Dragon's cookie nightmare One night, when the Moon was setting, an eye had just opened - a dragon awoken! It shrieked, it moaned, it had dreamed, that all the cookies had been eaten by thieves! With fire and thunder the dragon took flight and flew to the kitchen with terrible might, but all the cookies were laying at rest awaiting the dragon to soak them in milk. The cookie dragon now smiling and calm, with all the fright gone with the dawn, opened a packet of freshly laid eggs and poured flour and sugar over his face.
I don't see the point. Window shopping in Manhattan? Why are you in Manhattan? Don't you live in Australia?
Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free. —The Sith Code
If I had a gun I would cock it shoot your eyes right out of their sockets spray you with mace and spit in your face then cram your eyes in your pockets. Haha, just kidding. Well, I really did write that, but...on a more serious note: I put my head in my hands, smelling traces of cigarettes and baby shampoo, and wonder where it all went wrong. Why do you see nothing when you look at me? How did I become so transparent? Maybe there's nothing wrong with me at all. Perhaps it's your eyes. Your vision has become obscured by an unknown device, and I heard somewhere that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. Your eyes betray what your mouth produces, and I can no longer pretend that they can co-exist. My smile is fixed, what vain hope is this, that once again yours will be sincere. Tears slip down my face like profanities Each so seemingly delicate and fragile, but with the capability of leaving vicious scars. Collecting in puddles along the seams of my soul, rusting my very existence. No more bending, I only break. As you tear this up, you tear me down. Thinking that you'll be able to put the pieces back together when you're ready to pretend again, only to find that the edges have frayed and they no longer fit. I'm real, after all, and what did you expect to accomplish? Such an easy victim I've become. Sounds like fun, yeah?
Aah...a better compliment never recieved. You sure know how to attract a lady. How are you doing financially? Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
What a shame to bury this here. Deserves a thread of its own. Aubade: written by Philip Larkin at 4am I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse -- The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house. >> More poems by Philip Larkin <<
A poem entitled, You Cockknocker, I hope you die cut into a thousand pieces That I didn't break, That I didn't shatter. That I didn't die That you don't matter. That you never won, That I wasn't beat. That you couldn't run, That I made you weak. That we both meld, That we seemed to fit. That you're not mine, That I felt shit. That once it was, That's never more. That you walked out That one way door. That broke the spell, That little sip, That's devil's cup, That made me sick. That memories fade, That time will heal. That fucking lie, That death toll peel.
Тальков Игорь Я мечтаю вернуться с войны На которой родился и рос, На руинах нищей страны Под дождями из слёз. Но не предан земле тиран, Объявивший войну стране, И не видно конца и края этой войне. Я пророчить не берусь, Но точно знаю, что вернусь Пусть даже через сто веков В страну не дураков, а гениев. И, поверженный в бою, Я воскресну и спою На первом дне рождения Страны, вернувшейся с войны. А когда затихают бои, На привале, а не в строю, Я о мире и о любви Сочиняю и пою. Облегчённо вздыхают враги, А друзья говорят: "Устал"... Ошибаются те, и другие - это привал. Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь, Но точно знаю, что вернусь Пусть даже через сто веков В страну не дураков, а гениев. И, поверженный в бою, Я воскресну и спою На первом дне рождения Страны, вернувшейся с войны. С войны... Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь, Но точно знаю, что вернусь Пусть даже через сто веков В страну не дураков, а гениев. И, поверженный в бою, Я воскресну и спою На первом дне рождения Страны, вернувшейся с войны. Вернусь... С войны...
A soldier is dreaming of his homeland, Russia...on a battlefront at Afghanistan...well actually its a guy who sings how he never got to be in Afghanistan is now meeting a buddy who lost his arm and talks about war in Afghanistan
Le mot qui traverse la surface ondulant A breath that rushes in and empties out A note sliding up and down a scale with no start or end The same note but made new la même cadence encore Behind you they swell up in a chorus of remembered rhythms They strum and shiver, slap and shake your journey through the breaking waves ton trajet soutenu des vagues deferlent
Here are my 2 favorite poems by perhaps the greatest living English speaking poet. On a Side Street If there are small shops With illegible signs, Don’t come near them Or look in their windows. Keep to where the sky can be seen In its cloudless twilight splendor Above the dark buildings, Dark even on darkest nights. If someone’s following you, And he limps, and he’s got a watch He puts to his ear smiling, Run from him and his watch. There’s a wide, well-lit avenue Close by. Thousands have come out Just to see you, though They make believe you’re invisible As you step into the light Out of that dark side street, With your face so pale It seems powdered for a carnival. Shading Exercize This street could use a bit of shade And the same goes for that small boy Playing alone in the sun, A shadow to dart after him like a black kitten. His parents sit in a room with shades drawn. The stairs to the cellar Are hardly used anymore Except for an occasional prowler. Like a troop of traveling actors dressed to play Hamlet, The evening shadows come. They spend their days hidden in the trees Outside the old courthouse. Now comes the hard part: What to do with the stones in the graveyard? The sun doesn't care for ambiguities, But I do. I open my door and let them in. * * * Best living in English: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Simic Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carolyn_Forche Best American of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost Best Brit of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy Best French: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud Best Spanish: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda
The Old Roman: Have I seen thee Thy uncertain form Not amongst the spears and clashing Or the cries of those Who sought thy hurried favour On red-streaked and stinking fields Long you sought to turn my gaze But well I held the shield And pressed with strength upon the foe Though Mars were as with our host We stepped as one into the cleft They screamed to you anew as their blood was offered To buzz and be scattered; their coils strewn To your dusty house Thine eyes have yet My face to behold Are you looming as a twilight on a misting glade Through which I will wander as No other way opens ahead Do I know thee, Death I know you do not lay and wait Or need any plan or arrangement The distant hills are not From whence you need to come No I will not see you tonight Nor any other that is Left to me to dream in I will not see thy gaze, as I walk along Alone, into your embrace (translated by /me from a Latin poem by D. LaTrobe-Easte) P.S. Dang it, I can't get a vague-ish link to a certain Roman general who became an Emperor, then went to live on a certain island with certain animals on it (it was even named after them), connected to: "stepping into the cleft", sort of like "climbing nimbly up the rock face", and how Mars being "as with our host" means "in the house" - whose house? The Emperor's/general's house, natch - Capricorn. There's also a vague-ish meaning of sacrificial animals (goats were sacrificed by Romans for all sorts of reasons) with the "offering" side of it. Roman legionaries, like most people of the day, believed that flies came from blood, rather than flies arriving from somewhere, because they seemed to appear "from nowhere", so they must come from spilled blood, simple really. English don't do it so good, some of the times.
Which way do rivers flow? I ask myself sometimes... which way do rivers flow I wonder. if I can swim with current Deep sadness in me brings back memories Deep water below me is dark as my destiny Deep sadness in me brings back memories Deep water below me reflecting my body in it If I could fly sometimes for all eternity If I could fly sometimes the quiet wind in my arms floats just alike the clouds in my memories sadness brings back in the waters below me Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
The Mistress The Maiden: Not she, a lady flaxen haired Walking in an ivy-strewn morning hour Nor does she strew a fresh bouquet Upon a lazily swinging chair in any bower Is She not fair and beauteous? Her glowing, soft skin cares not for the faint-of-heart If she but extends her touch To chill, perhaps to stop a quickening pulse How Electra's hair amazes See, it blazes a fantastic halo, and a holograph she wears Her hands are many-fingered And shining diamond points her nails The coloured coruscating swirls and trails That tunnel from her hand and cross, but to the right There, a digit's black tip Jet-dark the others shimmer with peculiar waves, as they alight
I'm still composing the music for that one. Something kind of Celt, or Folkish. Bit of Handel on a mandel.
A loaded gun called Despair. Looking for a reason to stay, Searching for life in the Cherry-apple Blossom scattered around my feet, and found nothing but death and decay, repugnent stench and the rotting fruit of dreams Reaching to the heavens, the stars I ask: "Is there reason to stay?" and felt no reply, felt only his care God must be sharing this grief in his heart of mine as I pulled the trigger of this gun called despair. Amazed to hear an empty click, I felt the question rise in my mind: "Is there reason to go?" qq 07/08/2008