SEX SEX SEX

  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 15, 2014 11:48 PM GMT

    Now that I have your attention let's all be pretentious beret-wearing wine-sipping arseholes and share our favourite poems.

    Song lyrics are allowed as well.

    I Felt a Funeral in my Brain - by Emily Dickinson

    I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
    And Mourners to and fro
    Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
    That Sense was breaking through –

    And when they all were seated
    A Service, like a Drum –
    Kept beating – beating – till I thought
    My Mind was going numb –

    And then I heard them lift a Box
    And creak across my Soul
    With those same Boots of Lead, again
    Then Space – began to toll

    As all the Heavens were a Bell
    And Being, but an Ear
    And I, and Silence, some strange Race
    Wrecked, solitary, here –

    And then a Plank in Reason, broke
    And I dropped down, and down –
    And hit a World, at every plunge
    And Finished knowing – then –
  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 15, 2014 11:50 PM GMT
    "I'm Not a Man" - by Morrissey

    Don Juan
    Picaresque
    Wife beater vest
    Cold hand
    Ice man
    Warring cave man
    Well if this is what it takes to describe...
    I'm not a man

    Wheeler, dealer
    Mover, shaker
    Casanova
    Beefaroni
    A-ho but lonely
    Well if this is what it takes to describe...
    I'm not a man
    I'm not a man
    I'm something much bigger and better than
    A man

    Wise-ass
    Smart-ass
    Workaholic
    Thick-skinned
    Two-fisted hombre, olé
    Well if these are terms you'd use to describe...

    Oh, I'm shaking
    Look at me I'm quaking
    True grit
    True blue
    Kill crazy
    So very manly of you
    You are the soldier
    Who won't get much older
    You are the slow Joe
    Who signed up to go

    Wolf down
    Wolf down
    T-bone steak
    Wolf down
    Cancer of the prostate

    Ways to sit
    And of course
    Ways to stand
    I'm not a man
    I'm not a man
    No big fat locker room
    Hockey jock
    Laughing
    I'm not a man
    I'd never kill or eat an animal
    And I never would destroy this planet I'm on
    Well, what do you think I am?
    A man?
  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 15, 2014 11:57 PM GMT
    2bnaked said
    jaroslav123 said"I'm Not a Man" - by Morrissey

    Don Juan
    Picaresque
    Wife beater vest
    Cold hand
    Ice man
    Warring cave man
    Well if this is what it takes to describe...
    I'm not a man

    Wheeler, dealer
    Mover, shaker
    Casanova
    Beefaroni
    A-ho but lonely
    Well if this is what it takes to describe...
    I'm not a man
    I'm not a man
    I'm something much bigger and better than
    A man

    Wise-ass
    Smart-ass
    Workaholic
    Thick-skinned
    Two-fisted hombre, olé
    Well if these are terms you'd use to describe...

    Oh, I'm shaking
    Look at me I'm quaking
    True grit
    True blue
    Kill crazy
    So very manly of you
    You are the soldier
    Who won't get much older
    You are the slow Joe
    Who signed up to go

    Wolf down
    Wolf down
    T-bone steak
    Wolf down
    Cancer of the prostate

    Ways to sit
    And of course
    Ways to stand
    I'm not a man
    I'm not a man
    No big fat locker room
    Hockey jock
    Laughing
    I'm not a man
    I'd never kill or eat an animal
    And I never would destroy this planet I'm on
    Well, what do you think I am?
    A man?


    YOUR OFFICIALLY HIRED!!!
    1400272897837.cached.jpg


    I don't know how to take this comment. I don't think Morrissey does either. ;)
  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 16, 2014 12:08 AM GMT
    "Thank-You God" - by Tim Minchin

    I have an apology to make
    I'm afraid I've made a big mistake
    I turned my face away from you, Lord

    I was too blind to see the light
    I was too weak to feel Your might
    I closed my eyes; I couldn't see the truth, Lord

    But then like Saul on the Damascus road,
    You sent a messenger to me, and so
    Now I've have had the truth revealed to me
    Please forgive me all those things I said
    I'll no longer betray you, Lord
    I will pray to you instead

    And I will say thank you, thank you
    Thank you, God
    Thank you, thank you
    Thank you, God...

    Thank you, God, for fixing the cataracts of Sam's mum
    I had no idea, but it's suddenly so clear now
    I feel such a cynic, how could I have been so dumb?
    Thank you for displaying how praying works:
    A particular prayer in a particular church
    Thank you Sam for the chance to acknowledge this
    Omnipotent ophthalmologist

    Thank you, God, for fixing the cataracts of Sam's mum
    I didn't realize that it was so simple
    But you've shown a great example of just how it can be done
    You only need to pray in a particular spot
    To a particular version of a particular god,
    And if you pull that off without a hitch,
    He will fix one eye of one middle-class white bitch

    I know in the past my outlook has been limited
    I couldn't see examples of where life had been definitive
    But I can admit it when the evidence is clear,
    As clear as Sam's mum's new cornea
    (And that's extremely clear! )

    Thank you, God, for fixing the cataracts of Sam's mum
    I have to admit that in the past I have been skeptical
    But Sam described this miracle and I am overcome!
    How fitting that the sighting of a sight-based intervention
    Should open my eyes to this exciting new dimension
    It's like someone put an eye chart up in front of me
    And the top five letters say: I C, G O D

    Thank you, Sam, for showing how my point of view has been so flawed
    I assumed there was no God at all but now I see that's cynical
    It's simply that his interests aren't particularly broad
    He's largely undiverted by the starving masses,
    Or the inequality between the various classes
    He gives you strictly limited passes,
    Redeemable for surgery or two-for-one glasses

    I feel so shocking for historically mocking
    Your interests are clearly confined to the ocular
    I bet given the chance, you'd eschew the divine
    And start a little business selling contacts online

    Fuck me Sam, what are the odds
    That of history's endless parade of gods
    That the God you just happened to be taught to believe in
    Is the actual one and he digs on healing,
    But not the AIDS-ridden African nations
    Nor the victims of the plague, nor the flood-addled Asians,
    But healthy, privately-insured Australians
    With common and curable corneal degeneration

    This story of Sam's has but a single explanation:
    A surgical God who digs on magic operations
    No, it couldn't be mistaken attribution of causation
    Born of a coincidental temporal correlation
    Exacerbated by a general lack of education
    Vis-a-vis physics in Sam's parish congregation
    And it couldn't be that all these pious people are liars
    It couldn't be an artefact of confirmation bias
    A product of groupthink,
    A mass delusion,
    An Emperor's New Clothes-style fear of exclusion

    No, it's more likely to be an all-powerful magician
    Than the misdiagnosis of the initial condition,
    Or one of many cases of spontaneous remission,
    Or a record-keeping glitch by the local physician

    No, the only explanation for Sam's mum's seeing:
    They prayed to an all-knowing superbeing,
    To the omnipresent master of the universe,
    And he quite liked the sound of their muttered verse.

    So for a bit of a change from his usual stunt
    Of being a sexist, racist, murderous cunt
    He popped down to Dandenong and just like that
    Used his powers to heal the cataracts of Sam's mum
    Of Sam's mum

    Thank you God for fixing the cataracts of Sam's mum!
    I didn't realize that it was such a simple thing
    I feel such a dingaling, what ignorant scum!

    Now I understand how prayer can work:
    A particular prayer in a particular church
    In a particular style with a particular stuff
    And for particular problems that aren't particularly tough,
    And for particular people, preferably white
    And for particular senses, preferably sight
    A particular prayer in a particular spot
    To a particular version of a particular god

    And if you get that right, he just might
    Take a break from giving babies malaria
    And pop down to your local area
    To fix the cataracts of your mum!
  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 16, 2014 12:09 AM GMT
    "Daddy" - by Sylvia Plath

    You do not do, you do not do

    Any more, black shoe

    In which I have lived like a foot

    For thirty years, poor and white,

    Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.


    Daddy, I have had to kill you.

    You died before I had time——

    Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

    Ghastly statue with one gray toe

    Big as a Frisco seal


    And a head in the freakish Atlantic

    Where it pours bean green over blue

    In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

    I used to pray to recover you.

    Ach, du.


    In the German tongue, in the Polish town

    Scraped flat by the roller

    Of wars, wars, wars.

    But the name of the town is common.

    My Polack friend


    Says there are a dozen or two.

    So I never could tell where you

    Put your foot, your root,

    I never could talk to you.

    The tongue stuck in my jaw.


    It stuck in a barb wire snare.

    Ich, ich, ich, ich,

    I could hardly speak.

    I thought every German was you.

    And the language obscene


    An engine, an engine

    Chuffing me off like a Jew.

    A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

    I began to talk like a Jew.

    I think I may well be a Jew.


    The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

    Are not very pure or true.

    With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

    And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

    I may be a bit of a Jew.


    I have always been scared of you,

    With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

    And your neat mustache

    And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

    Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——


    Not God but a swastika

    So black no sky could squeak through.

    Every woman adores a Fascist,

    The boot in the face, the brute

    Brute heart of a brute like you.


    You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

    In the picture I have of you,

    A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

    But no less a devil for that, no not

    Any less the black man who


    Bit my pretty red heart in two.

    I was ten when they buried you.

    At twenty I tried to die

    And get back, back, back to you.

    I thought even the bones would do.


    But they pulled me out of the sack,

    And they stuck me together with glue.

    And then I knew what to do.

    I made a model of you,

    A man in black with a Meinkampf look


    And a love of the rack and the screw.

    And I said I do, I do.

    So daddy, I’m finally through.

    The black telephone’s off at the root,

    The voices just can’t worm through.


    If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——

    The vampire who said he was you

    And drank my blood for a year,

    Seven years, if you want to know.

    Daddy, you can lie back now.


    There’s a stake in your fat black heart

    And the villagers never liked you.

    They are dancing and stamping on you.

    They always knew it was you.

    Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
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    Aug 16, 2014 12:10 AM GMT

    When We Two Parted
    George Gordon Byron, 1788 - 1824

    When we two parted
    In silence and tears,
    Half broken-hearted
    To sever for years,
    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
    Colder thy kiss;
    Truly that hour foretold
    Sorrow to this.

    The dew of the morning
    Sunk chill on my brow--
    It felt like the warning
    Of what I feel now.
    Thy vows are all broken,
    And light is thy fame;
    I hear thy name spoken,
    And share in its shame.

    They name thee before me,
    A knell to mine ear;
    A shudder comes o'er me--
    Why wert thou so dear?
    They know not I knew thee,
    Who knew thee too well--
    Long, long shall I rue thee,
    Too deeply to tell.

    In secret we met--
    In silence I grieve,
    That thy heart could forget,
    Thy spirit deceive.
    If I should meet thee
    After long years,
    How should I greet thee?--
    With silence and tears.

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    Aug 16, 2014 12:17 AM GMT
    I had difficulty finding this poem online. It is about AIDS.

    Terminal
    by Thom Gunn, 1992
    The eight years difference in age seems now
    Disparity so wide between the two
    That when I see the man who armoured stood
    Resistant to all help however good
    Now helped through day itself, eased into chairs,
    Or else led step by step down the long stairs
    With firm and gentle guidance by his friend,
    Who loves him, through each effort to descend,
    Each wavering, each attempt made to complete
    An arc of movement and bring down the feet
    As if with that spare strength he used to enjoy,
    I think of Oedipus, old, led by a boy.
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    Aug 16, 2014 1:51 AM GMT
    I always liked Haiku. Spam Haiku to be exact.

     A guilty pleasure
    On a bright sunny morning--
    Scrambled eggs and SPAM.
    ------------------------------------
     Ears, snouts and innards,
    A homogeneous mass--
    Pass another slice.
    ------------------------------------
     Cube of cold pinkness
    Yellow specks of porcine fat
    Give me a spork, please.
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    Aug 16, 2014 1:58 AM GMT
    roses are red
    violets are blue
    sugar is sweet
    and so are youicon_redface.gif
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    Aug 16, 2014 2:14 AM GMT
    A man said to the universe:
    "Sir I exist!"
    "However," replied the universe,
    "The fact has not created in me
    A sense of obligation."
    - Stephen Crane
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    Aug 16, 2014 2:31 AM GMT
    Fashion Craze

    We die more and more beautifully
    in Gianni Versace’s collection.
    Elegance is aesthetics’ nestling.

    We bustle about the churches of fashion
    believing that the orange will suit us.

    You kiss me in a changing room
    Look, it’s just Rome’s fall in green.

    We solve the puzzles of our archetypes.
    Translate berets into foreign languages.

    Tonight we are invited
    to the opening of the Last Judgment.

    We enter without tickets.
    Today is dead admission.


    by Ewa Lipska
  • jaroslav123

    Posts: 600

    Aug 16, 2014 11:35 AM GMT
    "Behind Me Dips Eternity" - by Emily Dickinson

    Behind Me—dips Eternity—
    Before Me—Immortality—
    Myself—the Term between—
    Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
    Dissolving into Dawn away,
    Before the West begin—

    ’Tis Kingdoms—afterward—they say—
    In perfect—pauseless Monarchy—
    Whose Prince—is Son of None—
    Himself—His Dateless Dynasty—
    Himself—Himself diversify—
    In Duplicate divine—

    ’Tis Miracle before Me—then—
    ’Tis Miracle behind—between—
    A Crescent in the Sea—
    With Midnight to the North of Her—
    And Midnight to the South of Her—
    And Maelstrom—in the Sky—
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    Aug 16, 2014 11:53 AM GMT
    Wild nights - Wild nights!
    Were I with thee
    Wild nights should be
    Our luxury!

    Futile - the winds -
    To a Heart in port -
    Done with the Compass -
    Done with the Chart!

    Rowing in Eden -
    Ah - the Sea!
    Might I but moor - tonight -
    In thee!

    --E.D.
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    Aug 17, 2014 5:59 PM GMT
    Because I could not stop for Death –
    He kindly stopped for me –
    The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove – He knew no haste
    And I had put away
    My labor and my leisure too,
    For His Civility –

    We passed the School, where Children strove
    At Recess – in the Ring –
    We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
    We passed the Setting Sun –

    Or rather – He passed us –
    The Dews drew quivering and chill –
    For only Gossamer, my Gown –
    My Tippet – only Tulle –

    We paused before a House that seemed
    A Swelling of the Ground –
    The Roof was scarcely visible –
    The Cornice – in the Ground –

    Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet
    Feels shorter than the Day
    I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
    Were toward Eternity –


    Emily Dickinson
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    Aug 17, 2014 6:37 PM GMT
    A Dog Has Died


    My dog has died.
    I buried him in the garden
    next to a rusted old machine.

    Some day I'll join him right there,
    but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
    his bad manners and his cold nose,
    and I, the materialist, who never believed
    in any promised heaven in the sky
    for any human being,
    I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
    Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
    where my dog waits for my arrival
    waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

    Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
    of having lost a companion
    who was never servile.
    His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
    withholding its authority,
    was the friendship of a star, aloof,
    with no more intimacy than was called for,
    with no exaggerations:
    he never climbed all over my clothes
    filling me full of his hair or his mange,
    he never rubbed up against my knee
    like other dogs obsessed with sex.

    No, my dog used to gaze at me,
    paying me the attention I need,
    the attention required
    to make a vain person like me understand
    that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
    but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
    he'd keep on gazing at me
    with a look that reserved for me alone
    all his sweet and shaggy life,
    always near me, never troubling me,
    and asking nothing.

    Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
    as we walked together on the shores of the sea
    in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
    where the wintering birds filled the sky
    and my hairy dog was jumping about
    full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
    my wandering dog, sniffing away
    with his golden tail held high,
    face to face with the ocean's spray.

    Joyful, joyful, joyful,
    as only dogs know how to be happy
    with only the autonomy
    of their shameless spirit.

    There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
    and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

    So now he's gone and I buried him,
    and that's all there is to it.


    Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer
    Pablo Neruda