God is a Lane!

[Jumpman Lane]

What a piece of work is Jumpy!
How noble in reason!
How infinite in faculty!
In form and movment
How express and admirable!
In action how like an angel!
In apprehension how like a god!


Since by fate the strength of gods
And this empyreal substance cannot fail
Since through experience of this great event
In arms not worse
In foresight much advanced
We may with more successful hope
Resolve to wage by force or guile
Eternal war!
Irreconcilable to our grand foe
Who now triumphs
And in the excess of joy
Sole reigning
Holds the tyranny of heaven!
(I'm gonna say that if i ever get banned tothe cownfeld!)

[Ishina]

I miss Stankleberry :(

[Gabe Lippmann]

I don't think it'll be as effective now.

[Textured Surface]

Your copying and pasting skills far surpass your written abilities.
I recommend you do that more often.

[GradyE]

Well the first line is right at least. :readnews:

[Merovigan]

Is it just me, or does pretty much all poetry suck. Seriously, die you useless art-form...die!

[GradyE]

If you listen to pop music you are listening to poetry. We just take ours with music these days.

[Jumpman Lane]

I miss Stankleberry :(

fall dead granny! we want ur loot!

[Ishina]

fall dead granny! we want ur loot!

http://i-trepreneur.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/retard.jpg

[Jumpman Lane]

:dunce:Is it just me, or does pretty much all poetry suck. Seriously, die you useless art-form...die!

that was shakespeare and milton u retard!

[Jumpman Lane]

http://i-trepreneur.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/retard.jpg

well why lurk all over my posts then granny panty waste heheheheheh and there u go pickin on retards again. hang ur self granny save us the oxygen heheheh:fyou:

[Ishina]

You know… you are actually the most retarded person I have ever seen on a forum. Honestly.

[Jumpman Lane]

Your copying and pasting skills far surpass your written abilities.
I recommend you do that more often.

that was off the top of my head hehehehe im sure if ya take a gander at hamlet or paradise lost u'll see some errors but the MEAT the MEAT is all there heheheheh

ut vidi ut insanii ut mihi male effectus est

hehehe and thats latin for u underedjicated grammarians hehehehehe
it means i'm blue

didnt that fat plubmer tell ya on twitter. i went to one of them thare univeristies heheheheh

[Merovigan]

:dunce:

that was shakespeare and milton u retard!

I stand by it.

And thanks for reminding me why I just can't be bothered with Paradise Lost.

[Jumpman Lane]

You know… you are actually the most retarded person I have ever seen on a forum. Honestly.

ur actually the turdiest turd i ever seen clogging up a stool lmao.
reach up high inna sky
hit the handle
and flush thy self
um
turd
hehehehehehehe:burnout:

[Jumpman Lane]

I stand by it.

And thanks for reminding me why I just can't be bothered with Paradise Lost.

sap!

[Merovigan]

If you listen to pop music you are listening to poetry. We just take ours with music these days.

Well yeah, but it's communicating bullshit, exactly what poetry should be communicating because it's a shitty way to communicate.

And without the music it's just spoken word - when's the last time that sold a million records?

[Ishina]

http://www.royalraginglions.com/images/retard.jpg

[Jumpman Lane]

sap! hehehehehe

[GradyE]

Well yeah, but it's communicating bullshit, exactly what poetry should be communicating because it's a shitty way to communicate.

And without the music it's just spoken word - when's the last time that sold a million records?




Just off the top of my head...I suspect this guy managed it. :)

http://www.whatrecords.co.uk/live/pics/10994.jpg

[Jumpman Lane]

http://www.royalraginglions.com/images/retard.jpg

wooooosh heheheheh:mob:

[Merovigan]

Just off the top of my head...I suspect this guy managed it. :)

http://www.whatrecords.co.uk/live/pics/10994.jpg

Holy shit he put out a spoken word album!?

[Merovigan]

That item has been discontinued.

[Merovigan]

And, poetry still sucks.

[Jen]

And, poetry still sucks.

Mero, just hazarding a guess- you're very much into mechanical/ engineering/ etc stuffs, aren't you?

I'm asking because it seems to me that all the things you despise and revile here are things having to do with the arts/humanities, and I recognize the syndrome from my marriage [me an artist, him an engineering head].

Nothing wrong with the fact that you're so oriented, except that as an artist I find it in me not to revile mechanically oriented people as knuckle-dragging misanthropes without a shred of culture or understanding of humanity, nor do I deride the process of rebuilding a carburetor as stupid futility in the age of injection engines.

But then again, I've made it part of my life to ALSO be able to rebuild a carburetor, change a tire, rewire a house, and formulate herbal compounds to help people [including mechanically- which might indeed boggle your mind]. My current honey is an inventor and our entire lives right now are oriented towards buying him time and space to build his invention. I totally respect his abilities, even though they're nothing like mine.

I guess my point is that there appear to be whole lobes of your brain that haven't gotten fed- or at least, given the option to play- and yet you're picking on those of us who've taken the time to learn about those areas for even doing that.

[Cocoanut Koala]

This alone is a fabulous paragraph:

"Nothing wrong with the fact that you're so oriented, except that as an artist I find it in me not to revile mechanically oriented people as knuckle-dragging misanthropes without a shred of culture or understanding of humanity, nor do I deride the process of rebuilding a carburetor as stupid futility in the age of injection engines."

:coco:

[Merovigan]

Mero, just hazarding a guess- you're very much into mechanical/ engineering/ etc stuffs, aren't you?

I'm asking because it seems to me that all the things you despise and revile here are things having to do with the arts/humanities, and I recognize the syndrome from my marriage [me an artist, him an engineering head].

Nothing wrong with the fact that you're so oriented, except that as an artist I find it in me not to revile mechanically oriented people as knuckle-dragging misanthropes without a shred of culture or understanding of humanity, nor do I deride the process of rebuilding a carburetor as stupid futility in the age of injection engines.

But then again, I've made it part of my life to ALSO be able to rebuild a carburetor, change a tire, rewire a house, and formulate herbal compounds to help people [including mechanically- which might indeed boggle your mind]. My current honey is an inventor and our entire lives right now are oriented towards buying him time and space to build his invention. I totally respect his abilities, even though they're nothing like mine.

I guess my point is that there appear to be whole lobes of your brain that haven't gotten fed- or at least, given the option to play- and yet you're picking on those of us who've taken the time to learn about those areas for even doing that.

I'm picking on you?

But...I just really don't like poetry!

[Merovigan]

Mero, just hazarding a guess- you're very much into mechanical/ engineering/ etc stuffs, aren't you?

I'm asking because it seems to me that all the things you despise and revile here are things having to do with the arts/humanities, and I recognize the syndrome from my marriage [me an artist, him an engineering head].

Nothing wrong with the fact that you're so oriented, except that as an artist I find it in me not to revile mechanically oriented people as knuckle-dragging misanthropes without a shred of culture or understanding of humanity, nor do I deride the process of rebuilding a carburetor as stupid futility in the age of injection engines.

But then again, I've made it part of my life to ALSO be able to rebuild a carburetor, change a tire, rewire a house, and formulate herbal compounds to help people [including mechanically- which might indeed boggle your mind]. My current honey is an inventor and our entire lives right now are oriented towards buying him time and space to build his invention. I totally respect his abilities, even though they're nothing like mine.

I guess my point is that there appear to be whole lobes of your brain that haven't gotten fed- or at least, given the option to play- and yet you're picking on those of us who've taken the time to learn about those areas for even doing that.

But to answer your question, yes I'm left-brained. No, you don't know me well enough to say that I'm exclusively or even mostly left-brained. When I debate important topics, I fail to see the value of emotion and I'm pretty good at sorting it out of the equation. Because emotions are for enjoying life, not making decisions with.

The right brain has its place and I rarely engage it while online. While I'm coding? That's another story.

[Forest]

The right brain has its place and I rarely engage it while online. While I'm coding? That's another story.
Engage!


http://atomicpoet.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/engage.jpg

[Don Mill]

Because emotions are for enjoying life, not making decisions with.

Some decisions require you to acknowledge your emotions :)

:hug:

[Scylla Rhiadra]

Jumpy, you quoted Paradise Lost . . . !

For just the briefest moment there, you almost looked desi . . .

Eh, no. S'ok, I'm over it.

[Jumpman Lane]

But to answer your question, yes I'm left-brained. No, you don't know me well enough to say that I'm exclusively or even mostly left-brained. When I debate important topics, I fail to see the value of emotion and I'm pretty good at sorting it out of the equation. Because emotions are for enjoying life, not making decisions with.

The right brain has its place and I rarely engage it while online. While I'm coding? That's another story.

sap!:mob:

[Jumpman Lane]

Jumpy, you quoted Paradise Lost . . . !

For just the briefest moment there, you almost looked desi . . .

Eh, no. S'ok, I'm over it.

all upon a sudden miserable pain
surprise thee dim thine eyes
and dizzy swum
till on the left side
flaming thick and fast
out of thy head I SPRUNG

i think thats how deat was born out of sin's head
if i have my milton rigth
dontcha just love milton
heheheheheh
i am a man of letters ya know

[Lum]

Jumpy, you quoted Paradise Lost . . . !

For just the briefest moment there, you almost looked desi . . .

Eh, no. S'ok, I'm over it.

*sidles up next to you*

"The mind is its own place, and in itself
can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

[Vivianne Draper]

How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes!

[Osprey Therian]

Your copying and pasting skills far surpass your written abilities.
I recommend you do that more often.

He usually stays in character, but don't be fooled.

[Scylla Rhiadra]

*sidles up next to you*

"The mind is its own place, and in itself
can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

/me swoons . . . just a little . . . ;)

[Scylla Rhiadra]

all upon a sudden miserable pain
surprise thee dim thine eyes
and dizzy swum
till on the left side
flaming thick and fast
out of thy head I SPRUNG

i think thats how deat was born out of sin's head
if i have my milton rigth
dontcha just love milton
heheheheheh
i am a man of letters ya know

Well, yeah. That one you clearly are doing off the top of your head. But not bad, Jumpy, not bad . . .

I've always thought you were a man of letters. It's just that usually you arrange them in a nonsensical order!

And yeah. I ADORE Milton . . . *sighs*

Of course, you could have found sexier passages than Death's birth by an incestuous union between Satan and Sin . . . but, yeah, still cool. :)

[Scylla Rhiadra]

How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes!

Oh, poetry . . . just As I Like It . . . ;)

[Vengence Opus]

:confused:

God lane doesn't have very good signage. :nope:

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/SI9I0CE4MUI/AAAAAAAAQLw/9wk0TFDBVQ0/s400/Funny_Sign_Boards_24.jpg



I think we're on the wrong street.

http://unclestinky.files.wordpress.com/2008/01/butthole_lane.jpg

:noexpression: Dammit. Where's the freeway?

Mods: please add a GPS function to the board, 'cause right now I don't know where I'm at.

[Lum]

I like.
Big.
BUTTS
(and I cannot lie)
You other brothers can't DENY

[Jen]

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods could speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand,
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay;
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways).

~Theodore Roethke

[Scylla Rhiadra]

I like.
Big.
BUTTS
(and I cannot lie)
You other brothers can't DENY

Well, that's just flushed the mood right down the drain, hasn't it???

/me takes Lum aside to have a little chat with him about language and affect . . .

