"strauss" poems
Another Version
Hartley Forde
You can’t see the wind,
But that old mango tree,
Outside my window,
tell me it’s there..
.
I never travel with a raincoat,
Even though I hate getting wet,
Then here comes the aches and pain
And I started to wonder,
was it because I got a little insane..
I thought that I could
Have run faster than it pours
I haven’t heard of
any aircraft that outrun a jet plane yet,
But, not so anymore,
I never leave my coat and cane,
When I am on a stool,
Oh dear, what has happened to me?
Am I aging? I am not young anymore,
Nor grey, nor old: for age is just a number,
But when the toil of the day
Merges with the aches and pain
With sighing sounds I start to wonder:
I still dance the night away, with my social tunes,
And waltz across the floor to all-time favorite of Strauss
See how I step back in time with the reggae beat,
Lighter than a feather on my feet,
Smiling, with my pearly teeth from ear to ear:
Life just isn’t fear: because age is just a number
That’s when the rubs and oil granny left me:
Come alive again in the neck of time,
to soothe the pain of my aching joints
I smile once again and said
“Oh dear, what do they say again,
Age is just a number and life begins at forty,
Because, I am just starting to be naughty:
Downhill !
written by:
Hartley Forde
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
There’s a giraffe in here, in my house
There’s a giraffe in here, his name’s Strauss
There’s a giraffe in here, watching my TV
There’s a giraffe in here, he's got a key
*I think it’s fun to have a crazy friend
I don’t care if we go round the bend*
There’s a giraffe in here, in my kitchenette
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s a great pet
There’s a giraffe in here, in my car
There’s a giraffe in here, smoking a cigar
*I think it’s fun to throw away my meds
My crazy friend, is in my head*
There’s a giraffe in here, in my mind
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s refined
There’s a giraffe in here, in my padded room
There’s a giraffe in here, I assume
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
[Given to Frank Bidart]
You won't become a gourmet* cook
By studying our Fannie's book--
Her thoughts on Food & Keeping House
Are scarcely those of Lévi-Strauss.
Nevertheless, you'll find, Frank dear,
The basic elements** are here.
And if a problem should arise:
The Soufflé fall before your eyes,
Or strange things happen to the Rice
--You know I love to give advice.
Elizabeth
Christmas, 1971
* Forbidden word
** Forbidden phrase
P.S. Fannie should not be underrated;
She has become sophisticated.
She's picked up many gourmet* tricks
Since the edition of '96.
3.2k
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Todey they told me that I shud rite a powm for you Algernon
Mr. Strauss sed that youre sick
I dont want you to be sick
Youre smart
Remembir the amazed
Youre a white mouse
Youre smarter then other mice
So please *** well soon
Goodbye
- Charlie Gordon
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
In a hollow off the main road
sits a village that time forgot
Where things flow, a little slow
and peace of mind need not be bought
The main street beckons all to see
how life ebbed and flowed in the past
Where smiles abound, the happy sound
of a life not metered nor fast
There you'll find the town Silversmith
making jewelry in a forge
The coffeehouse, echos of Strauss
a trodden path out to the gorge
It is home to the Glen Helen
part of a thousand acre woods
Steering the helm, coin of the realm
are the fruits of the craftsman's goods
There by the Antioch College
we spent a good deal of our youth
Climbing the trees, skinning our knees
among beauty we knew as truth
You might just see children playing
Hide and Seek throughout the street
Where "all yee all yee in come free"
sings of a melody so sweet
So should you find that your bones ache
from the pains of life you endure
Take a stroll, over the knoll
to the little town with the cure
Tate
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Después de que la noche al fin duerme
las incoherencias imprudente del día
tú, te acercas susurrando a mis oídos :
te deseo tanto!-
Sé que te mueres de ganas de poseerme
lo noto en tus ojos
en el pulso delicioso de tu cuello
en el roce de tus sudorosas manos maestras
cuando acarician mis caderas insolentes
de continuos estallidos.
Mía es tu carne amor, lo fue antes, lo es ahora
Soy la única que conoce tu cuerpo de memoria
la única que lo navega entera sin zozobrar nunca
la única que sabes que no dejarás que naufrague
en confusos oleajes
Adoro cuando me bebes entera
y entre mi falda juguetea tu aliento.
Tú me sacias con tu experiencia
eres mi delicioso bohemio atrevido
amante de mis pezones
que despiertan cuando suave los muerdes.
Ven amor, ya sabes que tu piel es mi locura
Ven que mi sangre hierve
al ver tu pene hinchado y apurado
ven cariño y clava tu lanza ardiente entre mis piernas
que ya están abiertos y humedos los capullos de mi flor.
No sabes como venero tu cuerpo navegante
gimiendo y gozando cuando te cabalgo.
Amor, es en tus ojos donde puedo ver
como te pierdes del mundo entero
como te pierdes acabado en mì.
Y te gozo lento
te hechizo
te blasfemo y te conjuro
antes de que mi boca comience el descenso.
Hoy tu marea está de fiesta
danzando apetitoso sobre mi lengua.
Que bello honor es recibir tus gotas
de diamante perla sobre mì.
AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :Gotas de Diamante Perla
Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M
18 de Mayo del 2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
_ Expediente nº EGXU-ZLQN-2W3E-96U2/1102180341429
Dirección Nacional de Derecho de Autor, República Argentina
Protegido por OMPI y el Tratado internacional de Suiza sobre derechos de autores
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
God made jeans for nice jewish boys
as I walk down the street
I invoke and bless his name,
my eyes criss-crossed,
cause I am an ecu-man-iacal
lay man womanizer
he,
be my fellow descendant from
Adam & Abraham
Levi Strauss
who had a
prophetic vision
(of course)
why stretchable tight jeans
were even better
than apples
and started
a gold rush
that will never
end
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’
But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
1.7k
Tú que aun sigues profundo implantado en mi piel
y prendido en mi pálida memoria
bajo la misma corriente mortal,
no sebes cuánto desearía que nadie, nadie,
nos sujeten las palabras.
¿A quién le escribiré yo ahora,
quién me hablará de filosofía
y me contará raras historias ?
Anoche…me haz vendido una ilusión desnuda,
amarga , sin polen, muy atroz y visceral
que arde como braza mi garganta
y muerde... muerden demasiadas sombras
de mis esquinas cóncavas,
espacio sin negrura, donde yo me permitía existir callada
mezclándome en los espejismos que envolvían suave
cada una de mis fracturas.
y aunque hayas conspirado en contra de mi razón,
de mis puntos cardinales
y los eslabones de mis crepúsculos que estaban calmo...te perdono
A menudo corazón, el vacío fue el único escape
que me salvó de intoxicarme de singulares
maniobras oscuras o lo que es peor ,
seguir la corriente como todos hacen
y adaptarme a los discursos narcisistas,
a lo cómodo a la farsa.
Soy escurridiza, lo sé, pero muy exacta
muy carne, muy pecado en mis palabras,
indefensa muchas veces,
detenida a la orilla de algún terrible miedo
aun no curado.
No sabes cuánto lamento que ya mi corazón
no te pueda abrazar más,
ya no siento tus susurros
En vano intentaran una y mil veces mis oídos escucharlos
pero sé muy bien, que nunca más volverán,
no podrán, porque ahora estoy
encontrando mi nueva tumba.
De:Diario de una Maldita poeta condenada
AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :Ilusión Desnuda
[Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M.
10/02/2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;
Single penny is worth and respected;
Fight within continues, spend it or save it;
Earn, when u have nothing;
But yes problems accompany;
Giving doesn't mean much, if you have much;
Giving, when u are having little;
Smile covering the helpless forlorn impotency;
Even smile hiding the difficulty of spending;
Parents choose comfort of child over there need;
Sacrifice not because its responsibility;
Finding satisfaction in giving;
It’s known to be utmost;
I witnessed that smile on a worker;
Offering tea when you barely earn to eat
I witnessed that smile on a father;
Those muddy legs told me real cost of college fees;
I witnessed that smile on a customer;
Confirming billion times before paying off;
Increment in bus fare by 20 rs made a huge difference;
How I throw 20 bucks on a soft drink;
I wonder why I don’t think like this;
How can I feel sad for inadequate money?
How man gets satisfy in cheap cloths and food;
Here i think i wear a signature instead of Strauss;
Simple is the story of hard earned money;
Hard to earn hard to spend;
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 1:46 PM UTC
RESPECT
Mr C Penguin the head of the house
Wears a uniform and listens to Strauss.
Seals plonked by the door as a draught excluder.
Chimps are taking tea in the parlour Room.
Judging how many cakes they can consume.
“Get a brush Foxy and sweep up those crumbs,
I will be charging them double when the time comes”
Mr Badger making endless trays upon trays of cakes
For the ignorant posh chimps and the mess thy make.
“Bag the goose and send the felloe to me,
I will give the chimps something to do for free”
The penguin cracked his knuckles and gave a cough
He had told the chimps he had taken the day off.
“The goose is here” half smiling “the goose is here”
The chimps shook, gulped and felt a trifle queer.
The goose frog marched in and the chimp went limp
“Right you posh lot, eat nicely is that clear chimp”
“I’m not old fishy pengy” he snapped straightening his wing,
“no hanky panky on my watch, nothing, no anything.
“I run a tight ship chimp, my rules old chum.”
The chimps heard right and put an end to the fun.
“Respect, respect,” the goose patrolled his little space
The chimps now ashen with a worried look on their face.
It is all about respect
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
The day was for England to look solid
South Africa were happy to play slow
It turned out that England wanted squalid
Opposition gave us nowhere to go
Andrew Strauss was done in by a shooter
Jonny Trotted past a full one today
Collingwood survived ***** past his ******
Ian Bell gave us most cause for dismay
Now Kevin played nicely for a while
But Colly got out to leave us in fear
Prior left us too soon for a smile
So for Broad and Swann the plan was clear
Jimmy hit them for the SIX of the game
But for glory Graeme Swann was the name
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
So now we have captain Cook
OK, he might be worth a look
But Andrew Strauss
Back in his house
To my very core I am shook
In the test team new names do pop
With Carberry right at the top
All rounders not thin
With Tredwell for spin
And Wright giving a biff and a bop
Shahzard is there for swing
Of reverse he can be king
And if Prior gets vexed
Steve Davies comes next
Pardon me if start to sing.
Onto the **** One-Day side
This I simply cannot abide
Or believe what I read
Cook is now made to lead
At table bottom we will reside.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:53 PM UTC
T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)
The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights
When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter
So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown
He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***
Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow
Poor Santa had landed
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof
Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night
The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****
Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming
Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This **** Ja was fixin
Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way
Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
*it's just a selfie... don't forget my face is mandible and is non-representative of whatever idealism you have of dundee / glasgow. you ever noticed it's only paris that's mentioned in 20th century classic literature? oi! **** why not oslo schweggenladder stockholm or edinbrugh? so 20th century of you to mention any place south of london.*
when i hear modern poets wheeze and ooh and ah
and climb the everest... i think of the bee gees
or michael jackson, not one wrote the illiad... but it’s
still memorised - what’s the point...
poetry begins with the thought:
i can rhyme bling with bee sting... **** i’m in!
heave of relief interlude with abba’s super trouper
in the background to breivik’s slaughter...
now that’s taking satire to the extreme of absurdism:
you know that french thinking movement
that changed hammering a nail in with the elbow
rather than the hammer.
‘orchestra!’
‘ yes maestro?!’
‘play me the divination of vivaldi in #strauss for winter!’
‘yes maestro!’
‘ah the autumnal leaf waltz via psychadelia
of femininity given to the beast of feminism
of lost ego, what splendour... and the reindeer,
ah... it’s only missing the alcohbolic reindeer of the
puffed-up cheeks and red noses of burst veins to hue
the canvas of red with streaks of blue.’
as benny hill said... it’s not called black english humour
for reasons that might suggest it was the oxford rowing
team losing against h.m.s. belfast that made the cambridge rowing
team sing the chritmas carols in halloween costumes:
the wise pumpkin, skeleton and hybrid tarantula sang
in soprano: the shepherds put on castrato opera for a reason
that became apparent with roman authorities despising
celibacy but turning quiet fond of castration for the pope's opera:
plus the **** orgams sounded more feminine with
guilottined ********
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Yo podría haberlo amado un poco más,
por ahí.
Quizás si hubiese besado más
la miel de la aventura,
estoy segura, que hoy estaría
acabada por su lengua mezquina.
Sin embargo,
lo único que hice entonces, fue huir
para no extraviar el legado de mi alma,
y para no pisotear mi juventud
con un fracaso , que de cualquier manera
ya estaba escrito en las magras sombras de las dudas.
Yo podría haberlo amado mucho más,
pero no pude, no quise.
Tampoco hoy lo lamento.
DIARIO DE UNA
"MALDITA POETA CONDENADA"
TITULO :YO PODRÍA…
[Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M.
10/02/2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Besé aquella vez la brisa más húmeda
y salada de su océano.
Besé su alma y como supuse
allí no encontré, magullado sus pulsos.
Él estaba intacto aún
preparado para entrar
nuevamente en mis nirvanas.
No existían huellas
de las antiguas cigarras
que escarbaban de noche
el ángelus de sus orgasmos
tampoco las de aquellas pupilas cortesanas
que le entregaban las llaves
de sus templos derramados,
mientras su colilla húmeda y mutilada
se perdía ambulante y confundida
detrás de una ceguera diluida
entre los lirios de su estación última .
Es cierto que ya no era purísimo y exacto
él, había cambiado,
las cortinas de su alma
ya no eran un misterio
y sus pensamientos
ya no se escondían convulsos
detrás de sus jaquecas.
Comenzamos a nacer entonces, después
de que mis llantos pudrieran mis ojos
de manera retórica,
después de que esos rumores perdidos
empezaron a desempañar
los cristales silenciosos de mi cálido infierno.
Y entonces...él abrió sus ojos de verdad,
y halló mi nacimiento, justo donde la seda rota
cubría las nuevas espigas...
Azul Strauss Markuart
Título : El Ángelus De Sus Orgasmos
Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M
15 De Junio del 2015
Buenos Aires - Argentina
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
Protegido por OMPI y el Tratado internacional de Suiza sobre derechos de autores
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
¿Qué es la tarde para mi?
La tarde para mi es :
Un sótano de arenas dormido
sobre un cielo roto
Un rincón de blandas enredaderas
Un cónclave solitario
Un pájaro albino sin miel
Un péndulo inmóvil
Un río sonámbulo derramando sombras
Una palabra atascada en la garganta
Y un canto mortal para mis antiguas pisadas.
AZUL STRAUSS MARKUART
TITULO :LA TARDE
Poema: Texto completo.]
Autora :Azul Strauss M
3 de junio del 2015
BUENOS AIRES.ARGENTINA
©Copyright –Derecho de Autor Reservado
_ Expediente nº EGXU-ZLQN-2W3E-96U2/1102180341429
Dirección Nacional de Derecho de Autor, República Argentina
Protegido por OMPI y el Tratado internacional de Suiza sobre derechos de autores
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
im umzug & krawatte
strauss am herzen,
augen zu.
schuhe geputzt
flugkarte in tasche
grinsen.
suit and tie on
bouquet across the chest,
eyes shut.
shoes shined
plane ticket in his pocket
beaming.
*note: this poem was inspired by a student suicide on my university campus two years ago. the idea of dying with so much before oneself would not get out of my mind.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
Don't Stop.
Was the gentlest command that ever passed your lips.
My fingers danced across the keys,
Playing to the tempo of your scribbling pen.
We wrote a symphony that day,
Broken to the beat of our passionate hearts.
The arias of my poetry were never enough for you.
You had to hear them played in the form of
Chopin
Bach
Strauss
Anything you could write to.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
long
ago
in
another
expired
lifetime
i
diligently
chipped
flint
popping
shards
flaking
away
tiny
bits
using
tools
fashioning
uneven
discreet
blades
to
manufacture
once
off
Clovis
points
to
skin
now
sadly
extinct
enormous
woolly
mammoths
it
was
a
point
well
made
Music Selection:
Opening Scene
Stanley Kubrick's
2001 Space Odyssey
Richard Strauss
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
jbm
Oakland
6/1/12
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
Denim and plaid angel
beautiful bad *** in Levi Strauss
she's amazing, I'm lucky
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 10:28 PM UTC