Tell me, are you a library, full of stories?
Are you a collection of fiction and fact that no arms could contain or no minds that could grasp?
I look into your eyes and I get a glimpse of the catalogs and genres which you keep within you.
You must have had your fair share of history; that is one textbook I want to study and memorize by heart.
Do you think I can be the one to take care of you?
I want to keep you a classic and as a monument in this era of advancing technology.
I will clear the dusty parts of your heart and wipe the slippery surface of your crying face.
I will caress every page you own and help restore the words you've been trying to preserve.
I may not be the one who found you first but I will be the one to stay by your side, until the day either of us crumbles.
So let me check your books out and let me return to you so very often.
Let me call you my favorite place and my second home.

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

I'm surprised we're having a picnic on the east wing!
Our company almost never gives us anything!
Underpaid with no benefits makes this picnic even better
To think I was going to give in my resignation letter

With so many hamburgers, hot dogs, and more,
It's a fast food restaurant galore!
A table packed full with yummies.
Today, a lot of beef will be in tummies.

People reaching for their plates
The caterers come out of their waits
One by one, they serve each voracious goer
For a pay that probably couldn't get any lower

Janice comes, with her broken polish and nails
And a scream a joy echos out like whales
She's so drunk, oh my god haha she's so wired
It's the unpaid overtime or another threat of being fired

Poor thing... we finish our girl talk
and problems on my mind, I begin to walk
Feeling my appetite begin to poke me,
I bite into my hamburger with resounding glee

Nipping the bread, it's fluff presses against my lips
I close my eyes, as my senses go in dips
The precious aroma of divine baked bread
As my tongue and bun are set to wed.

Each bud met with delicious waters of steak
The ketchup creating a dreamy, saucy lake
Scrumptious, delicious
Incredible, nutritious...?

It doesn't matter, I've met my goal
And the taste, goodness it makes my mind roll
Forgetting everything while I finish the rest
Golly, this food is the best

Sunday morning brumbies


Hello everyone and welcome to Sunday morning brumbies where we are watching the match between the brumbies and the jaguars and here is terry with his jingle

Go the brumbies
You are the best
You will really put the jaguars to the test
You will fight fight fight
Like you will never stop
Go the brumbies
Go go go
You see we are starting to win a few
In the last 2 weeks
We need to win today
To make it very neat
We must win brumbies
We really need it yeah
Let us enjoy your victory
Over a nice cold beer

Thank you terry and now here is Prue with her jingle

Brumbies brumbies brumbies
Oh yeah that is cool
Go the mighty brumbies
Break no rule
The jags won’t know what hit them
At the final siren
The brumbies will play so well, mate
The best they can be
Oh yeah the brumbies
Fight for victory
Fight for victory
If we beat the jaguars
Fight for victory
Fight for victory
We will be the best version of a footy team we could ever be
Go brumbies fight for victory

Thank you Prue and now Sam with his chant

Brumbies clap clap clap
Brumbies clap clap clap
You see as the season is progressing
The brumbies leave their opposition. Second guessing
About whether or not they are good enough to win and win well
Brumbies clap clap clap
Brumbies clap clap clap
We will get close to holding the
Super rugby cup right over their heads
But that is just a pipe dream
First we must beat the jags today
And give the fellas back home
A happy Sunday morning to you

Thank you Sam and now for the first half between the brumbies and jaguars

Welcome back to half time of Sunday morning brumbies and the jaguars hold a very close 2 point lead 17-15
It was a very good match to date and here is Peter cheering along

Brumbies clap clap clap
Brumbies clap clap clap
You see the Saturday night party goers are sleeping in today
Because they partied well last night
Oh yeah we pray
The brumbies are down by just 2
Yes they are playing on our Sunday
Morning which is quite cool
Oops I see someone has awoken
He was a party goer who supports
The brumbies
He was sitting on the couch
But he kept falling asleep
His brain and body fall into a heap
Go brumbies we must win
Show the jags who is boss
Yes we do
Go brumbies we are the best

Thank you Peter and now here is ken

At the end we draw the final curtain
What will be the outcome here
Will the jags hold the lead right
Or are the brumbies good enough
17 to 15 is the score I hope we win
We must fight and fight forever
And we must never never cast the first stone of sin
Go the mighty brumbies
Sunday morning brumbies
Beat the jags beat them well
Do tell us how much you wanna win
****** oath we do

Thanks ken and now the second half between the brumbies and the jaguars

Welcome back to Sunday morning brumbies and I might let Lionel tell you who won

What is wrong with our brumbies team
We lost it 20 to 15
We made too many mistakes mate
That is not good at all
If history has told us much at all
We must reduce our drop *****
But we couldn’t no we didn’t
The brumbies really did fall
What is wrong with brumbies today
They played so ****** ****

Thank you Lionel and here is Daniel with his poem

Fight for victory
The brumbies didn’t do that
We dropped the ball too much mate
Which is a total disgrace
Brumbies are 12 th on the ladder
And they won’t win on my watch
How about we sit down
And talk about what went wrong
You see the brumbies were woeful today they need to pick up their game
Go the jags they won the match
What a win it was

Thank you Daniel and now we have to say goodbye so congratulations to the jaguars over the brumbies here is the final curtain song

And now we draw the final curtain
The brumbies lost but well done to jags
The brumbies made too many mistakes
But take no credit away from jagulars
It was only 5 points though
Our performance saw it more
We must get back to our winning run soon
Or we will look like a pack of *****
See you next time the brumbies play

Jagulars 20
Brumbies.15

I lie awake.
The half moon,
whose soft white shine
invades my room
and makes the tears that rest on my cheeks sparkle;
illuminates half of my face
so that the moon and I
can become a whole.

Only me
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside goes the party-goer
-knackered and filled with a portion of fresh memories
that won't be found in the morning-
to his rest.

Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside stumbles the drunkard
-with repressed thoughts and events
that he couldn't erase out of his memory by a bottle-
to his end.

Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside staggers the broken one
-with blood that’s drowning in wine and as red as the lips of the woman he tries to forget-
to his death.

Only he
and the silence of 2 AM.
L.T.

Bridget the ******,
the dwarf who loves *******;
Bridget the ******,
she comes when she's *******.

She'll open her short legs
for a tenner or so,
and if you pay less
she'll still have a go.

She loves a good *******,
both active and passive;
Believe me, her botty
-hole is quite massive.

Bridget's a goer,
always ready for more;
She's a fat ugly ******
and a little fat *****.

Forgiving heart, precious gift from our father God
Image of the lord, can you be like your father God
Image of the lord, forgiving one another is your health in this world.
Painful heart, source of devil words, what a cruel world.
Please, please, learn to forgive and stay away from the devil.
I tend to think long and snoring nights are caused by this devil.
Are you a brethren or a church goer where is your forgiving heart?
Are you a child of God or child of the devil where is your forgiving heart?

Many people give a smile with a lot of grudges.
What a beautiful church with a lot of church goers?
Truth and forgiving one another is something of the past.
Please teacher, evangelist, nurse teach them about grudges.
Man of God, can you pray for grudges to minimize church goers?
Why truth and forgiving one another is something of the past?

-Written By: The Senior

283

A Mien to move a Queen—
Half Child—Half Heroine—
An Orleans in the Eye
That puts its manner by
For humbler Company
When none are near
Even a Tear—
Its frequent Visitor—

A Bonnet like a Duke—
And yet a Wren’s Peruke
Were not so shy
Of Goer by—
And Hands—so slight—
They would elate a Sprite
With Merriment—

A Voice that Alters—Low
And on the Ear can go
Like Let of Snow—
Or shift supreme—
As tone of Realm
On Subjects Diadem—

Too small—to fear—
Too distant—to endear—
And so Men Compromise
And just—revere—

You were the Barbie jeep engineer.
You were the 5-card pinochle player.
You were the gripe to do the dishes.
You were the patient mall bench sitter.

You were Elvis Presley records and
paper backed crime novels.
You were my new antivirus software.
You were the chatter in the middle of an
NCIS episode.
You were the "It's okay, sweetie" on the
other end of the phone.

You were the voice of every bathtime storybook.
You were the baking soda on my first wasp sting.
You were the green Ford Escort parked
outside my middle school every afternoon.

You were the loudest clap at my graduation.
You were the sticky caramel corn crumbs in the
living room that held the place together.
You were the laughter

You were the toolkit when my pictures hung crooked.
You were the cornerback baker, the pecan pie maker,
dance recital seat saver and the road trip driver.
You were the puppy-dog pill-giver and the
broken heart mender.

You were the church goer and the goodness seeker.
You were the black-haired teaser and the
very best secret keeper.
You were a prideful wig wearer and
wheelchair rider.

You were a cancer fighter.

You were my first call.
You still are.

I have the word jealousy plastered on the walls of my mind
I do not announce it
After all
I am much too proud for that
But I think it
A lot
Run it back and forth through my head like a car on a track
Envious is engrained in my genetic makeup
So I make up reasons why I shouldn't be
Cover myself with thick layers of false confidence
Draped over my insecurity
She
Is prettier than me
She is tall
And
Skinny
Natural blonde hair that falls over her shoulders
Wears her smile like she is just happy to have had woken up this morning
I
Am bitter
Often overthinking the reality that life is
Plagued by my inability to hold onto happiness
Not to mention
Short
And what my mother would call
Curvy
I am not like her
We do not have similarities
The only time she is on her knees is when she is praying
I do not pray
Instead
Beg my sorrows away to alcohol and other unholy sins
I have never been able to believe
In things that cannot be seen
But she
Is different
She on the otherhand
Probably doesn't need to be touched
To believe
That you love her
Your word is probably enough
But see I've learned not to trust
For I have been let down too many times
And I constantly find ways
To build myself back up
So I call her a stripper
Although she is an avid church goer and I myself have never been
I say she dresses too mature
And although she is only a few years younger
I say she is too young for you
To make myself feel better
Let me be the first to admit
I am jealous
I am envious
I am everything that most people would probably never guess
I am all of these things
Not because I want to be her
But because
She probably makes you happier
Than I ever did

You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.

And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.

We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.

You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.

So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.

It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.

I’m straining my arms and I’m pulling my shoulders,
from pushing each line and carrying our shared boulders.
And my hands are burned and skin’s scraped,
knuckles cracked and broken fingertips,
a few careless words escaped
and I wished to push them back behind my lips.

I’ve got the motor warm and running,
and the waves have settled as they should,
I write down just how I find you stunning,
I would voice it if I only could.

You ask if I’m confident and I tell you I don’t know,
can I make an impossible jump,
oh holy Holly, I don’t think so.
I’m no Henry, no Fonz, no Winkler,
I’m not a stunt performer on T.V,
I barely run through the sprinkler,
I sure as hell will find death in the sea.

The rope’s as tight as a fresh noose,
and my ski’s barely fit my bottom soles,
my hands are clenched just too loose,
I would prefer to be sleeping on coals.
The crowd’s cheers become a lashing,
blood dissolved into the water and salt,
an angry tail’s now thrashing,
my situation is entirely my own fault.

I’m jumping the shark,
without a trial run.
Leaving an infamous mark,
just before it’s all done.
I’m jumping the shark,
it’s the end to my character arc.
I’m jumping the shark,
desperation has never stood so stark.

I’ve glimpsed shadowed empty sets
and walked among great ruins,
I’m tired of swimming in regrets,
pretty please, can I hide in your flesh wounds?
I’ve been taking theatre classes
to act like I’m not terribly bothered,
but every beach goer casually passes,
my body that’s been brutally slaughtered.

I want to feel the water the way that I once did,
with carefree wonder like when I was a kid.
But I always hated the sand, and the way that it encased my toes,
but they’re calling me to set to stand, to see how this final shot goes.

The hoop is placed ontop of a mild wave,
I wish that they engulfed it first in flame,
they praise me for being so brave
but it’s I, not the shark, that is tame.
They’re calling out the term “action”
and I look for my highlighted script,
I only read a small fraction
before I thought it best to rip.

I’m jumping the shark,
without a trial run.
Leaving an infamous mark,
just before it’s all done.
I’m jumping the shark,
it’s the end to my character arc.
I’m jumping the shark,
cut camera and roll credits in the dark.

Fighting for mirrored memories fast while fornicating fools swear in deep swear they've never fallen in love?
When will the world remember that love is no diamond, no word, no expensive dinner or pair shiny shoes!
What has happened to the smell of a rose, it has been dipped in stinking ****!
The voices that echo in eternity do not recall themselves serenading nakedly with Hallmark cards or memorable dunches!
There was blood in the streets, soldiers blister punching the backs of heads, and happy church goer's clutching their burning crosses in blasphemy!
Generations of the hip divine rebelling for hope on the TV sets, internet in love and met, forgetting that the moments in nature are the only true ones
Hilarity at the thought of many that think it is easy to live again!
Sad pouring mountains with rubble stained back packs lick their centimeter gashes as perplexed cooks spill oil on their $2 shoes and smile
Shame on the masters of war that pour themselves in books getting their vote, with white smiles, waving hands and blue shiny suits that Elvis wore all the better, at least the Mississippi could move and groove like a human being with a crying blues soul
Not a thing to be proud about when the sales are shot, the days are run about, and friends fiend for the next big thing
Make more, make this, make a squeal in the middle of the night and see if a soul outside hears a thing
Smile at the postman and he'll **** in your mailbox
Make an effort in a line of millions and see if the mirror smiles back in the night or the early morning
So sad and soft are the eyes that I see in my dreams unborn
First that goes, a glow glimmering in a the shine before World War II
Teach these manic's the meaning of absence of soul to see how far the world can fall
Won't be here to hear, in the back, listening to the sounds of yesteryear
Forgive no one, remember nothing, look to the stars for guidance and in due haste, due haste, DUE HASTE, for soon they may be a fog of forlorn memory

The big kid stood
by the garden shed
with others kids and you
the horticultural teacher

was down by the beds
with some other kids
whom he was showing
how to dig

and the big kid said
I had her
back there
up in those woods

at the end
of the playing field
the other kids
moved in closer

to get a better grip
on the tale told
you stood on
the perimeter

of the crowd
one eye
on the big kid
the other on the teacher

bent over a kid
showing him how
to hold a *****
and you know what?

the big kid said
she was some goer
the other kids
looked at him

then at each other
some plump kid
with spots laughed
you looked over

towards the woods
by the playing field
a quaint woodland
over by the fence

and near the road
and you know
what it’s like? Huh?
the big kid said  

the kids nodded
you noticed
their eyes large
and their tongues

at the corner
of mouths
it was like slipping  
into a warm bed

the big kid said
on a cold night
the teacher made
his way towards

you and the kids
by the shed
the big kid
made gestures

with his hand
and the boys sniggered
half catching on
to the gesture’s tale

the big kid’s hands
went into pockets
out of sight
the other kids

moved towards
the teacher’s
calling voice
you followed

unwillingly
having little choice.

How does it feel to be alone?
Just like a leaf does when autumn comes,
Just like a little bird does when time comes to fly away,
Just like a heavy cloud to separate from the waters it holds,
Just like a broken heart which had been in love!

How does it feel to fail?
Just like a toddler crawling for first time on his toes,
Just like a young swan flapping its wings but unable to fly ashore,
Just like a hungry beggar not able to earn,
And just like a little school goer unable to score!

How does it feel to be unheard?
Just like the lava of a volcano,
Just like the silence before a storm,
Just like the sound of burning flames,
Just like the ignored beggar on across your home!

How does it feel to be positive though?
Just like the same bird which now has learnt to fly,
Just like the old fellow who now scores high,
Just like the fulfilled man to have received food,
And just like the lil’ toddler who now runs and smiles.

How does it feel to be happy now?
Just like the sight of rebirth of green leaves in spring,
Just like the now-old bird who has found companions to rely,
Just like the drops of fresh rains and a farmer’s joy,
Just like a heartbroken person learns again how to love and enjoy!

He was constant.
She was unpredictable.
He was rational.
She was emotional.

He was a dreamer.
She was a believer.
He was a talker.
She was a listener.

He was a critical thinker.
She was an avid reader.
He spoke in a bottomline manner.
She wrote in a metaphorical way.

He was a mechanic.
She was an artist.
He assembled guns.
She crafted poems.

He was a bike rider.
She was a composer.
He was skillful with his engines.
She was passionate with her songs.

He was an entertainer.
She was a public speaker.
He had tenacity.
She had authority.

He was firm.
She was flexible.
He was honest.
She was open.

He was a risk-taker.
She was adventurous.
He was a planner.
She was a goer.

He was happy-go-lucky.
She was often uneasy.
He was drink-and-be-merry.
She was live-life-and-be-happy.

Both responsible in their chosen field.
Both loud, but would sometimes prefer the solitary.
Both travellers, jokers, and crowd-pleasers.

Parallel, but not entirely the same.
Opposites, but not completely contradicting.
Complementary, but not dependent to each other.
Most importantly, loving, but not demanding.

He and She.
You and Me.

I just wanted you to know
Who I am
I am:up till 3
allergic to dariy
A space case sometimes
Obsessed with the color yellow
In love with music
Living near trains
Someone who dances grocery store
loud
And quiet
a social butterfly
And extremely shy
So passionate
Sorry for my smelly feet
Always wearing yellow rain boots
bad at shaving my legs
unorganized
A sleep talker
A church goer
In love with God
Sometimes selfish
Someone who usually has good intentions
Going to tell you what you need to hear
The dork who sing along to songs in musicals
A natural blond.

People use to write poetry
With a quill to parchment
The hands eloquent swipe
Barely able to keep up
With the poetic minds thoughts

The poet, like a warrior
Swiping mad his feathered pen
Trying to capture his feelings
Leaving the quills blood
To fill the scars made
Upon his parchment
capturing his wording
For the world to see

Words displayed in books
Like caged animals in a carnival
Never to be free to roam again
Displayed for the on goer
To examine with a fine tooth comb
Displayed for the on goer
To tell their own story
Of the caged beasts life

Forgetting the true story
Behind the struggle and strength
Needed to even begin
This glimpse of beauty

Books become cages
For the once free thought
Cages capture the beauty
Of a once free beast
Both to be admired differently
Then either has ever expected.

You disappeared as quickly as you came
And I mean that in a ***** way
But I never told anyone that
Quick comer and faster goer

Weddings are a seasonal thing. They really pick up in spring, roll on at a steady pace through summer and then spike into the fall. But then comes November, when the frenzy of peak wedding season slows down, it can be tempting to hibernate until spring. If you’ve had a particularly busy year, it may actually be necessary for you to cool your heels for a minute.

But once you pause to catch your breath, don’t succumb to the temptation to binge on Netflix and chill with your business. The off-season is your golden moment! This is your time to out-pace your competition and really build momentum for your business.

Here are 17 off-season wedding photography marketing ideas. You’re probably already doing some of these. Some won’t work for you. And some are things you should be doing, and promised yourself you’d do last year. So let’s get to it!

Category: Content Marketing

#1. Blog Your Shoots

Blog your weddings on your blog! This sounds obvious, and maybe it is. That’s why we’re putting it first. If you have weddings you haven’t blogged yet, pick out your favorites and get them prepped and ready for the blog. Schedule them to post at even intervals off into the future. If that’s one a week, great. If one a month, also great. Get your work out there on your blog, you won’t regret it. You’re creating a beautiful portfolio as well as a giant Google-******* traffic magnet. It’s a win/win.

#2. Get Re-Blogged

Get another blog to blog your blog on their blog. This isn’t as hard as it sounds. Just look around at the wedding blogs you love, and see which of your weddings fits what they love. Then, you know, send it to them! If you don’t want to do it the hard way, you can also use Two Bright Lights.

#3. Contribute a Guest Blog

Have a friend with a cool blog? Reach out and ask if you could contribute a guest blog. Surely there’s a topic you’re savvy on that they could use. Blogs always love a guest post, as it takes a bit of the work off their shoulders and builds credibility. And for you, it positions you as an industry expert and gives you something to talk/post/tweet about!

#4. Create a Guide

As a frequent wedding-goer, you have a far greater grasp of the things that should be done and the things that must be avoided. Aggregate your knowledge into a helpful resource guide. Ten Wedding Shoes to Avoid at All Costs, Top Five People Not To Invite To Your Wedding, How To Look Amazing On Your Wedding Day… stuff like that. Make sure the images are all yours and ready to be shared. Share it on your blog, on your social networks, and then send it to industry blogs.

Category: Social Networking

#5. Tag All The Things

Do you have un-tagged photos of clients out there in the wild? One easy marketing trick is to go through all your previously posted photos and make sure every possible person is tagged. Reach out to old clients and encourage them to tag-it-up! Any new tag will cause your photos to show up in feeds around the world, which is always a good soft-marketing move.

#6. Instagram

Is your Insta-game on lock down? Review the photos you’ve posted in the past and nix the ones that don’t represent your brand today. Remember, any photo that isn’t a great photo does not need to be in your visible portfolio. This isn’t technically marketing, but it is defensive marketing, protecting future clients from old photos that might turn them off. And for every old photo you nix, add a new, shiny one that you love!

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

so listening to Sondheim talking
art, composition and
inspiration,
he says something that so astounds me, my core shaken.
hundreds of songs composed,
but only one,
only one!
autobiographical.

ashamed. I am ashamed.
99% of what is scribble-scribe, about myself,
so I flunk my very own poem exam.

worse, I knew it true
but would not say it lest,
my shame public pronounced,
till now.

his target market was the theater-goer,
the public, you.

mine, myself.
you invited into ******~voyage,
to peer into me
peering into me

but I have an oath modest taken,
from know-now on,
I will write
About You,
For you,
Less-on me,
Lessons of us....


Jan. 25th 2014.

THE BRAVE
( “Love sets the heart a-dreaming.”)

God hasn’t(as yet)
finished

making the world
just…the…gist of it.

He makes “the place
where the mountains live”

and had still to sketch in
the actual landscape.

So that the mountains
Just float in mid-air

as if upheld
by mist only.

He is listening intently
on his headphones

to music yet to be
created.

He digs Gabor Szabo’s
“Half The Day Is Night.”

I don’t know where He
gets His slang from!

He also had not got around to
making people.

So that the earth
was empty

The mountains
looked like gigantic beasts

that had somehow fallen
asleep…frozen into place.

One day the mountains
will come alive.

I tiptoe past
their sleeping…just in case.

“Well..?” asked God
unsure of Himself.

“Whatdoya think
is it a goer?”

I emmm and hawww
“Yeah…it’s…something else!”

He beamed from ear to ear
“But might need a tweak?”

“So what is it going to be called?”
I obsequiously enquired

knowing he had invented me
Just to agree with Him.

The Big Guy smirked:
“I’m thinking of calling it

THE BRAVE
or perhaps

SCOTLAND!”

tetris patterned-shirt
weird, life-is-a-creamy-dream feeling every ever
I spend here
in
Downtown Vancouver.

is it the thought of the chilli-pepper eyed parrot
grazing on the street soul from the corner of Davie
and Granville?

is it a birth trauma coma slam
considering the fact that my
passport
says I awoke here
for the very first time?

is it the caffeine pulsing through my sweat like blood
the triple-sweater sandwich I call my chest
the passing of my dear old Auntie Debbie
the alien faces of a city-gone city goer
the warm freeze of 15 dollars in my pocket
wallet
crunch

perhaps it's the red pants
the folded skinny's
the overalls
the great validation of Shakespeare's scream:
"All the worlds a stage/ and all the men and women merely players."

Did he mean John Players?

Each and every all of us to be smoked
in the soaking rain
pretending that we
each
have brains?

- - -

I know
I'm not as intriguing
as most of these Greek-God's and Goddesses

But I still wonder
if man and women gaze to me
like I'm bless-ed.

- - -

could that explain the dream feel?
the creamy steamy dream feel?

my lack of validation
in this crowd-work calling card?

- - -

it's just about time
that I mention the women
whom gazed
from the train
that traverses the
clouds.

East Indian I assume
I the troubadour
I gazed right back into her eyes.

We played this game
until 'screech' went the train

and I moved on in space and in time.

She exited there
at the same place I glared
to the tiling below my unfit and soaked
sigh's.

As to why that I raced
so that she couldn't chase
and speak words that would open the
light

I'm unsure

but I wanted to
even as I
slipped from sight
into Vancouver's day bright of a night.

A slowcoach cockroach ambled past me
what an indignity
for me to see.
If I am slower than a cockroach goer
I might as well.
give up

We can agree, we never have too many ands,
as in go look,
said go and look, useless and,
what is the goer to do, but look
- wait is the goer a robot?
ai declares that a faulty concept.
Let it go and agree. Ands are significant
and some of
those ands are idle,
save for some sublimnal musical reason,
-
a tune in time, accenting sylables - said with a sax,
from the showers at Venice Beach,
hospital green tile, analog auto answering prayer
empty- emptiness bound, true to beautiful
-
see there, no and needed, ifs and buts agree
threading through that needle eye,
focal plain… sharp crack, djewhear?
that man was rich,
but he died with a bang,
neighbors heard during the Redskins game that Sunday.

You were much more than a church-goer,
Much of your history floated under my nose,
But I realize now and am honored to have known you.

You served in the Navy,
At the Bay of Pigs in 1963.
I also read through the names of people
Who loved you and continue to hold your name in high regard, in faith.

You were a loyal, local church attendee,
You were always willing to volunteer during liturgies.
The fact that you would talk to my parents each week
And, in future years, also becoming my friend,
Showed how much you loved my family,
Which made you family, regardless of the sporadic times my family and I saw you.

I’d always round the right
To walk into the vestibule.
There you’d be, not intending to harass,
But to make me laugh and see
Sundays as a celebration of community
Rather than a somber type of solemn atmosphere.

To me, you are an insignia of St. Leo church
Being one of the first figures I’d link to the parish title.
I also cannot forget how,
When I began wearing ties to church,
You’d wrap the tongue of my tie(s) in your grasp:
“Let’s have a tie party,” you’d chuckle
As I tried mutely laughing back in the sacristy
Where silence was enforced, but you challenged the norm
And went against the tide of rules, remaining true
To your person, being an example for me
As I struggle to, like you, remain true to who I am.

May the halls of everlasting peace
Welcome you, Dan Desmond.

It’s Friday 30th June 2013
And I am not not at Glastonbury
The circus inside my stomach believes it
As it relives the act of the opening night
The generous performance of Prosseco
That now sing somersaults inside
It comes with not not being at Glastonbury

This weekend I’m a transient party goer
And I’m spreading the love of not not being at Glastonbury
Anyway who needs Glastonbury?
I’m here choosing my music track by track
On the way to meet my gran
Yeah, Granny Mac’s not not at Glastonbury either
So bring it on not not Glastonbury

Not not being at Glastonbury proves expense
Almost like Glastonbury itself would be
And now without phone
Not not being at Glastonbury develops realistically
‘Nother day and not not being at Glastonbury took me home
With old friends drinking aplenty
And more

Not to brag but I even jogged at Not not Glastonbury
Through fields and through the city
Undoing the damage done whilst not not being at Glastonbury

Tonight not not being at Glastonbury
Will peak when we get involved culturally
Shakespearean act performed in his Globe
You don’t get that at Glastonbury
But we’ll hold a drink through
Making the most of not not being at Glastonbury

By tomorrow my insides will feel like they’ve consumed Glastonbury
But here’s hoping we’re still able to get our art hit
Endurance is part of the test of not not being at Glastonbury

First thing in the morning and we’re counting the pennies
Because we’re not not at Glastonbury
So it’s never a bad time to buy *****
We’ve a young Argentinian as extra company
One of so many friends made at not not Glastonbury
Intent was succeeded with a turn of events never forseen
It went wonderfully wild whilst not not being at Glastonbury
Post play and pop with pa
Whilst wondering further afar
Party greets on a reclaimed beach
A gift given not by Glastonbury
So right now the Thames is actually the best place to be
Due partly to the unpredictability
For you know good times and good people come with Glastonbury
But the friends and offerings not not at Glastonbury this year
Have shown a surprising  shared love for not not  being at Glastonbury

Even if the comedown tries to equal the fun
It would be worth it this time, not not being at Glastonbury

You didn't say you loved men with suits
dressed as barflys, buzzing around the counter
for that one last drink. Home a memory slushed
in ice cubes and excuses.

You didn't say either, you needed a sunday church- goer
dressed in a grey suit of psalms and canticles
and ropes of revelation wonders
which would send you scampering to the pages
of eternal life, wisdom and penitence.

You didn't say that you wanted a one-eyed wonder
with the other eye permanently fixed
on butts and guts, ***** and tubes
and one night stands in a circus tent
of  innuendos.

You did say, however, that you wanted
a quiet life, of roses and candlelight dinners
and wine chilling in a bucket of excuses
of fun and frolic and fame
and when I married you,
you danced the night off
in satin, confetti and cake and whatever
and I admired your mother
in her wonderful
up
lifting
dress.

I married right.

Author Notes

Joking.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 23 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11561722-Ceremony-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.UDj0xs1j.dpuf

If you could put a kiss
in a paper bag, and
stick it in a windowsill,
so when the sun spills through
it keeps the kiss warm,
but doesn't spoil its charm. . .

If you could leave the kiss
for an unsuspecting windowsill-goer
to happen upon and
coax a smile out of,
or maybe a tear.
Maybe the slightest gasp of fear
that their kiss will escape
if they open the bag too fast. . .

If you sat in the shadows
and watched their gasping
and frantic grasping at
their lost expression of love,
the broken wing to their dove;
how long would you watch them
teeter on the edge of lust,
regret, and longing?

Until their head was spinning
and you were left grinning
to yourself because you know
they've already hopelessly fallen
despite their elaborate battle
for balance?

Isn't solid ground an illusion after all?
Aren't we all caught in the fall?

As for kisses left in paper bags
and perched in hiding spots, well. . .
Kisses are tricks of nature
designed for those moments
when words become superfluous,
or so some famous poet said.