[Ishina]

milk milk, lemonade
round the corner chocolates made

[Vengence Opus]

Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . .



we have everything and we have nothing
and some men do it in churches
and some men do it by tearing butterflies
in half
and some men do it in Palm Springs
laying it into butterblondes
with Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
nothing and everything,
the face melting down to the last puff
in a cellar in Corpus Christi.
there's something for the touts, the nuns,
the grocery clerks and you . . .
something at 8 a.m., something in the library
something in the river,
everything and nothing.
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it --
one
two
three
and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead
meat, its bones against your bones
something and nothing.
it's always early enough to die and
it's always too late,
and the drill of blood in the basin white
it tells you nothing at all
and the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
to dismiss the frost . . .
they tell you nothing at all.

we have everything and we have nothing --
days with glass edges and the impossible stink
of river moss -- worse than shit;
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as
in victory; slow days like mules
humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
up a road where a madman sits waiting among
bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey
grey.
good days too of wine and shouting, fights
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around
your bowels buried in moans,
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
that robbed you.
days when children say funny and brilliant things
like savages trying to send you a message through
their bodies while their bodies are still
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
and down without locks and paychecks and
ideals and possessions and beetle-like
opinions.
days when you can cry all day long in
a green room with the door locked, days
when you can laugh at the breadman
because his legs are too long, days
of looking at hedges . . .

and nothing, and nothing, the days of
the bosses, yellow men
with bad breath and big feet, men
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
as if melody had never been invented, men
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
profit, men with expensive wives they possess
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
or shown-off or to be walled away from
the incompetent, men who'd kill you
because they're crazy and justify it because
it's the law, men who stand in front of
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
men with luxury yachts who can sail around
the world and yet never get out of their vest
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
like slugs, and not as good . . .
and nothing, getting your last paycheck
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
barbershop, at a job you didn't want
anyway.
income tax, sickness, servility, broken
arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing
come out like an old pillow.

we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay --
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all
the ones you thought would never go.

days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don't want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you'll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you'll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah no no maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.


~Charles Bukowski

[Jen]

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whales's fathomless body.

And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!

And Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.

~DH Lawrence

[Gabe Lippmann]

in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at sexual orgies
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best

my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.

[Elora Lunasea]

"...and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

- James Joyce from "Ulysses"

[Jen]

YouTube- Snow

[Jen]

My old friend Arthur, who died a while ago.

The Doctrine of Metaphors

Everything is a lot like everything else
But while being a lot like everything else
It's also a lot more like itself
than anything else is.

But still - it's a lot like everything else.
And it's not so much like anything else in particular
As it is like everything else put together
But of course put together a little bit differently
than it is in anything else
Or as in some cases a lot differently.

-Arthur Joseph

[GradyE]

Well, yeah. That one you clearly are doing off the top of your head. But not bad, Jumpy, not bad . . .

I've always thought you were a man of letters. It's just that usually you arrange them in a nonsensical order!

And yeah. I ADORE Milton . . . *sighs*

Of course, you could have found sexier passages than Death's birth by an incestuous union between Satan and Sin . . . but, yeah, still cool. :)

The star that bids the Shepherd fold
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold
And the gilded Car of Day
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream

:confused:

God lane doesn't have very good signage. :nope:

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mmBw3uzPnJI/SI9I0CE4MUI/AAAAAAAAQLw/9wk0TFDBVQ0/s400/Funny_Sign_Boards_24.jpg



I think we're on the wrong street.

http://unclestinky.files.wordpress.com/2008/01/butthole_lane.jpg

:noexpression: Dammit. Where's the freeway?

Mods: please add a GPS function to the board, 'cause right now I don't know where I'm at.

As best as we can make out Veng, you are somewhere in here. :(

http://www.porhomme.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/mio-gps-hock-ad-campaign-2009-2.jpg

Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . .



we have everything and we have nothing
and some men do it in churches
and some men do it by tearing butterflies
in half
and some men do it in Palm Springs
laying it into butterblondes
with Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
nothing and everything,
the face melting down to the last puff
in a cellar in Corpus Christi.
there's something for the touts, the nuns,
the grocery clerks and you . . .
something at 8 a.m., something in the library
something in the river,
everything and nothing.
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it --
one
two
three
and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead
meat, its bones against your bones
something and nothing.
it's always early enough to die and
it's always too late,
and the drill of blood in the basin white
it tells you nothing at all
and the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
to dismiss the frost . . .
they tell you nothing at all.

we have everything and we have nothing --
days with glass edges and the impossible stink
of river moss -- worse than shit;
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as
in victory; slow days like mules
humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
up a road where a madman sits waiting among
bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey
grey.
good days too of wine and shouting, fights
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around
your bowels buried in moans,
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
that robbed you.
days when children say funny and brilliant things
like savages trying to send you a message through
their bodies while their bodies are still
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
and down without locks and paychecks and
ideals and possessions and beetle-like
opinions.
days when you can cry all day long in
a green room with the door locked, days
when you can laugh at the breadman
because his legs are too long, days
of looking at hedges . . .

and nothing, and nothing, the days of
the bosses, yellow men
with bad breath and big feet, men
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
as if melody had never been invented, men
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
profit, men with expensive wives they possess
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
or shown-off or to be walled away from
the incompetent, men who'd kill you
because they're crazy and justify it because
it's the law, men who stand in front of
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
men with luxury yachts who can sail around
the world and yet never get out of their vest
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
like slugs, and not as good . . .
and nothing, getting your last paycheck
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
barbershop, at a job you didn't want
anyway.
income tax, sickness, servility, broken
arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing
come out like an old pillow.

we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay --
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all
the ones you thought would never go.

days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don't want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you'll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you'll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah no no maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.


~Charles Bukowski

That is over nine minutes long. Who the hell has nine minutes to spare? Nine minutes! You crazy kids.

[Jen]

PS. I hereby nominate Arthur Joseph as an honorary SC'er, ex post facto. Or extempo. Whichever.

http://www.arthurjoseph.org/constitution.html

YouTube- Extempo War - Gypsy & Lady Africa

[Vengence Opus]

As best as we can make out Veng, you are somewhere in here. :(

http://www.porhomme.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/mio-gps-hock-ad-campaign-2009-2.jpg

I knew I'd taken a wrong turn, about the time my car turned upside down. If only I had gecko tires. :(

That is over nine minutes long. Who the hell has nine minutes to spare? Nine minutes! You crazy kids.

That's enough outta you, Lippmann!! :argh:

[GradyE]

oops

<.<
>.>

[Vivianne Draper]

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
And he said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were a cunt, I would fuck it."

[Jen]

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
And he said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were a cunt, I would fuck it."

If we're going to have limericks, I get to tell Sufi jokes:

There was once a small boy who banged a drum all day and loved every moment of it. He would not be quiet, no matter what anyone else said or did. Various people who called themselves Sufis, and other well-wishers, were called in by neighbors and asked to do something about the child.

The first so-called Sufi told the boy that he would, if he continued to make so much noise, perforate his eardrums; this reasoning was too advanced for the child, who was neither a scientist nor a scholar. The second told him that drum beating was a sacred activity and should be carried out only on special occasions. The third offered the neighbors plugs for their ears; the fourth gave the boy a book; the fifth gave the neighbors books that described a method of controlling anger through biofeedback; the sixth gave the boy meditation exercises to make him placid and explained that all reality was imagination. Like all placebos, each of these remedies worked for a short while, but none worked for very long.

Eventually, a real Sufi came along. He looked at the situation, handed the boy a hammer and chisel, and said, "I wonder what is INSIDE the drum?"

[Scylla Rhiadra]

The star that bids the Shepherd fold
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold
And the gilded Car of Day
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream



I always read this one on Christmas day. :)

[Jen]

Mulla Nasrudin was getting ready to apply to a local department store for a job. A friend told him that it was the policy of the store to hire nobody but Catholic Christians, and that if he wanted a job there, he would have to lie about being a Catholic Christian. Nasrudin applied for the job and the personnel man asked him the usual questions. Then he said to the Mulla, "And what church do you belong to?" "I am a Catholic," said Nasrudin. "And all my family are Catholics. In fact, my father is a priest, and my mother is a nun, sir."

Mulla Nasrudin used to say: "Every man should have at least one wife, because there are somethings that just can't be blamed on the government."

The town's richest man had died. The next morning, another rich, and particularly miserly, old man said to Mulla Nasrudin, "I wonder how much he left." Mulla Nasrudin laughed and said, "Every cent of it, Sir."

[Scylla Rhiadra]

On the Morning of Christ's Nativity

I
This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high council-table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III
Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heav'n, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the angel quire,
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
...

[Charlemagne Allen]

(Rilke is very close to my heart...)

The Panther

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

Rainer Maria Rilke

[Charlemagne Allen]

IN the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray
Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell
It were no easy task, how savage wild
That forest, how robust and rough its growth,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discover'd there.
How first I enter'd it I scarce can say,
Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd
My senses down, when the true path I left,
But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd
The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread,
I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad
Already vested with that planet's beam,
Who leads all wanderers safe through every way.

Then was a little respite to the fear,
That in my heart's recesses deep had lain,
All of that night, so pitifully pass'd:
And as a man, with difficult short breath,
Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore,
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd
Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits,
That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame
After short pause recomforted, again
I journey'd on over that lonely steep,


The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent
Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light,
And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd,
Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove
To check my onward going; that ofttimes
With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd.

The hour was morning's prime, and on his way
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars,
That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd
Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope
All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn
And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd,
And by new dread succeeded, when in view
A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd,






With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,
That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf
Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd
Full of all wants, and many a land hath made
Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear
O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd,
That of the height all hope I lost. As one,
Who with his gain elated, sees the time
When all unwares is gone, he inwardly
Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I,
Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace,
Who coming o'er against me, by degrees
Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests.

:om:

[Jen]

Since we're onto Sufis, here's some Omar Khayyam.

I. A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us-'Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'

And those who husbanded the Golden grain
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

II

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter-the wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belov�d, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!-Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend-ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

III

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side....

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look or us
Through this same Garden-and for one in vain!

And when like her O Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One-turn down an empty Glass!

[Jumpman Lane]

milk milk, lemonade
round the corner chocolates made

:yikes:fishcakes:hahaha:

[Jumpman Lane]

Since we're onto Sufis, here's some Omar Khayyam.

I. A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us-'Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'

And those who husbanded the Golden grain
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

II

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter-the wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belov�d, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!-Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend-ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

III

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side....

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look or us
Through this same Garden-and for one in vain!

And when like her O Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One-turn down an empty Glass!

sap:sniper:

[Elric Anatine]

WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,
A Pregnant banke swel'd up, to rest
The violets reclining head,
Sat we two, one anothers best.
Our hands were firmely cimented
With a fast balme, which thence did spring,
Our eye-beames twisted, and did thred
Our eyes, upon one double string;
So to'entergraft our hands, as yet
Was all the meanes to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equall Armies, Fate
Suspends uncertaine victorie,
Our soules, (which to advance their state,
Were gone out,) hung 'twixt her, and mee.
And whil'st our soules negotiate there,
Wee like sepulchrall statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
And wee said nothing, all the day.
If any, so by love refin'd,
That he soules language understood,
And by good love were growen all minde,
Within convenient distance stood,
He (though he knew not which soule spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take,
And part farre purer then he came.
This Extasie doth unperplex
(We said) and tell us what we love,
Wee see by this, it was not sexe,
Wee see, we saw not what did move:
But as all severall soules containe
Mixture of things, they know not what,
Love, these mixt soules, doth mixe againe,
And makes both one, each this and that.
A single violet transplant,
The strength, the colour, and the size,
(All which before was poore, and scant,)
Redoubles still, and multiplies.
When love, with one another so
Interinanimates two soules,
That abler soule, which thence doth flow,
Defects of lonelinesse controules.
Wee then, who are this new soule, know,
Of what we are compos'd, and made,
For, th'Atomies of which we grow,
Are soules, whom no change can invade.
But O alas, so long, so farre
Our bodies why doe wee forbeare?
They are ours, though they are not wee, Wee are
The intelligences, they the spheare.
We owe them thankes, because they thus,
Did us, to us, at first convay,
Yeelded their forces, sense, to us,
Nor are drosse to us, but allay.
On man heavens influence workes not so,
But that it first imprints the ayre,
Soe soule into the soule may flow,
Though it to body first repaire.
As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like soules as it can,
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtile knot, which makes us man:
So must pure lovers soules descend
T'affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great Prince in prison lies.
To'our bodies turne wee then, that so
Weake men on love reveal'd may looke;
Loves mysteries in soules doe grow,
But yet the body is his booke.
And if some lover, such as wee,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still marke us, he shall see
Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

The Extasie - Donne

[Scylla Rhiadra]

sap:sniper:

Jumpy!!! Behave!!

Or no more lemonade for you!!! :swatter:

[Govi]

Ja da kann man sich nicht einfach hinlegen.
Ja muss man kalt und herzlos sein.
Ja da wurde doch viel geschehen.
Ja da gibt's ueberhaupt nur "nein."

-Brecht/Weill aus der Dreigroschen Oper

[Jen]

Now that we finished w/ the sufis, let's go to the feezoos.

Ho, Ho, Ho
(I know I ain't hear somebody say
nuthin about hoes up in here, sshhh, ooh lord)

What's up Dallas, what's up (x2)
Dallas jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up San Antone, what's up (x2)
San Antonio jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Austin, what's up (x2)
Austin jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Houston, what's up (x2)
Houston jump on it, jump on it, jump on it (Ooh lord)

Welcome to the 2 1 4
Big B, D Texas
Let mr. sexes flex this lexus
And this where the cowboys play
They battle with my team from the bay
Frisco
Now I'm from the northwest
But I likes my soul food
So I'm calling up an old groove
And I'm a brother with a gut
So, hello Keana, can ya take us out to Poppa Doughs
And don't forget about San Antone
The last time I went thru
I took three broads home
And much love love to the brothers in Austin
And the 5 1 2
I'm flossin in Lawston
A state that's as big as hell
And I spot two bad ass girls in a tercel
They said what's up? And I said whassup? (We're going to Houston)
And I said giddy up, U-turn

What's up Phoenix, what's up (x2)
Phoenix jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Cali, what's up (x2)
California jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Vegas, what's up (x2)
Las Vegas jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Sea-town, what's up (x2)
Seattle jump on it, jump on it, jump on it (Ooh lord)

Welcome to the 6 0 2
It's a 105 in the shade
And I'm sippin on a lemonade
Phoenix Arizona puts the heat up on ya
I should warn ya
The girls as fine as California
Speaking of Cali
Check your mack daddy
He gots game, and knocks dames from Redding to the Valley
And I can pull'em on a TJ border
I even knock mr. G's daughter
And come on up to the 7 0 2
Where it's legal to gamble, and hoing is too
The kinda city I could run wit
Las Vegas na vi dad, I love it
Back to the 2 0 6
Double up my grits
And Sea-town giving po po fits
Chasing the skirts like a playa supposed ta
348 roasta HIT IT! (ho, ho, ho... ooh Lord)

What's up Atlanta, what's up (x2)
Atlanta jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Orlando, what's up (x2)
Orlando jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Miami, what's up (x2)
Miami jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Tampa, what's up (x2)
Tampa jump on it, jump on it, jump on it

Coming thru the 4 0 4
Olympic summer, Atlanta, so lets go
Calling up my homeboy Daddy Ray
(Aiy Ray, what's up with the girls in GA)
And Ray got the situation handled
We gonna stack up six deep
And ride to Orlando
To the 4 0 7
Calling up Magic Mike, we rolls in about eleven
The gut getta gotta good ol' nine
The next dat I gotta mash to the 3 0 5
I get G'd like I wanna in Miami
You undastand me, I put that on my grammie
And swing on up to the 8 1 3
Around Tampa, I'm dialing up Stephanie
She got me polished like chrome
Sittin on a throne
I'm wore out know, I'm going home (Ooh lord)

What's up K.C., what's up (x2)
Kansas City jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Cleveland, what's up
What's up Cincinnati, what's up
Columbus jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Little Rock, what's up (x2)
Little Rock jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Denver, what's up (x2)
Denver jump on it, jump on it, jump on it (Ooh lord)
What's up Chicago, what's up (x2)
Chicago jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Portland, what's up (x2)
Portland jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up St. Louie, what's up
What's up East Side, what's up
St. Louis jump on it, jump on it, jump on it
What's up Tacoma, what's up (x2)
Tacoma jump on it, jump on it, jump on it

[Arilynn]

If I Could Tell You

TIme will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I cuold tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

- WH Auden

[Monna]

When I look out into your eyes out there,
When I look out into your faces,
You know what I see?
I see a little bit of Elvis
In each and every one of you out there.

Lemme tell ya...
Weeeeeeeeeellllllll...

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis is everywhere, man!
He's in everything.
He's in everybody...

Elvis is in your jeans.
He's in your cheesburgers
Elvis is in Nutty Buddies!
Elvis is in your mom!

He's in everybody.
He's in the young, the old,
the fat, the skinny,
the white, the black
the brown and the blue
people got Elvis in 'em too

Elvis is in everybody out there.
Everybody's got Elvis in them!
Everybody except one person that is...
Yeah, one person!
The evil opposite of Elvis.
The Anti-Elvis

Anti-Elvis got no Elvis in 'em,
lemme tell ya.

Michael J. Fox has no Elvis in him.

And Elvis is in Joan Rivers
but he's trying to get out, man!
He's trying to get out!
Listen up Joanie Baby!

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Man, there's a lot of unexplained phenomenon
out there in the world.
Lot of things people say
What the heck's going on?

Let me tell ya!

Who built the pyramids?
ELVIS!
Who built Stonehenge?
ELVIS!

Yeah, man you see guys
walking down the street
pushing shopping carts
and you think they're talking to allah,
they're talking to themself.
Man, no they're talking to ELVIS!
ELVIS! ELVIS!

You know whats going on in that Bermuda Triangle?
Down in the Bermuda Traingle
Elvis needs boats.
Elvis needs boats.
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis Elvis Elvis
Elvis needs boats.

Aahh! The Sailing Elvis!
Captain Elvis!
Commodore Elvis it is.

Yeah man, you know people from outer space,
people from outer space they come up to me.
They don't look like like Doctor Spock.
They don't look like Klingons,
all that Star Trek jive.

They look like Elvis.
ELVIS!
Everybody in outer space looks like Elvis.
Cause Elvis is a perfect being.
We are all moving in perfect peace and harmony towards Elvisness

Soon all will become Elvis.
Everything everywhere will be Elvis.
Why do you think they call it evolution anyway?
It's really Elvislution!
Elvislution!

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

That's right ladies and gentlemen,
The time has come!
Time has come to talk
To that little bit of Elvis inside of you.

Talk to it!
Call it up!
Say "Elvis, heal me!"
"Save me, Elvis!"
"Make me be born again
in the perfect Elvis light"

That's right!
You've got that Elvis inside of ya
and he's talkin to ya
He says he wants you to sing!
Everybody's got to sing like the king!

Like the king
Get that leg going now
Get your lip too.
Not no fool Billy Idol lip either
Everybody!
Yeah, we're rockin now!

Elvis is with us.
He's with us and he's speaking to us.
He says "Peoples!"
"Peoples!"
"Everybody!"
"Everybody got to sing!"

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis is everywhere
Elvis is everything
Elvis is everybody
Elvis is still the king

Man o man
What I want you to see
Is that the big E's
Inside of you and me

Elvis!

*Mojo Nixon*

[Govi]

To a Drake

This Mariner magnificent, Funambulator
in London's dangerous Game, hath newly gived
As Name, olde England's to Lands the Spanish claim.
The Golden Hinde his Home in Seven Seas.

The Hapsburg Hedgepriest, papist Avatrol,
Whilst dreamin' England's sure Downfall,
Conceived that the Prince of Parma England
Would enslave by sailing o'er the Channel's Waves.

As Duck to Water, so Drake to sea,
To sink the Escort of Parma's Army.
Then blew the Cataracts and Hurricanoes did spout
Whilst our great Captain turned the Spaniard to rout.

Sing Hey! Long may he live and long may he glory,
And oft told be Sir Fancis Drake's Story.
Long life to him, the Queen, and England's Story.
Sir Francis Drake gave his All for England's Glory.

:fangirl:

[Jen]

As I was driving on the freeway in the fast lane
with a rabid wolverine in my underwear
when suddenly a guy behind me in the back seat
popped right up and cupped his hands across my eyes
i guessed is it Uncle Frank or Cousin Luis
is it Bob or Joe or Walter
Could it be Bill or Jim or Ed or Berny or Steve
I probably would of kept on guessing
but about that time we crashed into the truck
and as im laying bleeding there on the asphalt
finally I recognized the face of my Hibachie dealer
who takes off his prostetic lips and tells me

Everything you know is wrong
black is white up is down and short is long
and everything you thought was just so important
Doesnt really matter everything you know is wrong
Just forget the words and sing along
all you need to understand is
Everything you know is wrong!

As I was walking to the kitchen for some Golden Grahams
when i accidentally stepped into an alternative dimension
and soon I was abducted by some aliens from space
who's faces kinda looked like Jamie Barr
they sucked out my internal organs and took some polaroids
and said I was a darn good sport and as a way of saying thank you
they offered to transport me back to any point in history
that i would care to go
and so i had them send me back to last thursday night
so i could pay my phone bill on time
just then a floating disembodied head of Colonal Sanders started yelling

Everything you know is wrong
black is white up is down and short is long
and everything you thought was just so important
Doesnt really matter everything you know is wrong
Just forget the words and sing along
all you need to understand is
Everything you know is wrong!

I was just about to mail a letter to my evil twin
when i got a nasty paper cut
and well to make a long story short it got infected and i died
so now im up in heaven with St. Peter by the pearly gates
and its obvious he doesn't like the nayru jacket im wearing
he tells me that they got a dress code
well he lets me into heaven anyway
but i get the room next to the noisy ice machine for all eternity
and everyday he runs by screaming

Everything you know is wrong
black is white up is down and short is long
and everything you used to think was so important
doesn't really matter anymore
because the simple fact remains that
Everything you know is wrong just forget the words and sing along
All you need to understand is everything you know is wrong
(everything you know is wrong) Everything you know is wrong

~Weird Al Yankovic

[Forest]

Ja da kann man sich nicht einfach hinlegen.
Ja muss man kalt und herzlos sein.
Ja da wurde doch viel geschehen.
Ja da gibt's ueberhaupt nur "nein."

-Brecht/Weill aus der Dreigroschen Oper

Who borked Govi?

[Vivianne Draper]

THOU liest dead, and there will be no memory left behind Of thee or thine in all the earth, for never didst thou bind The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doom Is now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom.

[Govi]

There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue
for you; and here's some for me: we may call it
herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with
a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you
some violets, but they withered all when my father
died: they say he made a good end,--

[flavian]

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

- Sara Teasdale

[Osprey Therian]

He usually stays in character, but don't be fooled.

I take it back and apologise to the forum denizens.

[Jumpman Lane]

He usually stays in character, but don't be fooled.

ur an ijit. I am an open book. "both" are me

[Jumpman Lane]

Jumpy!!! Behave!!

Or no more lemonade for you!!! :swatter:

i aint hehehehehehe

[Osprey Therian]

ur an ijit. I am an open book. "both" are me

I had already taken my words back. I was labouring under a misapprehension.

[Jumpman Lane]

I had already taken my words back. I was labouring under a misapprehension.

well i suppose that makes u a sap! :sniper:

[Ishina]

Inner North London, top floor flat
All white walls, white carpet, white cat,
Rice Paper partitions
Modern art and ambition
The host’s a physician,
Lovely bloke, has his own practice
His girlfriend’s an actress
An old mate from home
And they’re always great fun.
So to dinner we’ve come.


The 5th guest is an unknown,
The hosts have just thrown
Us together for a favor
because this girl’s just arrived from Australia
And has moved to North London
And she’s the sister of someone
Or has some connection.

As we make introductions
I’m struck by her beauty
She’s irrefutably fair
With dark eyes and dark hair
But as she sits
I admit I’m a little bit wary
because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy
Tattooed on that popular area
Just above the derrière
And when she says “I’m Sagittarien”
I confess a pigeonhole starts to form
And is immediately filled with pigeon
When she says her name is Storm.

Chatter is initially bright and light hearted
But it’s not long before Storm gets started:
“You can’t know anything,
Knowledge is merely opinion”
She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon
Vis a vis
Some unhippily
Empirical comment by me

“Not a good start” I think
We’re only on pre-dinner drinks
And across the room, my wife
Widens her eyes
Silently begs me, Be Nice
A matrimonial warning
Not worth ignoring
So I resist the urge to ask Storm
Whether knowledge is so loose-weave
Of a morning
When deciding whether to leave
Her apartment by the front door
Or a window on the second floor.

The food is delicious and Storm,
Whilst avoiding all meat
Happily sits and eats
While the good doctor, slightly pissedly
Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history
When Storm suddenly she insists
“But the human body is a mystery!
Science just falls in a hole
When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”

My hostess throws me a glance
She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance
That I’ll be off on one of my rants
But my lips are sealed.
I just want to enjoy my meal
And although Storm is starting to get my goat
I have no intention of rocking the boat,
Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle
Because – like her meteorological namesake -
Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:

“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy
They promote drug dependency
At the cost of the natural remedies
That are all our bodies need
They are immoral and driven by greed.
Why take drugs
When herbs can solve it?
Why use chemicals
When homeopathic solvents
Can resolve it?
It’s time we all return-to-live
With natural medical alternatives.”

And try as hard as I like,
A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
“By definition”, I begin
“Alternative Medicine”, I continue
“Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call “alternative medicine”
That’s been proved to work?
Medicine.”

“So you don’t believe
In ANY Natural remedies?”

“On the contrary actually:
Before we came to tea,
I took a natural remedy
Derived from the bark of a willow tree
A painkiller that’s virtually side-effect free
It’s got a weird name,
Darling, what was it again?
Masprin?
Basprin?
Asprin!
Which I paid about a buck for
Down at my local drugstore."

The debate briefly abates
As our hosts collects plates
but as they return with desserts
Storm pertly asserts,

“Shakespeare said it first:
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than exist in your philosophy…
Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality,
It can’t explain love or spirituality.
How does science explain psychics?
Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”

I’m becoming aware
That I’m staring,
I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped
In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.
Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just misquothed
Or the eighth glass of wine I just quaffed
But my diplomacy dike groans
And the arsehole held back by its stones
Can be held back no more:

“Look , Storm, I don’t mean to bore you
But there’s no such thing as an aura!
Reading Auras is like reading minds
Or star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian lines
These people aren’t plying a skill,
They are either lying or mentally ill.
Same goes for those who claim to hear God’s demands
And Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.

By the way,
Why is it OK
For people to pretend they can talk to the dead?
Is it not totally fucked in the head
Lying to some crying woman whose child has died
And telling her you’re in touch with the other side?
That’s just fundamentally sick
Do we need to clarify that there’s no such thing as a psychic?
What, are we fucking 2?
Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?
Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?
That Michael Jackson hasn’t had facelifts?
Are we still so stunned by circus tricks
That we think that the dead would
Wanna talk to pricks
Like John Edwards?

Storm to her credit despite my derision
Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision
Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition

“You’re so sure of your position
But you’re just closed-minded
I think you’ll find
Your faith in Science and Tests
Is just as blind
As the faith of any fundamentalist”

“Hm that’s a good point, let me think for a bit
Oh wait, my mistake, it’s absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts it’s beliefs based on what’s observed
Faith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.
If you show me
That, say, homeopathy works,
Then I will change my mind
I’ll spin on a fucking dime
I’ll be embarrassed as hell,
But I will run through the streets yelling
It’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it!
Water has memory!
And while it’s memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is Infinite
It somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!

You show me that it works and how it works
And when I’ve recovered from the shock
I will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”

Everyones just staring at me now,
But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down,
So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:

“Life is full of mysteries, yeah
But there are answers out there
And they won’t be found
By people sitting around
Looking serious
And saying isn’t life mysterious?
Let’s sit here and hope
Let’s call up the fucking Pope
Let’s go watch Oprah
Interview Deepak Chopra

If you’re going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.
That show was so cool
because every time there’s a church with a ghoul
Or a ghost in a school
They looked beneath the mask and what was inside?
The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the waterslide.
Throughout history
Every mystery
EVER solved has turned out to be
Not Magic.

Does the idea that there might be truth
Frighten you?
Does the idea that one afternoon
On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you
Frighten you?
Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural
So blow your hippy noodle
That you would rather just stand in the fog
Of your inability to Google?

Isn’t this enough?
Just this world?
Just this beautiful, complex
Wonderfully unfathomable world?
How does it so fail to hold our attention
That we have to diminish it with the invention
Of cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?
If you’re so into Shakespeare
Lend me your ear:
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo?!
I see trees of Green,
Red roses too,
And fine, if you wish to
Glorify Krishna and Vishnu
In a post-colonial, condescending
Bottled-up and labeled kind of way
That’s ok.
But here’s what gives me a hard-on:
I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.
I have one life, and it is short
And unimportant…
But thanks to recent scientific advances
I get to live twice as long as my great great great great uncles and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine
Twice as long to love this wife of mine
Twice as many years of friends and wine
Of sharing curries and getting shitty
With good-looking hippies
With fairies on their spines
And butterflies on their titties.

And if perchance I have offended
Think but this and all is mended:
We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time,
For all the chance you’ll change your mind.

- Storm, Tim Minchin

[Dale Innis]

There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.
The northern lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see,
Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
When I cremated Sam McGee.

...

The whole thing is too long for here. :) http://ingeb.org/songs/thereare.html

[Jumpman Lane]

Inner North London, top floor flat
All white walls, white carpet, white cat,
Rice Paper partitions
Modern art and ambition
The host’s a physician,
Lovely bloke, has his own practice
His girlfriend’s an actress
An old mate from home
And they’re always great fun.
So to dinner we’ve come.


The 5th guest is an unknown,
The hosts have just thrown
Us together for a favor
because this girl’s just arrived from Australia
And has moved to North London
And she’s the sister of someone
Or has some connection.

As we make introductions
I’m struck by her beauty
She’s irrefutably fair
With dark eyes and dark hair
But as she sits
I admit I’m a little bit wary
because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy
Tattooed on that popular area
Just above the derrière
And when she says “I’m Sagittarien”
I confess a pigeonhole starts to form
And is immediately filled with pigeon
When she says her name is Storm.

Chatter is initially bright and light hearted
But it’s not long before Storm gets started:
“You can’t know anything,
Knowledge is merely opinion”
She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon
Vis a vis
Some unhippily
Empirical comment by me

“Not a good start” I think
We’re only on pre-dinner drinks
And across the room, my wife
Widens her eyes
Silently begs me, Be Nice
A matrimonial warning
Not worth ignoring
So I resist the urge to ask Storm
Whether knowledge is so loose-weave
Of a morning
When deciding whether to leave
Her apartment by the front door
Or a window on the second floor.

The food is delicious and Storm,
Whilst avoiding all meat
Happily sits and eats
While the good doctor, slightly pissedly
Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history
When Storm suddenly she insists
“But the human body is a mystery!
Science just falls in a hole
When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”

My hostess throws me a glance
She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance
That I’ll be off on one of my rants
But my lips are sealed.
I just want to enjoy my meal
And although Storm is starting to get my goat
I have no intention of rocking the boat,
Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle
Because – like her meteorological namesake -
Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:

“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy
They promote drug dependency
At the cost of the natural remedies
That are all our bodies need
They are immoral and driven by greed.
Why take drugs
When herbs can solve it?
Why use chemicals
When homeopathic solvents
Can resolve it?
It’s time we all return-to-live
With natural medical alternatives.”

And try as hard as I like,
A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
“By definition”, I begin
“Alternative Medicine”, I continue
“Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call “alternative medicine”
That’s been proved to work?
Medicine.”

“So you don’t believe
In ANY Natural remedies?”

“On the contrary actually:
Before we came to tea,
I took a natural remedy
Derived from the bark of a willow tree
A painkiller that’s virtually side-effect free
It’s got a weird name,
Darling, what was it again?
Masprin?
Basprin?
Asprin!
Which I paid about a buck for
Down at my local drugstore."

The debate briefly abates
As our hosts collects plates
but as they return with desserts
Storm pertly asserts,

“Shakespeare said it first:
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than exist in your philosophy…
Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality,
It can’t explain love or spirituality.
How does science explain psychics?
Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”

I’m becoming aware
That I’m staring,
I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped
In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.
Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just misquothed
Or the eighth glass of wine I just quaffed
But my diplomacy dike groans
And the arsehole held back by its stones
Can be held back no more:

“Look , Storm, I don’t mean to bore you
But there’s no such thing as an aura!
Reading Auras is like reading minds
Or star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian lines
These people aren’t plying a skill,
They are either lying or mentally ill.
Same goes for those who claim to hear God’s demands
And Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.

By the way,
Why is it OK
For people to pretend they can talk to the dead?
Is it not totally fucked in the head
Lying to some crying woman whose child has died
And telling her you’re in touch with the other side?
That’s just fundamentally sick
Do we need to clarify that there’s no such thing as a psychic?
What, are we fucking 2?
Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?
Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?
That Michael Jackson hasn’t had facelifts?
Are we still so stunned by circus tricks
That we think that the dead would
Wanna talk to pricks
Like John Edwards?

Storm to her credit despite my derision
Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision
Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition

“You’re so sure of your position
But you’re just closed-minded
I think you’ll find
Your faith in Science and Tests
Is just as blind
As the faith of any fundamentalist”

“Hm that’s a good point, let me think for a bit
Oh wait, my mistake, it’s absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts it’s beliefs based on what’s observed
Faith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.
If you show me
That, say, homeopathy works,
Then I will change my mind
I’ll spin on a fucking dime
I’ll be embarrassed as hell,
But I will run through the streets yelling
It’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it!
Water has memory!
And while it’s memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is Infinite
It somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!

You show me that it works and how it works
And when I’ve recovered from the shock
I will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”

Everyones just staring at me now,
But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down,
So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:

“Life is full of mysteries, yeah
But there are answers out there
And they won’t be found
By people sitting around
Looking serious
And saying isn’t life mysterious?
Let’s sit here and hope
Let’s call up the fucking Pope
Let’s go watch Oprah
Interview Deepak Chopra

If you’re going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.
That show was so cool
because every time there’s a church with a ghoul
Or a ghost in a school
They looked beneath the mask and what was inside?
The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the waterslide.
Throughout history
Every mystery
EVER solved has turned out to be
Not Magic.

Does the idea that there might be truth
Frighten you?
Does the idea that one afternoon
On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you
Frighten you?
Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural
So blow your hippy noodle
That you would rather just stand in the fog
Of your inability to Google?

Isn’t this enough?
Just this world?
Just this beautiful, complex
Wonderfully unfathomable world?
How does it so fail to hold our attention
That we have to diminish it with the invention
Of cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?
If you’re so into Shakespeare
Lend me your ear:
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo?!
I see trees of Green,
Red roses too,
And fine, if you wish to
Glorify Krishna and Vishnu
In a post-colonial, condescending
Bottled-up and labeled kind of way
That’s ok.
But here’s what gives me a hard-on:
I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.
I have one life, and it is short
And unimportant…
But thanks to recent scientific advances
I get to live twice as long as my great great great great uncles and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine
Twice as long to love this wife of mine
Twice as many years of friends and wine
Of sharing curries and getting shitty
With good-looking hippies
With fairies on their spines
And butterflies on their titties.

And if perchance I have offended
Think but this and all is mended:
We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time,
For all the chance you’ll change your mind.

- Storm, Tim Minchin

aint nobodyu readin that shit!

[Gabe Lippmann]

horse face! :sniper: