gloom; Of a crouching wraith on a wind-swept tomb. Or, I sing of the elfin flames that dance On a distant ridge, as they place and prance To a faery, tinkling, silver bell; Of a shriveled plain where a star-chip fell From far, where the gods shape a dwelling-place, On another world, for an Elder Race. IMAGINARY LIES By Al Ashley Indigo imprisoned isles! Insects iridescent, Insolently inundate Images, ignoscent. Idols indefinable, Inlaid in ivory; Inexorably inclosed [enclosed] In ice, illusory! It's in incoherence, I Ignobly invocate Inexplicably, inflamed Incubi, incarnate. DAWN HERITAGE By Al Ashley Down time's slow, relentless pathway, From some dim and distant dawn, Comes at atavistic yearning Like a reddened echo drawn From a heart, for long, forgotten. In a gust of burning hate, Comes a wild, primeval fury Only flowing blood will sate. In a burst of bitter madness, In an all-embracing surge, Primal-born and overwhelming, Comes a grim, sadistic urge; In a demon-driven flood, Comes a wild demand for blood!