?

Log in

Dont worry I wasn't listening   
09:12am 31/10/2003
  While I do think that what you're talking about is very valuable, and that you're not always a shallow front page person, I just am not thinking about you or what you care about right now.

I don't think that you ever had a non self serving thought ever once in your life. I'm not interested in trying to make me the subject of your first.

Just needed to say that.
 
     Post
 
So we're at war.   
10:57pm 18/03/2003
  He did it. Without the U.N., without France. Without Germany, without Robert Scheer,Mark Danner, or Camille Paglia. He is doing it. We can say nothing that will matter. We can do nothing that will matter. My friends in Italy and Spain think that we're assholes like him. My friend in Germany wants to denounce his U.S. citizenship.

Under the floodlights of the world, will he sweat?

No, crazy people never do.
 
     Read 6 - Post
 
A.R./1   
01:46am 14/03/2003
  Tout Orgueil fume-t-il du soir,
Torche dans un branle étouffée
Sans que l'immortelle bouffée
Ne puisse à l'abandon surseoir !
La chambre ancienne de l'hoir
De maint riche mais chu trophée
Ne serait pas même chauffée
S'il survenait par le couloir.
Affres du passé nécessaires
Agrippant comme avec des serres
Le sépulcre de désaveu,
Sous un marbre lourd qu'elle isole
Ne s'allume pas d'autre feu
Que la fulgurante console.
 
     Post
 
Mike D's dance rep.   
12:51am 14/03/2003
  The Smurf "Posse In Effect"
The Popeye "Posse In Effect"
The Jerry Lewis "Posse In Effect", "Hold It Now Hit It"
The Freak "Posse In Effect", "Finger Lickin' Good", "Get It Together", "Body Movin'"
The Jerk "Time To Get Ill"
The Wrench "Shake Your Rump"
The Tango "Shake Your Rump"
The Patty Duke "Shake Your Rump", "Finger Lickin' Good", "Get It Together"
The Spank "Finger Lickin' Good"
The Wop "Intergalactic"
The Flintstone Flop "Intergalatic"
 
     Post
 
F. N. 1(G.S.)   
12:23am 14/03/2003
  Let us be on our guard against thinking that the world is a living being. Where could it extend itself? What could it nourish itself with? How could it grow and increase? We know tolerably well what the organic is; and we are to reinterpret the emphatically derivative, tardy, rare and accidental, which we only perceive on the crust of the earth, into the essential, universal and eternal, as those do who call the universe an organism? That disgusts me. Let us now be on our guard against believing that the universe is a machine; it is assuredly not constructed with a view to one end; we invest it with far too high an honor with the word "machine."Let us be on our guard against supposing that anything so methodical as the cyclic motions of our neighboring stars obtains generally and throughout the universe; indeed a glance at the Milky Way induces doubt as to whether there are not many cruder and more contradictory motions there, and even stars with continuous, rectilinearly gravitating orbits, and the like.  
     Post
 
S.P./1   
12:16am 14/03/2003
  Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine, Coy paper strips for doors Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz. And I, love, am a pathological liar, And my child look at her, face down on the floor, Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear Why she is schizophrenic, Her face is red and white, a panic, You have stuck her kittens outside your window In a sort of cement well Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear. You say you can’t stand her, The bastard’s a girl. You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio Clear of voices and history, the staticky Noise of the new. You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell! You say I should drown my girl. She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two. The baby smiles, fat snail, From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum. You could eat him. He’s a boy. You say your husband is just no good to you. His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl. You have one baby, I have two. I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair. I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair. We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, Me and you. Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap. I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill. The smog of cooking, the smog of hell Floats our heads, two venemous opposites, Our bones, our hair. I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill. The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful. In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: "Through? Gee baby, you are rare." You acted, acted for the thrill. The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee. I try to keep him in, An old pole for the lightning, The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you. He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill, Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue. The blue sparks spill, Splitting like quartz into a million bits. O jewel! O valuable! That night the moon Dragged its blood bag, sick Animal Up over the harbor lights. And then grew normal, Hard and apart and white. The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death. We kept picking up handfuls, loving it, Working it like dough, a mulatto body, The silk grits. A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on. Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak. I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes, I am packing the babies, I am packing the sick cats. O vase of acid, It is love you are full of. You know who you hate. He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate That opens to the sea Where it drives in, white and black, Then spews it back. Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher. You are so exhausted. Your voice my ear-ring, Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat. That is that. That is that. You peer from the door, Sad hag. "Every woman’s a whore. I can’t communicate." I see your cute decor Close on you like the fist of a baby Or an anemone, that sea Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac. I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet.  
     Read 1 - Post
 
A.S. 2/H.K.   
12:14am 14/03/2003
  I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind.  
     Post
 
A.S.   
12:12am 14/03/2003
  All My Pretty Ones All My Pretty Ones Father, this year's jinx rides us apart where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; a second shock boiling its stone to your heart, leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber you from the residence you could not afford: a gold key, your half of a woolen mill, twenty suits from Dunne's, an English Ford, the love and legal verbiage of another will, boxes of pictures of people I do not know. I touch their cardboard faces. They must go. But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album, hold me. I stop here, where a small boy waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come... for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy or for this velvet lady who cannot smile. Is this your father's father, this Commodore in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile has made it unimportant who you are looking for. I'll never know what these faces are all about. I lock them into their book and throw them out. Tlis is the yellow scrapbook that you began the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went down and recent years where you went flush on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush. But before you had that second chance, I cried on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died. These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places. Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now; here, with the winner's cup at the speedboat races, here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow, here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes, running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen; here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize; Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator, my first lost keeper, to love or look at later. I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept for three years, telling all she does not say of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept, she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day with your blood, will I drink down your glass of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass. Only in this hoarded span will love persevere. Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you, bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.  
     Post
 
Has anyone seen my thing?   
12:07am 14/03/2003
  I lost it, oh wait
I've got it.

Yeah. That's right.
 
     Read 2 - Post
 
E. Smart, M. Jackson   
12:04am 14/03/2003
  You guys think I'm that Elizabeth Smart girl who ran away. I married that drifter in a short ceremony by my daddy's bushes.

Michael just lost another 5 mil.

Tommy Franks is wearing a turban in his family room. Practicing.

Just another night in America.
 
     Post
 
The beginning.   
02:45pm 13/03/2003
  Who's out there?  
     Read 5 - Post