You come from God's own country
And radiate such a beautiful aura
That, unless my eyes are deceived
It seems that you are God herself
Just kidding, you are a human being like any other
A rather beautiful one, though
Your smile is so divine
That it can melt even the hardest of hearts
Your laugh is so infectious
That it can send the entire planet
Into a fit of violent giggles
Your glare is so intense
That it can even **** Lord Voldemort
Faster than it takes to utter the words "Avada Kedavra" !!
Your Tamil accent is so cute
That even a newborn baby would pale in comparison
Your English is so brilliant
That it would put even the Oxford dictionary to shame
Your acting is so superlative
That it would surpass even the drama of Shakespeare plays!!
And finally, I have to shamelessly admit
That I wish I were born in an alternate universe
Where you and I could be together
For the rest of our lives
Because you are not only an accomplished actress
But also a beautiful human being
The heroine who captured my heart

I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” last night - we’re going to be reading Truman Capote’s book after the break and I wanted to start thinking about it. The movie rewrites Truman Capote’s story, turning it into a romcom, completely eliminating the book's gay themes. I’d seen ‘Breakfast’ before, but now I’m a little older, and as a single woman, I can better appreciate it. I’m looking forward to studying its socio-****** themes. These are some first thoughts.

Let’s take the opening of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The images are iconic and some of the most widely repeated in pop-culture today (Hello, ubiquitous dorm room decor), but they’re never used in a way consistent with their function in the film. Instead of seeing a horribly depressed girl who has nothing left in her life but pure escapism, people see a beautiful woman with apparent access to luxury.

When “Breakfast” came out (in 1961) there was a sense, within the press and wider public, that even a neutered version of Holly Golightly represented a cinematic moral nadir that posed a threat to society. Whether Holly was a “moral character” was up for debate in countless reviews of the film. Today, this seems absurd.

Today, Holly is seen as an aspirational figure. With her opera gloves, her intricate updo, pearls and Givenchy little black dress, she looks like someone who belongs at Tiffany’s (of course, the casting the euro-elegant Audrey Hepburn didn’t hurt). Truman Capote wanted Marilyn Monroe as Holly - that would have been a very different movie.

Watching the film, I was struck with how contemporary Holly felt. She seems so familiar - so similar to the countless imitations we’ve seen since. People watching the movie for the first time today may be underwhelmed, but Holly seems so contemporary now, because she was so ahead of the curve back then (just over 60 years ago).

If you look at the popular romantic comedies that surrounded ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, like “Pillow talk,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘Giget’ - their leading ladies were nothing like Holly. Being a heroine in those films meant you strived for marriage, you saved yourself for your one true love and, as a woman, you avoided certain subjects altogether. They imply happiness only comes from following a certain good girl ethos.

An example of what could happen to a girl, if she strayed from that path, was shown in Elia Kazan’s ‘Splendor in the Grass’ which also came out in ‘61. Its theme is the consequences of ****** repression, and it outlines a specific cinematic binary. There are good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were usually presented as sad and mentally unstable - and they paid for their sins in the end - usually by dying by some karmic punishment (car wrecks usually).

Holly sits somewhere in between good and bad, complicating the cinematic binary. Because Audrey’s elegance plays her as classy, warm and accessible, she doesn’t come across as a dangerous wild child - although she makes all of the bad girl choices - like partying, drinking and having ***.

For women who grew up in the repressive 1950s, Holly represented a new path forward. Holly lived on her own, she didn’t crave marriage above all else, she didn’t want to live in a cage, and she managed to have a good time without being victimized or doomed. Holly was noticeably different. The pill came out in May of 1960 (one of the watershed events in human history). Holly was Hollywood's first post-pill heroine, representing the ****** revolution before Betty Friedan’s ‘Feminine Mystique’.

The next act, of adrenaline
Supposed forces, to win a kinder stare
Through the looking glass, as if shine
Is a wall to itself, patience and their horses, fare

A race to the more, ever and stone sore?
Of a friends cleverer smile...
Same to how, we found your quarrel
With me, a simpler distance to while...

Mean or main stay...
This moment, made for the devil and the blue sea
Meant, in time with sour notion, pain
Is the only force we see, for a man or woman in love, deem...

A hat of errors, that knew you for a wiser momentum
A whine of distant feelings, that shares the known, to be
A callous share in proof, that has the time to question a room
A singing candle? awake at the touch of a lover, is my kiss anarchy?

Hate a rhyme to begin, with a resolve in the rage of another?
Spite, carnal license, and hopeful sycophants of a rule of thumb
With your name on it, and my cares, the risks of loving a bother
With your needs and vice, as a charity we will know is succinctly won...

Heroines, with a table to eat from, timidly share a savior
******'s, with a resolute few, is here to skip the wisdom of done who
Hero's, with a tap to ply and explain, are a safety's warrior
He, with an excused hand has a reason to be, to the patience we do too...

On sandy land and muddy plains it appears
A mark left for succeeding generations
Carved with hands, sweat and blood
Indelible a mark that cannot be erased
You can find them on the various paths of life
For very few have been careful to leave them behind
And many careless if they mark their path
They are heroes and heroines of songs
They line the pages of books and poems
They grace the walls of museums and temples
Some are men and others are gods
And all of them have walked the earth

They discovered the heights of the sky
And the depths of the seas
They found the distances of lands
And lengths of deserts
They carved their names on stones and monuments of rocks
With their blood, sweat and hands
Marks the walls of earth with their names
Heroes of wars
Lords of science
Kings of nations
Queens of kingdoms
Loved and hate, doubted and scorned but none was a fool
Lords of art
Kings of songs
Telling their stories in pages with age
Prose, Drama and Poems
Today we sing memories of them

And we have heard
How they made war
How they caused war to cease
And we have heard
How they shed blood
How they saved lives
And we have heard
How they fought death
And overcame reproach
Great and small but none was a fool

Some and have been found and their stories told
Others are lost and the search is on
But diligent as we may be
Forever they may be lost
In the heights of the sky
In the depth of the sea
In the dark alleys of the cave
In the heavy sands of the desert
In the deep belly of the Bermuda triangle
And in the racist and hateful heart of men
But still abide their footprint on the rock
And the sands of time may tell it all
Or never will their footprints reveal.

Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.

Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-

little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.

Let me know your name
You can ******* skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.

Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes

A restless fire burnt in her blue Aryan eyes
And she wore a pretty dress
Because she loved to be beautiful,
Even though she was by then
No more than a bird in a bunkered cage.

But the man she loved did not see:
He had other priorities, affairs of state,
Still blindly fighting a lost war.
The others in the bunker wanted to live
And prayed they might escape to the world,
Such as it was in those closing weeks;
But Eva did not care, as she knew her destiny,
Finally coming out of the shadows.

She so much wanted to be young and happy
Even when there was nothing to celebrate,
Even when their world was disintegrating
In those final doom-laden Berlin days.
Eva wanted so to dance in the Spring,
But there was nothing to dance about
And no one to dance with.

Eva had no fear of death’s sad sting
As long as she was with her beloved.
But as the dark days went by,
Inevitable hopelessness set in;
And then the very last hours came,
When all hope of victory was finally gone,
Destroyed by the roar of the conquerors’ barbarian guns
And their wild revengeful **** and pillage.

So kleine Eva finally married him, her Fuehrer,
But to what avail and for what hopeless future?
Soon they would be joined only in death,
Despised by a scornful, hating world,
Their corpses burned by devoted soldiers,
And then fought over by divided allies.
Little Eva was not very bright,
But her eyes shone brightly as she died
Happily, died for him whom she worshipped:
To her, Adolf was her friend and lover
And a shining hero, not the devil incarnate.

where do you go when you lay your head to rest;
upon the laurels in the canopy of breath,
or to wildwood thickets and entangled pure excrement of excite;
your supine tenderness blurs the lines of tremendousness
into the minds' concupiscent forlorn worlds,
Worlds for new Words, and tinders beautiful blues while
the light's hum their tremulous cries, and the majesty of woman
reigns hero and heroine, mused and amused, in the qu'ues of real crimes

what all makes us feel so alive