"gazelles" poems
My family is a bunch of animals.
My mother is a lioness,
strong, brave, and full of pride,
with claws sharp as knives,
for anyone that harms her cub she will strike.
my father is a hyena,
foolish, never serious, and a lazy scavenger,
that doesn't do anything but eat the crap that he creates.
My grand parents are elephants,
big and strong during the day,
blind and helpless during the night.
My aunts and uncles are the herd of gazelles,
they graze when they can,
but when the lioness comes they silence and run away with fear.
My dogs are the shade that comforts me from the burning sun of life.
The day has come when the lioness shall not roam the tall grasses of the Serengeti.
Without the lioness the gazelles are persistently grazing,
depleting the grass,
grazing and depleting until there was no grass left for me to hide in,
they rammed and bucked at me like I had no right to grieve.
I was a helpless cub on that day and I still am,
wondering when the lioness will show up to be my heroine again.
But as the gazelles buck and ram,
a kangaroo and a zebra rush in,
embrace me,
and take me in,
I now have a second family with:
a savage tiger,
Italian chipmunks,
boxing kangaroos,
kick-ass monkeys,
elderly turtles,
burly bears,
religious zebras,
and untimely rabbits.
My second family is diverse,
but they never do the worst just as my first.
This is a story that I usually don't tell,
but this my past life so I must tell, tell, tell...
This is what God raised me to be,
This for me and only me.
One day the light will show for me,
and me and the lioness will forever again be free,
to roam the plains in the skies above,
just like a dove.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
walking down park
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked
before you rode
subways to the stock
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange
we are the stock
exchanged)
did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before
they rolled it
into a ball and called
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought
from a loved one
who loves you
ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment
ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself
then those who look like you
all else will come
naturally
ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress
the earth
ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness
ever think its possible
for us to be
happy
Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Once there was a jungle
Every creature great & small
Was given special gifts there
God, he gave them ALL.
He gave monkeys humor
He gave gazelles grace
But the peacock was quite special
He gave HIM the fairest face!
Now, as with all great blessings
This one had a curse
The peacock... quite spectacular!
But he had an ugly VOICE!
Peacock screeched displeasure!
He spread his tail... and then...
He saw his greatest curse of all
His VERY plain PEAHEN!!
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:16 AM UTC
"Sorgente' " (Spring Waters)
I never knew tears could be so rough
Scratching my chest as if trying
To climb in, next to my heart.
Perhaps they would be more comfortable together,
able to fathom what my mind won’t.
I see the pain clawing on his face-
Engraved
like the tombstone we picked out for him
a couple of days ago.
All it was missing was a date…
Date the waters, watch how time will freeze them over.
Frozen in time, their memory awaits our remembrance.
It was only yesterday that we took a traditional dive
In the glistening, silkened
Waters-kissed the base
of that cold, slippery precipice. But we were gazelles that
early spring. The Impalelies and Witbietou flowers
Met rowdy cheeks and our seasoned grace.
We were Eagles, soaring to gather our prey.
Plop! To the crust of the water’s earth,
we dived uncharacteristically.
Characteristically- I, resurfaced.
You touched the Sun and the Moon that morning.
You called on God and His Son, Jesus Christ.
You said a prayer to Buddha and Indian goddess Indrani.
You kissed the fragrant air of the Jacaranda tree,
and consumed the fate of the Great Julius Caesar.
Makeda and Zulu King Catewayo,
cried in Imhotep’s arms that morning,
Tears beat upon the Djembe drum
Performing Indonesian Gamelan
We chanted the words- spero
Here I sit,
there, next to you
wondering when our eyes will meet
again.
Wondering how long you will play this game
of “who can hold their breath the longest.”
You are winning…I am crying.
My face is stained with your name,
your absent spirit, envelopes this hospital room
but your soul-
your soul will run, jump into the air,
And up there,
This time-
I will catch you.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
in
Tanzania
where
migrating herds of
wildebeests, gazelles, zebras and buffalos
stampeding across
the
vast Serengeti Plains
ignite the world
then
write
their names
in gold
ignite
the
skyline of earth
create
a painted
watercolor sunset
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
Let’s revolutionize the ethereal butchered up remaining bits of intergalactic attack.
Gazelles!
Zebras!
Both victims to the same tyrant.
Incessant and volatile death,
those who never were
didactic masters for themselves
turn to speak;
no words remain.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
At the tip of your tongue,
o' love, so much I can taste-
the taste of your love.
My dry lips that call,
those licks of words.
You come to my mouth,
as it's theme song!
_For as you are my darling companion,_
_shall I find myself in you,_
_as I rest under his strong embrace._
_My lover of his brightest eyes,_
_are like sun kisses to my face._
As gentle as the gazelles,
and all their delicate deer,
my love for you shall arise.
I will embrace the touch of
both our wettest skins.
Stuck close to the grips
of your sweetened lips.
Close to feel the gnashing of
perfect teeth.
_Come away from me-_
_my mightiest lover._
_Your touch for me is much._
_You are the glee to my heart,_
_held down by your love-_
_on this scented bed spread._
_By suchlike a touch so rough._
Your beautiful eyes of their worship,
as with a strong voice of prayer.
I shall plant within you,
of what more words show.
And shall we together,
be of one flesh, and
bone of bone.
To our spirits to connect
of their souls.
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
I'm not a poet
I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen
with thoughts running through my head
like gazelles in the plains of Africa
and I'm just waiting for a lion
to come swallow them up
and finally give me a good
idea
a good idea that rests on your
mouth like a Listerine patch
and comes out in a cool minty breath
a good idea that is so
easily shared amongst the masses
and is of the ability to make them
cry
laugh
smile
think
but how can I make them think
when I can't even think of a good
idea
besides, who is this 'them'
that I'm trying to please?
and how can I please 'them'?
with a notebook full of
scribbled out sentences
and torn out pages
both results of my rage
and yes, I write a lot about writers block
because writers block is so evident to me
and I see a whole lot of words
like butterflies in a field
and I'm without a net to catch them
and I just stand there staring
wishing I could piece them all together
but, if I write about writers block often
then is writers block something to write about
therefore I don't have writers block?
I don't know
I'm not a poet
I'm just a teenagers with writers block
just trying to catch butterflies
-Slang
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Don't blame the lion for the pride
Don't let yourself whisper those insults
Don't see the bad and push away the good
Realize there's more to the pride than that
Because even though the Alpha Male
May not be who you'd choose
It's not up to you
Or me
Or he
It's up to the fittest
And his mighty roar may petrify the gazelles
Who ignorantly graze on the pride's land
Who sheepishly bolt away from danger
But the pride should have no fear
The pride should rally around the fearsome roar
Not be scattered around like gazelles
And when one member
Leaves the pride
He steps off the captain's seat
And begins to eat the grass
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Un vieux renard cassé, goutteux, apoplectique,
Mais instruit, éloquent, disert,
Et sachant très bien sa logique,
Se mit à prêcher au désert.
Son style était fleuri, sa morale excellente.
Il prouvait en trois points que la simplicité,
Les bonnes moeurs, la probité,
Donnent à peu de frais cette félicité
Qu'un monde imposteur nous présente
Et nous fait payer cher sans la donner jamais.
Notre prédicateur n'avait aucun succès ;
Personne ne venait, hors cinq ou six marmottes,
Ou bien quelques biches dévotes
Qui vivaient **** du bruit, sans entour, sans faveur,
Et ne pouvaient pas mettre en crédit l'orateur.
Il prit le bon parti de changer de matière,
Prêcha contre les ours, les tigres, les lions,
Contre leurs appétits gloutons,
Leur soif, leur rage sanguinaire.
Tout le monde accourut alors à ses sermons :
Cerfs, gazelles, chevreuils, y trouvaient mille charmes ;
L'auditoire sortait toujours baigné de larmes ;
Et le nom du renard devint bientôt fameux.
Un **** roi de la contrée,
Bon homme au demeurant, et vieillard fort pieux,
De l'entendre fut curieux.
Le renard fut charmé de faire son entrée
A la cour : il arrive, il prêche, et, cette fois,
Se surpassant lui-même, il tonne, il épouvante
Les féroces tyrans des bois,
Peint la faible innocence à leur aspect tremblante,
Implorant chaque jour la justice trop lente
Du maître et du juge des rois.
Les courtisans, surpris de tant de hardiesse,
Se regardaient sans dire rien ;
Car le roi trouvait cela bien.
La nouveauté parfois fait aimer la rudesse.
Au sortir du sermon, le monarque enchanté
Fit venir le renard : vous avez su me plaire,
Lui dit-il, vous m'avez montré la vérité ;
Je vous dois un juste salaire :
Que me demandez-vous pour prix de vos leçons ?
Le renard répondit : sire, quelques dindons.
2.6k
**** Damakta, Zulf Ghaneri*
Rangin Lab, Ankhein Jadu
Body aflame and curling of locks so thick
Colourful lips and eyes so charming
Sang-e-Marmar, Uda Badal
Surḳh Shafaq, Hairan Aahu
Ivory stone altering so royal-mauve
Evening twilight so red and dazzled gazelles
Raatein Mahki, Sansein Dahki
Nazrein Bahki, Rut Lahki
Fragrant nights and sighs kindling
Glances intoxicating, season so blooming
Prem Khilauna, Sapn Salona
Phul Bichhauna, Vo Pahlu
Game of love, stunning dreams
Flowers spreading, O’ that view
Tum Se Duri, Ye Majburi
Zaḳhm-e-Kari, Bedari
Away from you, so helpless
Penetrating wound and no vigilance
Tanha Raatein, Sapne Katein
Khud Se Batien, Meri Khu
Lonely nights and biting dreams
Talking to self, my habit so new
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain , Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
Mon aux deux tiers divine,
Toute laine et marjolaine
De douceur et délicatesse,
Courrais-tu, bufflesse, les steppes
Avec ton ombre d'argile
A la recherche du plant de jouvence
Semé aux Treize Cyclones
Qui hantent les îles-fleurs du bout du monde ?
A chaque cyclone aux ailes brisées
Qu'offrirais-tu, Gilgamesh, mon ombre immortelle
Dans le nigredo causal et a-causal où se fond l 'abîme ? ?
Au Cyclone-gel, la baguette et le cerceau ?
Au Cyclone-mauvais, le taureau céleste ?
Au Cyclone-tempête, la Forêt de Cèdres ?
Au Cyclone-rafales, le corps de la Joyeuse ?
Au Cyclone-tourbillons, les hommes-scorpions ?
Au Cyclone-du Nord, les cyprès ?
Au Cyclone-poussières, les gazelles ?
Au Cyclone-du Sud, les Enfers ?
Au Cyclone-de l'Est, le Déluge ?
Au Cyclone-de l 'Ouest, la nuit d'étoiles ?
Au Cyclone-tornade, le sourire des hyènes ?
Au Cyclone-mortifère, le feu éphémère ?
Au Cyclone-souffleur, le feu éternel ?
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
Animal House
Sweeping dust
storm,
Gazelles leap.
Careening reach,
dizzy heights
Shy Giraffes
necking in
undergrowth.
Creeping tide
menageries
mystic sloths
limb and oath.
Sea mist
breaking wave
Sun prancing
Dolphins
embraceable
moonbeams.
Lizards
shedding skins.
Trine children,
Pan animals.
Golden gleaming
processions
growling purrs
Carnivores
give
Herbivores
last rites
confessions.
We are
the animal house
the hourglass
menageries.
bleating hearts
imminent deaths,
fleeting breaths,
unimaginable
love.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
He is a man in fact , a factual man in fact
But in fact more than man, and more natural
He is a predator, sometimes ****** endeavourer
Jumping as a feather stead upon my weathered bed
Lead at the head but it's heavier
A best of a beast, in his chest at least
A lion's heart beats, and with mine at his feet
He is deadlier
Mane across his back, mainly manly, manly knack
And a pride to admire any crazy track
Mired by those paws or clawed back
Lion's share of the hair and a siren's glare
Its enough to ensnare any to come back
To lie in the den and unpack
A purr that can stir dwelling spell in gazelles
A roar that could ensure his reign is obtained on every plain
If called for
His face is made heeding, and bleeding the sun
His legs win a race never needed to be run
Already won
Prowl and it's done
If he who rides the tiger finds it difficult to dismount
Than he who rides the lion will feel him sure surmount
No doubt, for nobility is paramount
Alpha is better beyond count, couched in whim
And he reigns as King of the jungle I grew for him
King of all that's funnelled through to him
King of all that humbles me and truly sings
And so
Clearly success best rests in
Being a lioness, not left guessing lionless
A carnivorous, blitherous, tyrant's guest
In fact I am a woman, a natural woman in fact
And factually I am a woman intact
Yet in fact a woman distracted on a lion obsessed tract
Where a leonine mess is lacked
And a lion-like chests interact
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
Le Whippet de mon ami Bernard
Tu es entre chien et coursier
Avec ton museau effilé
Tes oreilles se dressent hauts
Comme le Dieu-Chien égyptien Anubis
Ton pelage ras fait penser
A un Kangourou tigré
Ou à un Léopard satiné.
Tes pattes de coureur de fond
Te donnent un air d'Antilope
Prêt à disputer une course.
Tu es de la race des lévriers
Si prisée par les princes Arabes
Et aussi les Lords anglais.
Ces lévriers qui fendent l’air
Comme les gazelles d’Afrique.
Tout en toi est fait pour la course
Ton corps est sculpté pour courir
Ton museau est comme un drakkar
Qui fend l’air pour gagner la course
Dans les prairies et les déserts.
Tu es un des chiens bienveillants
Si gentil avec les enfants
Qui prend des airs de Patricien
Quand sur le sofa il se tient.
Mais tu sais aussi rester sage
Veillant sur la paix de tes maîtres
Et apportant à la maison
«Inédit» est ton nom d’année
Un «grand cru» pour les Lévriers.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
I have never been in this situation before
trying to decide which of the two girls to go after
I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs
Both looking graceful and delicately desirable
But I can't have both
I would like the one who whispers into people's ears
about how she feels like an unfinished automobile
helplessly being carried on the assembly line,
moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me.
But whenever the two of us are together,
she would pretend to be miles away
Then again, I would like the other one
whose subtle glances, though transient,
are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook
or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap
that makes you brush off caution
from the end of your sleeves
or put on the helmet and jump
It's going to be one way or the other
I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room,
one foot already over the threshold of sleep,
strange faces beginning to appear in the air
and very soon I would be pulled below the surface,
sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world
Before then there's a decision to make:
I can either go left or right
but I can't have both.
Especially when they're room mates
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
After one bite
Of grimy
Teeth sinking into
Mottle red (and green and brown)
And yellow skin and crisp
White flesh
An explosion of giraffes
Full of shrapnel
Chaos
All the colors
Gazelles jumping
Into and out of and through and around
Flaming hoops and elephants
And zebras and hurricanes with names
Names she never knew existed
And existence like a bolt
Of lightning struck the very heart of her
Churning her insides chaos
Theory and all the colors
Hyenas laughter
And painted ponies leaping out at her
Grinning as her insides
Cooked like thunder and she
Found herself
Screaming like a panther
Hiding under dappled leaves and strung out rain-flecked hair
Crying like a baby over
An apple core
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of
the arthouse
where we were reading.
His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.
I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level
of comfort in calling the old gizzard
this municipality's own
Charles Bukowski.
The grizzled old poet
is telling wanton tales
of love and honeydew.
He goes on and on,
recounting the times
that he's drunk
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers
in the backseats
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties
hosted by zebras and
gazelles.
We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.
Seeking to continue
the conversation with
my salty comrade,
yet knowing my own
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.
His interruptions jam my
traffic before I can even make
it onto the onramp of his
particular, peculiar highway.
His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.
He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.
And, now he's chewing the rind.
His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of
zest.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
*Tilting at butterfly windmills
in Parisian blown breezes
As gazelles seductively sway
to the melting light of night
Feeling her nocturnal whispers
puppy's secrets in child's ear
While white petals gently escape
eternal maternal bouquets
Pondering morphed realities
from verdant citrus cocoons
Long after jazz laden teardrops
muddled cinco de mayo*
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Vibrant eyes watching prey
The unexpected victim turns away
For the gazelles long horns aren't enough for defence
the cunning lion pounces into the air with suspense
The startled gazelle takes a leap
But by then she's already been swept of her feet
The poor gazelle gets ripped to shreds
And she lay there frozen , killed ,dead !
* * *
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Fatigue is setting in giving my affect a kind of relaxed
hereness, because there is very little energy for anything else
Tomorrow remains a mystery, but there will be a battle, I know
the forces will arrive, armed with ipads or paper or their phones
and their judgemental brains of varying sizes and capacities
I am tired, and I need to avoid the unecessary confrontation and most
especially desist from worrying about anything that isn't happening in the moment
the battery is low, I have no grenades only a small shield and that's
not really enough to battle with, and really, I've always been out armed
and totally outnumbered and overpowered and yet somehow I'm still here
through sheer cleverness. But I make mistakes and there is so little power left now at
the end that I must be shrewd and watch them like a lioness watching a herd of gazelles
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
The collateral coaxes of God on Man,
Bring forth the froth of Goth on sand.
When existence means meaningless breathings,
Why do we try and see the reasoning’s of dreams.
Because the faces inside of these traces;
Memories of the outcast on the plains of the membrane.
Taking to the stars in a ship of bars,
Withholding the pain from exploding, while somewhere my mother is tokin’
And it goes faster and faster than fast, and these lines take on the attack,
Of a thousand gazelles in flight to tomorrow’s past fright.
There is no truth just perspective and respectively speaking I’m speaking about respect.
Abhor me as you adore me; please me as you use me, take me as you break me.
I am the ocean as I am the sky, blue crashing on white, trying to live my life,
But I’m failing at every turn and it burns and there is no learn only do and do not.
This life is a series of failures entwined in a not so heavenly knot,
And its okay as long as I’m dead, I say sir let’s travel to the bay, and maybe by the end of the day…
I’ll find my one true love in a tub of emotional regret and without worry or fret,
I’ll take her in my hands and kiss her with my face, just givin’ her a taste…
Of a man wondering if painkillers can take away the heartache.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
I heard you cry dear brother.
I heard you cry and wanted to drink your tears and let the pain into my body.
I wanted your anguish to rush through my veins like the French mob never letting the wealthy sleep well, like lions around the prancing gazelles
I just wish I could never get a good night's sleep because dreams don't belong where brothers are unwell
I don't ask for much brother,
- just a smile and your tears in a jar.
This is untrue my friend. I do wish for much.
I want the whole world at my fingertips the
Great Wall of China under my feet
starched collars and
Coach neckties I want everything I can squeeze out of Mother Nature before she collapses into a cloud of pink bubbles with nothing inside.
But you dear brother, you do not want the Great Wall beneath you but merely not around you. You just want to be able to keep your door open without fearing someone might see you wipe your cheekbones clean. And I, I apologize for not being there every time it closes to burst through with all my wishes compiled into one but I'm not that strong.
I'm not man enough to understand that wishes for gold mean nothing that no matter if I piled them together would they make one for your health
- I can't even see that I love my good night's sleep more than I love your smile
Forgive me.
This is why I write to you brother. I might not be strong enough to sip your pain away, but I want you to keep a jar in case I come to my senses before you find me hanging from my neckties.
If I do I'll drink them with a funny face.
Maybe then I could hear you laugh.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
The Women's Temperance League
tried to abolish themselves
but like always they failed
so they learned instead
to crash neighborhood parties
with the grace of gazelles on Ritalin
now they have colorful plastic
bowls and cups
with fancy closing tops
matching barcode tattoos
on their wrists
that say "priceless"
and some assurance
that their vulvas
are "normal"
after gazing at them
with compact mirror in one hand
shot of ***** in the other
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:*
an actress about to perform the monologue script
of not i, prior to performance and at the stage
of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean?
this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience,
my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’
then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up,
it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts
to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using
language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting
thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing...
this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics,
choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly?
i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it,
the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it
and leave it.’
like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai,
the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north,
formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere...
and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two
being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other
animals like walruses was obviously avoided
and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact
that people refer to themselves via the zodiac...
taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar...
dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.);
otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning
from very concise texts... very very concise texts
which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came,
and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC