And now....

It's time for Dr. Seuss Bible...

Song. To Lucasta, Going to the Wars

by Richard Lovelace

I.

TELL me not (Sweet) I am unkinde,
That from the Nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde,
To Warre and Armes I flie.

II.

True ; a new Mistresse now I chase,
The first Foe in the Field ;
And with a stronger Faith imbrace
A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.

III.

Yet this Inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore ;
I could not love thee (Deare) so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.

I almost forgot...

To brag about my pretty, pretty purchase...




Now I just need to collect the rest of these movies that they digitally remastered but didn't release in a collection like this one...

WOOHOO!!

I am beyond excited right now! I officially have a buyer for my car and will be taking care of all of the paperwork and payment stuff tomorrow. Then, on Saturday, we will transfer the title and all of the paperwork needed to the new owners. AND! I am actually getting what I was asking for my car. Mac, if I don't get a chance to thank them enough, hug your parents for me when you see them again lol...

Just because this amused the hell out of me...

For all those people out there who like to plaster their cars with those stupid "Support Our Troops" ribbons...

Support Our Ribbons!

Sonnets from the Portuguese XLI...

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot
To harken what I said between my tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul's full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endures, from life that disappears!

Just for Mac...

Jabberwocky

by Lewis Carroll


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

`Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jujub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum gree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wook,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

`And has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Walrus and the Carpenter...

by Lewis Carroll


`The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright --
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done --
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying over head --
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it WOULD be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him.
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head --
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat --
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more --
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot --
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed --
Now if you're ready Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue,
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf --
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said.
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size.
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter.
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none --
And that was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.'

Sorrow...

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,
--Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.

Arithmetic of the Lips...

Give me a kiss from those sweet lips of thine
And make it double by enjoining mine,
Another yet, nay yet and yet another,
And let the first kiss be the second's brother.
Give me a thousand kisses and yet more;
And then repeat those that have gone before;
Let us begine while daylight springs in heaven,
And kiss till night descends into the even,
And when that modest secretary, night,
Discolours all but thy heaven beaming bright,
We will begin revels of hidden love
In that sweet orb where silent pleasures move.
In high new strains, unspeakable delight,
We'll vent the dull hours of the silent night;
Were the bright day no longer to visit us,
Oh, then forever would I hold the thus,
Naked, enchained, empty of idle fear,
As the first lovers in the garden were.
I'll die betwixt thy breasts that are so white,
For, to die there, would do a man delight.
Embrace me still, for time runs on before,
And being dead we shall embrace no more.
Let us kiss faster than the hours do fly,
Long live each kiss and never know to die...
Let us vie kisses, till our eyelids cover,
And if I sleep, count me an idle lover;
Admit I sleep, I'll still persue the theme,
And eagerly I'll kiss thee in a dream...
-Anon


Yes, I do realize this is a mushy sappy poem, and yes, I do like it...sadly. I will not tolerate being mocked for it *coughdestroyerofworldscough* and will delete your comments if you do. So there. Nyah.

Vanity...

Longmire does Romance Novels...

I'm sure all of us have seen some of the lame covers on the trashy romance novels in bookstores. Damn near all of them beg to be ridiculed...so here is someone who did just that. All of the romance novels have been given titles that go much better with the picture on the cover.

Enjoy...

Don't be afraid. . .be ready!

If you have ever pondered what those Government warning signs truly mean, ponder no longer! This site will answer any question you may have on that...and more!

Be ready!!

Encounter...

by David Alston

Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
(Asked the stranger on the black steed.)
Over the hills and far away
Where hearts are light as the blossoming May.

When will you reach there, my pretty girl?
(Asked the stranger from under his cowl.)
Before the sun is all burnt out
And winter comes? Without a doubt.

Do you know your road, then, my pretty lass?
(Asked the stranger.) Along the green grass
I follow the butterfly, rise with the lark
And lay me down in the woods at dark.

What is your provender, my pretty one?
(Asked the stranger, ambling on.)
Milk and honey, nuts, apples and wine,
Candied sugar and fruits of the vine.

Who will you travel with, my pretty maid?
(Asked the stranger, dark was his plaid.)
With whomsoever I meet on the way
I'll walk for as long as I wish to stay;

But with you I'll part and soon be gone.
We'll meet again ere the journey's done.
(Whispered the stranger, under his breath.
White was his skin – his name was Death.)

Mermaid...

by David Alston

Wild geese fly on by moonlight,
from an elm the shriek of an owl
shakes the gloom of a shuttered room
where seasalt memories prowl

and the Captain tosses through the night,
(with his lady by his side),
adrift on a stream of heaving dream
in a silver moonlit tide.

He saw the Mermaid, touched the scales
of her cold and clammy skin,
and heard her voice that was cool as the ice
of her icehard heart within.

A sparrowhawk waits, a ringdove quails
deep in the boughs of an oak;
the night winds moan as through fluted bone;
and he thinks of how she spoke

of the wish and the wish and the wish she'd grant.
(His lady lies still but awake.)
Through the house's hoard of old creaking board
the damp moves stake by stake –

up from the cellar, flagged and dank,
rusting the door's iron sneck;
glass panes fall, each astragal
is seagreen, warped and wet.

The shutters seize, the door locks tight
with the grain of swelling pine.
No line is true. Through and through
seeps the bitter brine.

Wild geese fly on by moonlight,
stars glimmer on the tide,
and the Captain weeps as the waters creep
(for the Mermaid lies by his side).

Picture...

Just felt like posting this...I thought it was cool...Click the image for the full size...

Don't you hate...

When you just can't think of anything to blog? My mind just seems to be even more blank than normal since I got back from Hawai'i. Oh well...

The Highwayman

by Alfred Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Sonnets from the Portuguese...

XLIV

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Balad of Reading Gaol

by Oscar Wilde


I.

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellows got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

The rest of the poem may be found here...

From the Office of Homelife Security...

A little informational video for the men out there. And believe me...this is vital information...



Just click the little picture above and be enlightened...

Gratitude...

lyrics by Danny Elfman

Life’s been so good to me

Has it been good to you

Has it been everything

That you expected it to be

Was it as good for you

As it was good for me

And was it everything

That it was all set up to be

(now is that gratitude)

Now is that gratitude

Or is it really love

Some kind of reality

That fits just like a glove

Now is that gratitude

For everything I’ve done

Or is it something else

That’s got me on the run

In the middle of a big tornado

On the tip of everyone’s tongue

In the belly of a giant whale

All the girls just wanna have fun

In the look of a frightened neighbor

In a big warm bed at night

In a broken elevator

In the teeth of a dog that bites

In the middle of a revolution

In the look of a child’s face

In the silence of the dinner table

In the stillness of disgrace

(I used to eat little girls I knew

For breakfast

I used to fly high up in the sky

I used to chew up rocks and

Spit out gravel

I had a heart as cold as ice)

But when I think of you

And what you’ve done to me

You took away my hope

You took away my fantasy

I once had lots of pride

The world was in my hands

I lived way at the top

Of castles made of sand

Ooh . . .

I dream of you sometimes

Ooh . . .

I dream of you sometimes

In the middle of a big tornado . . .

Life’s been so good to me . . .

II. Changeling

by David Alson


O what is the matter, daughter?
Why pace you on the grass?
O father, I am as weary
as ever woman was.

I have seen the ban sidhe, father,
by the glow of the dying fire;
at times she goes in shimmering clothes
and is such as all men desire,

but times she squats by the embers,
plucks at her soiled green gown
with broken nails, and soundless wails
drip from her darting tongue.

Though she built a fairy tower
filled with pipes and song and dance,
yet tumbled stones and bracken
are all her inheritance.

The cry of the ban sidhe starts within
where she cannot tend or care
and it echoes in secret hollows
before it breaks in the air.

She cannot rest and cannot sleep
for fear of that abyss;
for all she has are glamours,
powers of hurt and bliss:

to kill a child, or sour milk,
or grant a lover's boon.
O guard the bairns, my daughter.
Keep vigil in their room.

She has not harmed my children,
touched not a hair of their head -
but between the late and early
she crept into my bed,

where closer than any lover's been
she dug deep in my blood and bone:
the ban sidhe took my heart of flesh
and left me a heart of stone.

I have searched the house, my daughter;
I have heard no ban sidhe's cries.
O father, I wail for I cannot weep.
You look into her eyes.

Just for fun...

The Very Secret Diaries of the Lord of the Rings Characters

I think the Ringwraith No. 5 and Gollum diaries might be my favorites.

Porphyria's Lover...

by Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake.
I listened with heart fit to break,
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread o'er all her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me -she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

One Hour Photo...

I really like this movie. It's refreshing to see someone who's almost always a comedian of some sort in every movie they appear in actually succeed at a part one would think would be so out of character for them. Robin Williams does an amazing job conveying that creepy-over-bearing-psycho-stalker-vibe. And, not surprisingly, a lot of people have not seen this movie...or Insomnia, for that matter. It's always nice to see actors play a part that is outside of what they are usually cast as it gives you a chance to see that, sometimes, they can really act.

The Elfin Artist

by Alfred Noyes


In a glade of an elfin forest
When Sussex was Eden-new,
I came on an elvish painter
And watched as his picture grew,
A harebell nodded beside him.
He dipt his brush in the dew.

And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees' antennae,
His knife was a wasp's blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly's fan-shaped wing.

And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;

Till it shone like an angel's feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.

For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird's eye;

And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,--
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;

With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,--
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.

No, Thank You, John...

by Christina Rossetti

I never said I loved you, John:
Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John;
No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart? - Perhaps I have not;
But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones:
Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at today, forget the days before:
I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,
No, thank you, John.

Pretty Picture of the Day...

To view her artwork, go here: http://camilkuo.com/main.htm

Pictures of You...

Pictures of you

It's just pictures of you, through the bedroom door

With that sly little grin, says you want it some more

But there's people around, and they don't look so nice

Tell me why don't they move, this has happened before

This has happened before

It's just pictures of you

In darkness

Pictures of you

I'd been sleeping for hours,

When you came to my house

You'd been lost in a crowd, said you had to get out

You were covered with tears and you said you were sad

So you wanted to play

Yes, you wanted to play

Well you touched me and smiled, as you let yourself go

Oh, but something was wrong, 'cause your touch was so cold

Like you'd been in the ground and you asked if you could

Stay

And I said no!

It's just pictures of you

In darkness

Pictures of you

In that lovely white dress, oh your skin was so white

With the moon in your eyes, on that cold winter night

When your lips were so soft, that I thought they would

Melt,

And the sound of your breath and the way that you felt

And I said yes

And I said yes

It's just pictures of you with a knife in your hand

With a rose in your teeth lying nude in the sand

It's just pictures of you, standing high on a cliff

With the wind in your hair, and a smile on your lips

And your eyes were so wild, when you started to laugh

Blending in with the wind, sounded just like a scream

Why do pictures of you

Come to me when I dream

In darkness

Pictures of you

Pictures of you

Pictures of you

Oingo Boingo, Pictures of You

Well now...

This is my first time with a blog, so be gentle...

I suppose I should start of by saying something about myself, but who really cares. As I am one of those freakish little girls who never owned a diary as a child, I really don't know why I'm doing this. Morbid curiosity?

For those of you that just happen to stumble across this, a mental note for you all: You may read my blog, you may reply to my blog, but it is my blog. What I say goes.

Now, with that being said, I shall quote something wise and profound by Oscar Wilde to kick this off...



Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
-Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde