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"spinsters" poems
How this **** fable instructs And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers Approving chased girls who get them to a tree And put on bark's nun-black Habit which deflects All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers, Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne Switched her incomparable back For a bay-tree hide, respect's Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery Bed of a reed. Look: Pine-needle armor protects Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop Their leafy crowns, their fame soars, Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy: For which of those would speak For a fashion that constricts White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they Who keep cool and holy make A sanctum to attract Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers, They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty Of virgins for virginity's sake.' Be certain some such pact's Been struck to keep all glory in the grip Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs As you etch on the inner window of your eye This ****** on her rack: She, ripe and unplucked, 's Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe Now, dour-faced, her fingers Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly Askew, she'll ache and wake Though doomsday bud. Neglect's Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop: Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours. Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy Till irony's bough break.
0
8.6k
Sylvia Plath
****** In A Tree
How this **** fable instructs And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers Approving chased girls who get them to a tree And put on bark's nun-black Habit which deflects All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers, Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne Switched her incomparable back For a bay-tree hide, respect's Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery Bed of a reed. Look: Pine-needle armor protects Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop Their leafy crowns, their fame soars, Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy: For which of those would speak For a fashion that constricts White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they Who keep cool and holy make A sanctum to attract Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers, They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty Of virgins for virginity's sake.' Be certain some such pact's Been struck to keep all glory in the grip Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs As you etch on the inner window of your eye This ****** on her rack: She, ripe and unplucked, 's Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe Now, dour-faced, her fingers Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly Askew, she'll ache and wake Though doomsday bud. Neglect's Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop: Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours. Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy Till irony's bough break.
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45
Taffeta dress. Pink bows and ribbons, Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair. Shoes made of crystal glass. Azure eyes that allure. Princes and spinsters. All vying for love. In ball gowns. Feel the frowns. The pauper descends. Out of place, amid friends. Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan. Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne. They're trying for love. Met on the staircase. We really don't really care case. Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger . Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels. Nasty creatures. Vile in lust. Lustful greed. Maternal demon seed. Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust. Crone godmother. A quick sip of milk. Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph. Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed. Transport to the princes ball. In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie. Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice. The creatures were shocked. By the changes, all the rearrangements. Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport. Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her. Midnight came midnight went. A glorious evening only lent. She tripped on the stair, Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders. She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee. Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be. He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride. All the best things found in fairy tales. What do I find? Just slugs and snails. Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic. (c)Livvi MMCV
0
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
olivia-kent
MOVIE INSPIRATION
Taffeta dress. Pink bows and ribbons, Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair. Shoes made of crystal glass. Azure eyes that allure. Princes and spinsters. All vying for love. In ball gowns. Feel the frowns. The pauper descends. Out of place, amid friends. Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan. Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne. They're trying for love. Met on the staircase. We really don't really care case. Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger . Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels. Nasty creatures. Vile in lust. Lustful greed. Maternal demon seed. Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust. Crone godmother. A quick sip of milk. Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph. Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed. Transport to the princes ball. In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie. Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice. The creatures were shocked. By the changes, all the rearrangements. Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport. Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her. Midnight came midnight went. A glorious evening only lent. She tripped on the stair, Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders. She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee. Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be. He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride. All the best things found in fairy tales. What do I find? Just slugs and snails. Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic. (c)Livvi MMCV
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46
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . . hangs above my desk like my own muse. I want to tell you how your hands reach out from your books & seize my heart. I want to tell you how your hair electrifies my thoughts like my own halo. I want to tell you how your eyes penetrate my fear & make it melt. I want to tell you simply that I love you-- though you are "dead" & I am still "alive." Suicides & spinsters-- all our kind! Even decorous Jane Austen never marrying, & Sappho leaping, & Sylvia in the oven, & Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale, & pale Virginia floating like Ophelia, & Emily alone, alone, alone. . . . But you endure & marry, go on writing, lose a husband, gain a husband, go on writing, sing & tap dance & you go on writing, have a child & still you go on writing, love a woman, love a man & go on writing. You endure your writing & your life. Dear Colette, I only want to thank you: for your eyes ringed with bluest paint like bruises, for your hair gathering sparks like brush fire, for your hands which never willingly let go, for your years, your child, your lovers, all your books. . . . Dear Colette, you hold me to this life.
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2.4k
Erica Jong
Dear Colette
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . . hangs above my desk like my own muse. I want to tell you how your hands reach out from your books & seize my heart. I want to tell you how your hair electrifies my thoughts like my own halo. I want to tell you how your eyes penetrate my fear & make it melt. I want to tell you simply that I love you-- though you are "dead" & I am still "alive." Suicides & spinsters-- all our kind! Even decorous Jane Austen never marrying, & Sappho leaping, & Sylvia in the oven, & Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale, & pale Virginia floating like Ophelia, & Emily alone, alone, alone. . . . But you endure & marry, go on writing, lose a husband, gain a husband, go on writing, sing & tap dance & you go on writing, have a child & still you go on writing, love a woman, love a man & go on writing. You endure your writing & your life. Dear Colette, I only want to thank you: for your eyes ringed with bluest paint like bruises, for your hair gathering sparks like brush fire, for your hands which never willingly let go, for your years, your child, your lovers, all your books. . . . Dear Colette, you hold me to this life.
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55
These old doors, sullen as spinsters. Wharves, deckhands, the old chopping block: flights of time misremembered in a backward gaze. Toes in water. Hooks to fish. The sea salty. How shall I count the ways... lost among the waves. But look, afar, the old man on his boat! Is he Charon come to point the way to the seaward lost; or has he come to sequester memory to some far shore? (Maybe he's a schmuck with a paddle!) Seagulls, feathers, the brine: all groan with this wood. In this wood was the line that snatched life from the water (the fish, the scales—they shine) and flopped on the deck, heterocercal. The evening closes on this vista but not the charades of time.
0
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
miguel-m-castro
Not Broadway
These old doors, sullen as spinsters. Wharves, deckhands, the old chopping block: flights of time misremembered in a backward gaze. Toes in water. Hooks to fish. The sea salty. How shall I count the ways... lost among the waves. But look, afar, the old man on his boat! Is he Charon come to point the way to the seaward lost; or has he come to sequester memory to some far shore? (Maybe he's a schmuck with a paddle!) Seagulls, feathers, the brine: all groan with this wood. In this wood was the line that snatched life from the water (the fish, the scales—they shine) and flopped on the deck, heterocercal. The evening closes on this vista but not the charades of time.
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24
I try to write when I am tired but tiny spiders descend around my desk. Newly-hatched eight limbed-things parasail the silk lids over my eyes. If only I could ride out the exhale and go at once adrift, self-rappel I would climb the silk suspension line swing from thought to thought thread the eye of the needle pull-ey up the beanstalk. but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis swim on a draft from the ceiling. These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze-- make a play-swing out of gravity. The tiny spiders that descend around my desk make me--an oaf. a self-honoring monument for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity me, a moving pedestal for dancing me, a knotted up windsock hunched over a heated screen, trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration from these tiny kites that ascend the earth. Tiny spider, tiny spider let down your silk tresses draw up my mind swing the high rafters I want to hang upside down-- make a play-swing out of gravity. Yet when I pulled on the thread to net the silken-mouthed beast, words did not come down like mana from heaven. Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton metaphor, alliteration, the fabric of suspended poetry unraveled. Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus to quips. because thinking to write and writing to think is like pulling dead hair from spaghetti. Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk parasail and make a play-swing out of gravity.
0
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
sean
I try to write poetry but I am tired.
I try to write when I am tired but tiny spiders descend around my desk. Newly-hatched eight limbed-things parasail the silk lids over my eyes. If only I could ride out the exhale and go at once adrift, self-rappel I would climb the silk suspension line swing from thought to thought thread the eye of the needle pull-ey up the beanstalk. but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis swim on a draft from the ceiling. These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze-- make a play-swing out of gravity. The tiny spiders that descend around my desk make me--an oaf. a self-honoring monument for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity me, a moving pedestal for dancing me, a knotted up windsock hunched over a heated screen, trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration from these tiny kites that ascend the earth. Tiny spider, tiny spider let down your silk tresses draw up my mind swing the high rafters I want to hang upside down-- make a play-swing out of gravity. Yet when I pulled on the thread to net the silken-mouthed beast, words did not come down like mana from heaven. Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton metaphor, alliteration, the fabric of suspended poetry unraveled. Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus to quips. because thinking to write and writing to think is like pulling dead hair from spaghetti. Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk parasail and make a play-swing out of gravity.
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50
Spines that shiver in minds of old, Gasping spinsters times have told, Of little men the color of green, Hidden by walls not to be seen, Harvest the blood they call to me, Take the drops of red is the fee, Cast the amber sun to stop fast, Murky waters a grave in the past, Ignorant fellows lay down in cotton, Thoughts hollow black and all rotten, Death the gift that comes willing and able, Remember dear ones this is no fable.
0
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
thomas-fitzgeraldl8
The Color of ******
Spines that shiver in minds of old, Gasping spinsters times have told, Of little men the color of green, Hidden by walls not to be seen, Harvest the blood they call to me, Take the drops of red is the fee, Cast the amber sun to stop fast, Murky waters a grave in the past, Ignorant fellows lay down in cotton, Thoughts hollow black and all rotten, Death the gift that comes willing and able, Remember dear ones this is no fable.
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12
The Boogaloo plays on the rin-tin, tin-can speakers at my Mexican hang out.   Spinsters smile in sun-glow, while I cower in the shadow, being not buzzed but bothered by some sort of flying ant; floating around the purple flowers on the sill in which I sit. I am waiting for the autumn. The sun has got his mace out. The sun has got his Cat-O-Nine-Tails out, and he is whipping me without a whisper of mercy. I will feel fine when the night falls, when sun becomes moon, when sun kills moon, when the old man dying in his ship with the great fish strapped to the bow dreams about the lions once more and how it is a good thing that man does not have to fight the moon each night. Today is the day they said that the world would end. I am waiting, waiting patient, still, like some great stone Buddha, for the rapture, or the four horsemen or the stargate, the end all of the be all. People around me seem calm. I am calm too.                                                                                                                                 The lizard people are coming!! later we drank and smoked and drank some more; running in the rain and falling off of buildings like nothing had ever happened. ”Just one more step” {thoughts on tomorrows Rapture to be added in the next few days... probably}
0
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
edward-laine
Rapture Day(the first one)
The Boogaloo plays on the rin-tin, tin-can speakers at my Mexican hang out.   Spinsters smile in sun-glow, while I cower in the shadow, being not buzzed but bothered by some sort of flying ant; floating around the purple flowers on the sill in which I sit. I am waiting for the autumn. The sun has got his mace out. The sun has got his Cat-O-Nine-Tails out, and he is whipping me without a whisper of mercy. I will feel fine when the night falls, when sun becomes moon, when sun kills moon, when the old man dying in his ship with the great fish strapped to the bow dreams about the lions once more and how it is a good thing that man does not have to fight the moon each night. Today is the day they said that the world would end. I am waiting, waiting patient, still, like some great stone Buddha, for the rapture, or the four horsemen or the stargate, the end all of the be all. People around me seem calm. I am calm too.                                                                                                                                 The lizard people are coming!! later we drank and smoked and drank some more; running in the rain and falling off of buildings like nothing had ever happened. ”Just one more step” {thoughts on tomorrows Rapture to be added in the next few days... probably}
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20
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires, Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money, Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song, Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue; Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove! Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove! Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile! Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu! Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve! By-Alexander Opicho (From Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
0
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
The Cobra in Matriarchal Beauty
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires, Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money, Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song, Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue; Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove! Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove! Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile! Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu! Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve! By-Alexander Opicho (From Lodwar, Kenya) [email protected]
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20
going to rise up early with lady or three in my king sized bed. heading for the mall seeking lonely cute ladies. throw out a few compliments women buy it they believe you sincere. women have many big fears grey hair wrinkles and crows feet being alone growing old alone getting fat not getting dates dying spinsters. i will play on what makes them happy i will get a woman to spend new year's eve with me and all night. easy when you built from work outs easy when you got a face women like easy telling women what they want to hear throw out some lies tell them they pretty tell them you love them tell them anything nice feed their egos I say their pretty i pour wine and they sip my lying gets kisses tasting of wine. women believe me because I look sincere when it lie. my business suit nice car expensive watch gets them in my car gets me in their house gets me in the house when husbands are away gets me a squeeze of a breast or knee gets me body kisses gets me body shots gets me to any base i want. easy getting a date on new year's eve or any day of the year i lie they buy it i get what i want what i want is *** what i love is *** and more *** *** addict i don't want help easy getting fixes for my habit women will be women pathetic desperate for attention hitching a ride on a gravy train for security i play to that lie they want to hear. no security with me it's playing to what they want i get my fix of *** then on to the next lonely woman and the next. no crime between consenting adults. one thinking it's the real one knowing he is in it just for ***
0
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
lost-in-shadows
new year's plans
going to rise up early with lady or three in my king sized bed. heading for the mall seeking lonely cute ladies. throw out a few compliments women buy it they believe you sincere. women have many big fears grey hair wrinkles and crows feet being alone growing old alone getting fat not getting dates dying spinsters. i will play on what makes them happy i will get a woman to spend new year's eve with me and all night. easy when you built from work outs easy when you got a face women like easy telling women what they want to hear throw out some lies tell them they pretty tell them you love them tell them anything nice feed their egos I say their pretty i pour wine and they sip my lying gets kisses tasting of wine. women believe me because I look sincere when it lie. my business suit nice car expensive watch gets them in my car gets me in their house gets me in the house when husbands are away gets me a squeeze of a breast or knee gets me body kisses gets me body shots gets me to any base i want. easy getting a date on new year's eve or any day of the year i lie they buy it i get what i want what i want is *** what i love is *** and more *** *** addict i don't want help easy getting fixes for my habit women will be women pathetic desperate for attention hitching a ride on a gravy train for security i play to that lie they want to hear. no security with me it's playing to what they want i get my fix of *** then on to the next lonely woman and the next. no crime between consenting adults. one thinking it's the real one knowing he is in it just for ***
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69
. ... the dancing clowns appear ;;:;; We try to hide forever But the show must go on ! // We **** naked in office building closets And say we are free With our dresses and ****** And our priests and police • ...... Reality is for musicians and poets And their agents and corporate spinsters And sponsors And make up men With their PHILOSOPHY DEGREES )( ( We have our own eyes ) )( We are seen As those with our own eyes ! // We decide what we should do .
0
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
jeffrey-robin
... Riding in your daddy 's Ice cream truck
. ... the dancing clowns appear ;;:;; We try to hide forever But the show must go on ! // We **** naked in office building closets And say we are free With our dresses and ****** And our priests and police • ...... Reality is for musicians and poets And their agents and corporate spinsters And sponsors And make up men With their PHILOSOPHY DEGREES )( ( We have our own eyes ) )( We are seen As those with our own eyes ! // We decide what we should do .
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25
Well outside my circle, Beyond my paltry reach Of influence, Nasty, spinsterly, unforgiveables Happen. Across from The Farmer's Market, Just two days ago, Two young males were... You've no doubt read it. Before that, a young teacher Was kidnapped, stabbed and lit, (can't believe I just wrote that) Well, she was ******* lit... burned... Who can live like this? Then, I remember Tom's mother Who invited me on family picnics; And Crazy Jack, Who put the chain on my rear sprocket; The Squires who actually cleaned-up the yard For the Downie sisters. The befriendings in neighborhoods. Mrs. Tethercott, probably the oldest woman To ever live on a street, once handed me A hard red candy through the green pickets. Just me. The sibs never saw it going or coming. An especially special treat that has stuck with me For decades after her death. But the Mayor arriving in full Santa regalia On the trunk of a sleigh-red car, With burlap bag slung heavily. What a first memory of Christmas. Daddy burned his leg With diesel oil On the job site, Far away, in Kapuskasing, During our first winter In Canada. Did the Downie Spinsters make the call? What unknown friends reached out Beyond their circles. Who aspires to such a height? I can't let it stop me. For now, I carry a hard candy For just such occasions.
0
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
francie-lynch
Unknown Friends
Well outside my circle, Beyond my paltry reach Of influence, Nasty, spinsterly, unforgiveables Happen. Across from The Farmer's Market, Just two days ago, Two young males were... You've no doubt read it. Before that, a young teacher Was kidnapped, stabbed and lit, (can't believe I just wrote that) Well, she was ******* lit... burned... Who can live like this? Then, I remember Tom's mother Who invited me on family picnics; And Crazy Jack, Who put the chain on my rear sprocket; The Squires who actually cleaned-up the yard For the Downie sisters. The befriendings in neighborhoods. Mrs. Tethercott, probably the oldest woman To ever live on a street, once handed me A hard red candy through the green pickets. Just me. The sibs never saw it going or coming. An especially special treat that has stuck with me For decades after her death. But the Mayor arriving in full Santa regalia On the trunk of a sleigh-red car, With burlap bag slung heavily. What a first memory of Christmas. Daddy burned his leg With diesel oil On the job site, Far away, in Kapuskasing, During our first winter In Canada. Did the Downie Spinsters make the call? What unknown friends reached out Beyond their circles. Who aspires to such a height? I can't let it stop me. For now, I carry a hard candy For just such occasions.
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45
Young Karl Marx Prowled the commons and the parks In the darkness he would ****** with the lasses Using tenderness and stealth In his bid to share the wealth With the working and the lower middle classes
0
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
ben-jones
Marx and Spinsters
Young Karl Marx Prowled the commons and the parks In the darkness he would ****** with the lasses Using tenderness and stealth In his bid to share the wealth With the working and the lower middle classes
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6
i hide behind not a single façade, more on a particular in the word later, i mean, lying becomes exhausting after a while, because it strains the memory, and by straining the memory it's a schoolboy's error of: requiring arithmetic repetition - and by this mode of repetition: tell a lie once, tell the same lie all the time. truth? flimsy, once upon a time, sometimes here, sometimes over there, practically? nonchalance: but much more audacity to boot. me? oh, the glory of sitting on the throne of thrones, and a tiled floor, and sticky sweat feet, and tapping along to i.n.x.s.'s need you tonight, while wiping my *** i think i already said it once: my life? party all the time: i know, the dancefloor is kinda tiny, and they only sell cheap ***** cheaper still by making them into sharpshooters (excess of alcohol, very little mixer, practically hard liquor shandies - that's english for beer, topped with some lemonade... students over here? snakebite, half lagger, half cider, topped with blackcurrant concentrate: and then blagger your way into comatose on the dancefloor) - then english always were, and always will be: the shy alcoholics of the nations, the spinsters... at least with a russian i know i'll be drinking cold, rather than warm yucky ***** inducing ***** because? the english don't know how to drink ***** ah... i forgot to mention, the evolution of letters... obviously the french ç in the words garçon or façade was derived from the greek sigma: ς; well, ****** me all week with a ***** dipped in boiling water... i can appreciate this short hand form of evolution... that's permitted, now it would seem i have to inspect the rest of the etymology-grammatica, i'll just put the zenith and nadir within the greek through to latin dynamic.
0
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
paradox / etymology-grammatica
i hide behind not a single façade, more on a particular in the word later, i mean, lying becomes exhausting after a while, because it strains the memory, and by straining the memory it's a schoolboy's error of: requiring arithmetic repetition - and by this mode of repetition: tell a lie once, tell the same lie all the time. truth? flimsy, once upon a time, sometimes here, sometimes over there, practically? nonchalance: but much more audacity to boot. me? oh, the glory of sitting on the throne of thrones, and a tiled floor, and sticky sweat feet, and tapping along to i.n.x.s.'s need you tonight, while wiping my *** i think i already said it once: my life? party all the time: i know, the dancefloor is kinda tiny, and they only sell cheap ***** cheaper still by making them into sharpshooters (excess of alcohol, very little mixer, practically hard liquor shandies - that's english for beer, topped with some lemonade... students over here? snakebite, half lagger, half cider, topped with blackcurrant concentrate: and then blagger your way into comatose on the dancefloor) - then english always were, and always will be: the shy alcoholics of the nations, the spinsters... at least with a russian i know i'll be drinking cold, rather than warm yucky ***** inducing ***** because? the english don't know how to drink ***** ah... i forgot to mention, the evolution of letters... obviously the french ç in the words garçon or façade was derived from the greek sigma: ς; well, ****** me all week with a ***** dipped in boiling water... i can appreciate this short hand form of evolution... that's permitted, now it would seem i have to inspect the rest of the etymology-grammatica, i'll just put the zenith and nadir within the greek through to latin dynamic.
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58
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, So Dusty Springfield asserted from her knees (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) The flow of passion deepens in fits and starts, And does not walk the tidy path of our pleas. Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, Till-death-do-we-part tortures spinsters and tarts The rice a mirage, the wedding march a tease. (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) It ignores the primacy of graphs and charts, Choosing its own time and moments to seize; Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, Love at first sight upsets all our apple carts, Yet we rush headlong to pick it from the trees. (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) One more torch song, then, to rocket up the charts. One more tear-stained chanteuse to sing the reprise; Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)
0
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 11:49 AM UTC
wk-kortas
you don't have to stay forever, i will understand
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, So Dusty Springfield asserted from her knees (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) The flow of passion deepens in fits and starts, And does not walk the tidy path of our pleas. Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, Till-death-do-we-part tortures spinsters and tarts The rice a mirage, the wedding march a tease. (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) It ignores the primacy of graphs and charts, Choosing its own time and moments to seize; Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, Love at first sight upsets all our apple carts, Yet we rush headlong to pick it from the trees. (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.) One more torch song, then, to rocket up the charts. One more tear-stained chanteuse to sing the reprise; Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts, (But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)
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19
who begins writing with those words nowadays? Old men and lonely spinsters? Fairy tale mobsters, who steal from the Brother's Grimm? Ans so it began, begat is on the horizon. It began , however well meaning, as a poem and turned into this. **** and I apologize.
0
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
wordvango
once upon a time
who begins writing with those words nowadays? Old men and lonely spinsters? Fairy tale mobsters, who steal from the Brother's Grimm? Ans so it began, begat is on the horizon. It began , however well meaning, as a poem and turned into this. **** and I apologize.
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8