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"pavarotti" poems
Led down from the tower Head high and hands bound Blindfold declined against the wall Black square pinned to his heart Eyes afire and shining proud He sang... He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury, Carreras, he sang of Antoine, Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding He sang and songbirds paused in flight He sang like them all He sang a song of himself Of leaves of grass, of second comings Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu Oh, he sang of them all He sang of art and beauty Of Mona Lisa and starry nights Girls in green dresses and pearls He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso Of Rembrandt, da Vinci He sang of Michelangelo He sang of sadness, pain He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek Of Guernica and Krystallnacht He cried and sang of Wounded Knee Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila Oh, he wept as he sang He sang of history and wonders He sang of Olduvai and pyramids Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde His song took us to them all He sang of courage A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi He shamed us with their song He sang his song... As women sighed and peasants cried He  sang until the rifles fired, he died Songbirds fell from the sky Soldiers broke their guns on stones And marched into the deep blue sea. r ~ 4/12/14
0
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
Song
Led down from the tower Head high and hands bound Blindfold declined against the wall Black square pinned to his heart Eyes afire and shining proud He sang... He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury, Carreras, he sang of Antoine, Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding He sang and songbirds paused in flight He sang like them all He sang a song of himself Of leaves of grass, of second comings Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu Oh, he sang of them all He sang of art and beauty Of Mona Lisa and starry nights Girls in green dresses and pearls He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso Of Rembrandt, da Vinci He sang of Michelangelo He sang of sadness, pain He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek Of Guernica and Krystallnacht He cried and sang of Wounded Knee Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila Oh, he wept as he sang He sang of history and wonders He sang of Olduvai and pyramids Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde His song took us to them all He sang of courage A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi He shamed us with their song He sang his song... As women sighed and peasants cried He  sang until the rifles fired, he died Songbirds fell from the sky Soldiers broke their guns on stones And marched into the deep blue sea. r ~ 4/12/14
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49
scouting for talent in the streets (for the next Michael Jackson or Pavarotti or anyone who can make me money) I spotted there in the streets of Melbourne a bloodhound and a puppy, each with a violin and each playing – the puppy a natural, the bloodhound indistinct I spread out on the floor the talent contract for a team and the bloodhound signed with a grin; but just as the puppy lifted its paw another dog came running, picked up the puppy and ran off with the speed of lightning **** What’s that about?”* I asked the bloodhound “Oh,” said the bloodhound sheepishly *“That’s his mum, my wife – she doesn’t want him to be a musician like me… she’d rather he grows up to be a doctor!”*
0
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
the talent scout and the violinists
If I had a peso for every time I was asked for one I’d be a rich man. If I had a peso for every pleading face I’ve seen I’d have a generous hand. I’d put a peso in every can or pan or outstretched hand or cup or bowl or hat of wool. I’d give one to the boy with the accordion player and to the girl selling butterflies on a stick. I’d give one to the woman squatting on the sidewalk and to the youth with his baton-twirling trick. I’d give one to the doll maker and to the basket weaver and to the blind singer and to the fire-breather. I’d give one to the old man drumming out non-rhythms and to his equal, fiddling non-melodies. I’d give one to the flautist/drummer combo and to the Pavarotti wannabes. I’d give one to the woman with few teeth and to the man with one shoe To the families sleeping in doorways I’d give to all those who can’t do. To every last one and all, big and small I’d give a peso, or more Hell, why keep score? Yes, if I had a peso for every time I was asked for one I’d give it up, not because I should, but because I could. Well, ha!, at least, I’d like to think I would.
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Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
If I Had a Peso...
From when I was a little child I picked up on thought and sound It isn't always visible but it is still around. It's the talent and the beauty The poetry of life You find it in a sonnet Or the colours of Monet In Pavarotti's voice The world just melts away. Shakespeare's words? They drip like honey And illuminate the stage It sends shivers up the spine What Wordsworth scribbled on a page. Jules Verne could tell the future Da Vinci saw what was to be Their vision shaped the world we know Now that is great to me. Does it have a name? What Rembrant found within his art? That secret, silent something That burns within the heart. As a child Wolfgang Mozart Drew everybody's gaze He serenaded Europe Wrote music to amaze. Was Bogart such a legend? Now, don't speak before you think Not everyone can breathe life into A person made of ink. The passion is alive It lives inside the soul. When pen is put to paper Or the bow goes to the string When that magic is embodied We hear the angels sing.
0
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
Journal Entry
Open your legs and show your class. Haha. Sing like Elvis, Freddie, Pavarotti Or Shirley Bassey. Belt out Lennon-McCartney tunes With Beach Boys Harmonies And Eric’s Slow Hand Guitar. Be as Magical as Messi, Supremely Shakespeare with your plays and poems, Better still. Hopkins and Keats. Show the genius of Brian Wilson And Oscar Wilde. Not forgetting the Table Tennis Kings Waldner and Ma Long.   Oh Yes Be Champion Be Real Madrid Or Barca if you prefer. 1970 Brazil Federer, Navratilova Or Lewis Hamilton. Be simply the best, Like Ali, Or better still, Be better than yourself Day after day. Just keep improving, That’s the way. Let this poem be tagged “Motivational” To get you off your backside. There’s nothing like Achieving To fill us full of Pride. Paul Butters © PB 11\5\2020. Hopkins, Keats and Ali added 14\5.
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May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 6:40 AM UTC
Class
have you ever grappled with despair not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal. I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop the watery weakness that extenuates breath a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden an aching pounding in your chest, the broken-glass dryness in your throat the gritty ache in your eyes that makes you want to close them forever? Struggle no more, leaden limbs, free the weary weight. Eyes that struggle, release the light. The body begs to no more fight. In a blur of sluggish thought, I whisper sleep's sweet name. The will has dropped. The yearning stopped. I’ll rest on that distant shore. . . Songs for this: Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston 0730.0722
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Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 7:01 AM UTC
the elevator
Would a voice in heaven sound beautiful and inviting or serious, constant and still maybe sounds of a harp possibly playing atop pristine waters or Pavarotti singing up in the mountains or would it be a moan, with intention and focus maybe just a recording over loud and annoying speakers with instructions and a schedule maybe if I am lucky I would hear My father’s voice telling me how great it is but sounding nostalgic and homesick a plea for his soft leather chair wearing his hounds tooth hat smoking his hand crafted pipe if death could speak what issues would it bring up rehashing troubled times would this voice guarantee pearly gates willing It beckons me, conflicted with temptation when your soul knows that this is a voice not from any place but from the best place where Jesus takes us to reach for something knowing doubts exist that you would rise to be with us again July, 2013 (RIP Dad) In memory of C. Dan Piccolomini
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Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
If Death Could Speak
He walks with pavarotti in his vains and calls his daughter rock and roll. His charm is the face of the restaurant. In the kitchen two man are sweating above pastas and antipasti to feed their children tajine at home. On the terrace there are girls trying not to drop any glasses because of the guy on table 204. There's a guy behind the bar that was bad in his country, and now feels what is normal. They speak of the boss as if he's always watching, though he's rarely ever there. There are 10 different nationalities in there but when the chorus of a certain song plays they all sing that one word. Bellisimo.
0
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Fratelli
When I wake Breath Stare out into the dark I wonder I wonder what I'll see who I'll meet and what lasting mark will I make today On this earth Will I paint like Picasso Will I draw like Leonardo Will I sing a song like Pavarotti Then I sigh What is my life print What is my way Will I be remembered Or fade away Am I a stone for the viewing Is this my future A dancing stone Full of posies Waiting for the wedding day child From a family lost A faded etch Seeks my await I fear for my life print I fear for that day Then I wonder That day is not now My life is not yet complete My ink is not yet empty Nor the paper dry Or the stone yet cut For I breath in the earth I look up to the sky And I sing to the heavens I'm me I'm alive
0
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
I'm Alive
How come you dance so___ good Don't do a Tina Turner Table dance on me Whats love got to do with fads Never know what you had_____ Fads Like P-op-Sugar Lads Like Laptop- sister Austrian lads Alice-y Mads A spoon full of sugar helps her meds go down Jewels 4 Julie in the most delightful way Dogs named Andrews those honey cashews She pops crackle Rice crispies For her Nephews Over-sugared curfew Julia Roberts her business flew Perk up (Pretty Women) Not!! first class? Money VIP Pass Cafe hot and boiling His temper bad habits spoiling You cannot buy a girl off with ((Pricetags)) The ending with no friends so sad Beginning Sugar is your poison that depends No, I love you Valentine cards No hello and regards Go Cincinnati Rock and Roll Hall of Fane_____* Fads **** and Jane spots her men Her engraved hands classical Vivaldi opera Pops with Pavarotti To the love wall Sweet Sardi Please  no Godfather Gotti The Godmother tutti fruity Or Sardinia Miami Beach Pop bikini's Come together words Beatles I want to hold your ____? Talking heads Caramelly popcorn Christmas ghost past Talking to herself Will this love ever last Like a hard toffee She could soften any hallway Harvard Men Freshman Chewing fad of spearmint Gum No etiquette Men of bourbon Spicy sweets Ladies festive turbans Hotel tons of sweets At the Marriott Sweet Brandy doll Marionette Raw or Angel equal brown sugar The finest of crepe Suzette like a sequel
0
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
Fads Like Pop Sugar
The sunlight filtered through feathers splayed hits different when the wing is stayed
0
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 2:33 AM UTC
Day 133: Pavarotti
*They carried him in to Vivaldi´s spring as we sat there so quiet and sombre, suffering pain that this service would bring on this freezing cold day in November. We spoke of his life, sang psalm twenty three and offered up prayers whilst down on our knees, fought back the tears that were wanting to flow in this old grey church with soft candle glow. Puccini played as they carried him out to the grave that was dug on that morning, Pavarotti sang, we followed the route the effect of our loss was now dawning. Lowered him into his bed of cold earth, his darkness eternal, same as our love*.
0
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
The Music He Loved
watching a TV broadcast with Luciano Pavarotti singing an aria about a unique woman dedicating it to Lady Diana who is sitting in the first row a lovely and appropriate compliment she died in the Paris car crash not long thereafter
0
Sep 24, 2022
Sep 24, 2022 at 4:41 PM UTC
life's moments
Is it music to my ears? Definitely not as it appears. Your voice is sitting on the border The right notes are in the wrong order. I would love to say your voice could pop a balloon that would be if you were singing the right tune. Now I am no expert nor a good disc jockey but then you are not a singer a Pavarotti. Your voice croaks when you sing along everything seems to be coming out wrong. No do not start singing yet, if you please I have to stuff my ears with bits of cheese. I know it would be better if you had a voice But then wouldn't we all if we had a choice. Lots of splutterings, clearing the throat What came out was a perfect, beautiful note. The voice of an Angel, well blow me down Now he was wearing an upside down frown. Sing of sing for me, let it be revealed Turned out it was a crow singing in the field. Music to my ears.
0
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Music To My Ears
Maybe that was the first mistake I made there at the very beginning. I wanted all of it, everything I could glean from whatever life had to offer. Not only did I want the beauty of Hesse, Dante, and all the glories of Old Florence, I wanted someone like me to share it with. I wanted to wake up in a room in Tangier to the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer and have some unbelievable soul in bed with me wipe the sleep from her eyes and kiss me. They say that I'm a drunk and a dreamer and they may in fact be right about that, but they'll never know the absolute glory that comes from pouring your bleeding guts out onto paper at two in the morning with Pavarotti blaring as loud as you can make him. I'm almost thirty and I've almost given up, almost accepted that the finer things in life will only ever be a dream, a fleeting glimpse into an improbable future that may cost too much. And then I meet people like her, Artists and Lovers that cut me in ways I didn't think I could be anymore. I'll be doing alot of drugs with them, maybe have some truly Protestant shaming *** with them, trying to reach out across that ****** abyss and touch their soul. But I'll never wake up in Tangier with them. I'll fall asleep listening to Netflix and wondering who gave her the scars I can feel pumping through her heart. It'll probably fade away relatively quickly too, that one real moment when the walls fell. No matter, I always knew deep in my heart of hearts that people like me don't get happy endings or to live our dreams out unless we die for them. We go our own way, suffering to be who we are, creating beauty in ****** rooms with screaming children that reek of cat **** and regrets. But if it ever gets too much to bear, there's always truly running, truly giving up on having it all, walking the **** away and being insane and drunk in Tangier alone.
0
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
Something Finer
Maybe that was the first mistake I made there at the very beginning. I wanted all of it, everything I could glean from whatever life had to offer. Not only did I want the beauty of Hesse, Dante, and all the glories of Old Florence, I wanted someone like me to share it with. I wanted to wake up in a room in Tangier to the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer and have some unbelievable soul in bed with me wipe the sleep from her eyes and kiss me. They say that I'm a drunk and a dreamer and they may in fact be right about that, but they'll never know the absolute glory that comes from pouring your bleeding guts out onto paper at two in the morning with Pavarotti blaring as loud as you can make him. I'm almost thirty and I've almost given up, almost accepted that the finer things in life will only ever be a dream, a fleeting glimpse into an improbable future that may cost too much. And then I meet people like her, Artists and Lovers that cut me in ways I didn't think I could be anymore. I'll be doing alot of drugs with them, maybe have some truly Protestant shaming *** with them, trying to reach out across that ****** abyss and touch their soul. But I'll never wake up in Tangier with them. I'll fall asleep listening to Netflix and wondering who gave her the scars I can feel pumping through her heart. It'll probably fade away relatively quickly too, that one real moment when the walls fell. No matter, I always knew deep in my heart of hearts that people like me don't get happy endings or to live our dreams out unless we die for them. We go our own way, suffering to be who we are, creating beauty in ****** rooms with screaming children that reek of cat **** and regrets. But if it ever gets too much to bear, there's always truly running, truly giving up on having it all, walking the **** away and being insane and drunk in Tangier alone.
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41
it's called Pakistani bum-fluff, you, ******* ****** d'uh! or double d'uh: aha quizzical; sure, private message me, or even comment, i know what Silverchair is about, i know what 1995 is without Nirvana... i'm just saying: please comment: i'm lonely: i have an itchy nose... ha ha. some claim it's beard envy... my cat is really a truant Pavarotti... 200 variations of the meow - i can't be bothered, i have to equip myself with goodnight; three books and three films...            one book and three films: du en du!                     if ever two scots arguing over a copper coin made copper wiring, then at least we were assured Plasticine and Palestine; yeah, opposite direction: vice versus, or: once upon a time a wandering Jew in Europe, bag-full of literature, then god knows what he-he-cause... and i swear that's a cheap format of expressing laughter.
0
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
hippy
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers. yep, and the most entertaining drama i've seen unfold, was between my neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's worth of a cat: every time it rains and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth close to phoning amnesty international on grounds of: human abuse... hate this ginger **** this castrated frankenstein monstrosity meowing all the time... it almost feels like i guillotined his ******** + testicles off, even though i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance tactics... but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree in me, transitioning from classical music that really, gets me, i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists... i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply nerdy... i don't like bands that forget bass guitars, i like to think of them as a buffer criterium segregating rhythm guitar and the drums, bass guitars allow a harmony, listen to enough jazz, and you'll know - i like, and i also don't like bands like metallica... i must be deaf... i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp on my trombone's worth of owing an ear, but i can't hear drums... so i must be deaf... i know the bass is there, but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking, it might be a guilt-ridden thing, having lost cliff burton... but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder... i have no respect for bands that hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars and drums... sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial mediatory medium of what comes after: either solo guitar or the already apparent "stage fright" of vocal exfoliation... and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera" i've seen these days, was staged by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's ***** when people become too docile to become interesting or entertaining, you revise yourself using animals as a blank slate... and i must be deaf, i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority of metallica's songs... devil's dance is besides the point, being stated; just call me deaf and we'll be ripping a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
0
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
i must be deaf
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers. yep, and the most entertaining drama i've seen unfold, was between my neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's worth of a cat: every time it rains and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth close to phoning amnesty international on grounds of: human abuse... hate this ginger **** this castrated frankenstein monstrosity meowing all the time... it almost feels like i guillotined his ******** + testicles off, even though i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance tactics... but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree in me, transitioning from classical music that really, gets me, i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists... i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply nerdy... i don't like bands that forget bass guitars, i like to think of them as a buffer criterium segregating rhythm guitar and the drums, bass guitars allow a harmony, listen to enough jazz, and you'll know - i like, and i also don't like bands like metallica... i must be deaf... i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp on my trombone's worth of owing an ear, but i can't hear drums... so i must be deaf... i know the bass is there, but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking, it might be a guilt-ridden thing, having lost cliff burton... but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder... i have no respect for bands that hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars and drums... sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial mediatory medium of what comes after: either solo guitar or the already apparent "stage fright" of vocal exfoliation... and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera" i've seen these days, was staged by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's ***** when people become too docile to become interesting or entertaining, you revise yourself using animals as a blank slate... and i must be deaf, i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority of metallica's songs... devil's dance is besides the point, being stated; just call me deaf and we'll be ripping a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
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57
Soy canela y soy sazón mas no soy Dalila amor, no me tengas miedo Sanson, usa tu pluma como bruta fuerza que ahí esta tu destreza, destroza mis miedos en prosa, hazme roció en tu boca. No me invites y cierres la puerta, que tempranito hay que mojar la tierra, con la luna amaneciendo arraigamos los deseos, fertilicemos las pasiones devorando los granos de la cosecha, en una pasión desmedida, con furia se deslizan entre tintas de mil colores que relatan nuestros versos en uno que otro beso, versando sobre el amor, al sol veremos saliendo, amamantándonos los miedos en la cuna de lo prohibido, que suele ser el mismo elixir de la vida. No tengas miedo niño travieso, que en mis brazos hay fuego, en mis caderas hay un túnel con agua fresca que absuelve cada pecado que cometas. No tengas miedo niño travieso, escucharemos a Piero, un poco de Pavarotti y con las Granadas de Placido Domingo culminaremos la noche, con toda la espuma que provocó en tu cuerpo. LeydisProse 1/16/2018 https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
0
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Niño travieso
it's kinda funny, but all i keep thinking about is the clipped tooth and the 3 pancakes awaiting me gnashing the smoothness into poached pear baby goo; i will not allow language to subordinate me... i, will, subordinate language! language will be my clothes, and not, my, tailor! i abhor people owned by language, it's a bit like debate between portishead vs. poliça...           love a bitch-fight...               scratching, itching, hair-tugging, my type of replacement when it comes to being entertained by cockerels or bulls (terriers) - got i love petting those beastly boy pig snouts! the problem with me?             i love drinking more than conversations with people - synonymous with: animals make more sense to me that humans...                              oops; i gather.                   i have a 10kg / 20+ pound maine **** that i bite for fun...               bite a maine **** get an apache headgear...      ****** kicks like a kangaroo when i tickler his hind paws...                sings the **** out of a reincarnation of Pavarotti... either that or it's ***** 'arry, or simply rudy (ginger) -               i love cats for their autism...                    it will never end up being a death-stare match: there's always "something" to be preoccupied with cats... usually? nothing,                  the anti-thesis of narcissus was a cat.                 people never have stories about dogs, other than: lick my ***** take a nap... i hate the cat i own...                   man originated with a heart, while woman originated with a mind... notably the grand-schemer locusta  - hell knows no fury for a woman scorned, as,            heaven knows no peace                               for a man: pardoned. since we're on equal terms,   we can only politicise language, rather than the, infantile, politicising of language...                i always wonder how an exhausted meow exhausts the mind of a cat, with no cognitive notion of a a meow...      how does a cat meow... when there's no thought of meow... in the same exhaustion...            how does man speak of god, when he think nothing of god?     if god is a beyond word, yet trapped in (moral) action, can we discuss the case by merely using onomatopoeia?                i.e. onomatopoeia, an etymological return to the prime of syllables?     prior to letters having names akin to A - alpha -                                   or O - omicron? cut short pretty jesus?                      oh, what, a, shame! p.s. sure, he can be the alpha and the omega, but i'm the omicron in between.
0
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Meow Pavarotti
it's kinda funny, but all i keep thinking about is the clipped tooth and the 3 pancakes awaiting me gnashing the smoothness into poached pear baby goo; i will not allow language to subordinate me... i, will, subordinate language! language will be my clothes, and not, my, tailor! i abhor people owned by language, it's a bit like debate between portishead vs. poliça...           love a bitch-fight...               scratching, itching, hair-tugging, my type of replacement when it comes to being entertained by cockerels or bulls (terriers) - got i love petting those beastly boy pig snouts! the problem with me?             i love drinking more than conversations with people - synonymous with: animals make more sense to me that humans...                              oops; i gather.                   i have a 10kg / 20+ pound maine **** that i bite for fun...               bite a maine **** get an apache headgear...      ****** kicks like a kangaroo when i tickler his hind paws...                sings the **** out of a reincarnation of Pavarotti... either that or it's ***** 'arry, or simply rudy (ginger) -               i love cats for their autism...                    it will never end up being a death-stare match: there's always "something" to be preoccupied with cats... usually? nothing,                  the anti-thesis of narcissus was a cat.                 people never have stories about dogs, other than: lick my ***** take a nap... i hate the cat i own...                   man originated with a heart, while woman originated with a mind... notably the grand-schemer locusta  - hell knows no fury for a woman scorned, as,            heaven knows no peace                               for a man: pardoned. since we're on equal terms,   we can only politicise language, rather than the, infantile, politicising of language...                i always wonder how an exhausted meow exhausts the mind of a cat, with no cognitive notion of a a meow...      how does a cat meow... when there's no thought of meow... in the same exhaustion...            how does man speak of god, when he think nothing of god?     if god is a beyond word, yet trapped in (moral) action, can we discuss the case by merely using onomatopoeia?                i.e. onomatopoeia, an etymological return to the prime of syllables?     prior to letters having names akin to A - alpha -                                   or O - omicron? cut short pretty jesus?                      oh, what, a, shame! p.s. sure, he can be the alpha and the omega, but i'm the omicron in between.
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79
There is no singing bird No note from Pavarotti That could affect my heart The way your voice runs through me No brilliance in heaven's skies Could make me forget The tenderness of your kiss For you my love Your are my breath And the ground on which I stand My sunrise My sunset My birth and My death...
0
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
true love
Roy Orbison was no Luciano Pavarotti, but then Luciano Pavarotti was no Roy Orbison. Born in Nowhere, Texas, Orbison had an inauspicious musical beginning. He was shy growing up, but got a guitar at an early age. He drifted around tiny towns as he tentatively began his career and over the following years signed with several different recording companies. He remained extremely self-conscious as he slowly gained some success and wore dark-tinted glasses to allay some degree of his unease on stage. But in the late 1950s and early 60s, Orbison made it big, so big, in fact, that his songs went to the top of the charts in the U.S. as well as Europe and Australia. But by the mid-60s with the musical invasion from the United Kingdom--ironic though it was, he became close friends with the Beatles who admired his talent and songs--and the dramatic culture-change in America, Orbison's career and his popularity waned terribly. It was not until the 80s that Orbison experienced a grand resurgence of popularity, which pleased him so. But he did not have long to enjoy it. He died of a heart attack in 1988 at the age of 52. He was buried in an unmarked grave. Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
0
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 6:31 PM UTC
BURIED IN AN UNMARKED GRAVE
saving beautiful ryan living in orwell state CCTV 02.09.18 disgusting absolutely belongs in the gutter needs to be in confinement solitary in mouth melted butter. not your first porky probably won't be your last below the belt is very naughty what production company will want to cast. poor ryan is in trauma this whole experience is grotty certainly no nessun dorma no ear beauty like pavarotti. change to ryans persona this experience needs to compensate CBB fans be the owner ryan winning must infiltrate. said my peace will poetry readers congratulate could this end the orwell lease ryans blessed to be living in a surveillance state.
0
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
saving beautiful ryan living in orwell state CCTV