To Sade Iverson
I wonder if you scooped out your entire melted soul
With shaking hands, and spilled it into this
Slim-necked but bulging-bodied flagon—
So slim-necked that my sticking lips
Must fight for wonderful drops.
“Blast”
The typical gamin, the street-urchin with his tongue in his cheek, crying in an infinitely wise childish treble that the world is an exciting place after all, and that even if you are so burned out that you can’t taste your gin straight any more you can still put pepper in it,—this street-urchin has at last invaded the quarterlies. We have known him already in the dailies, the weeklies, the monthlies, the bound volume; but up to now the quarterlies have seemed dignified and safe. But the last bulwark of conservatism has fallen; the march of progress is unchecked!
Blast is the name of the new magazine, published in London by John Lane. Let us take it as it comes. The cover—after you have seen the cover you know all—is of a peculiar brilliancy, something between magenta and lavender, about the color of an acute sick-headache. Running slantingly across both the front and the back is the single word BLAST in solid black-faced type three inches high. That is all, but it is enough.
Inside there is much food for thought. At least one feels sure there must be much food for thought, if only one could come near enough to understanding it to think about it.