Monday, 31 August 2009
Sunday, 30 August 2009
He who fears death cannot enjoy life..
A snapshot of a life half lived - by Albi
Round the corner of every instant, the fascination of the unknown
from Waterloo Bridge (1940)
Sat in the works executive toilet cubicle, Oliver Bedsocks takes another drink of Vodka chocolate milkshake to quell his untamed nerves. Would the Mint Field Playboys ever except me in this state, he wonders? That morning he had passed a Drunk, who after draining the last drops of his Special Brew in the open pub door way, turned to enter. He wanted so much to be that Drunk. Was love enough to keep him sane?
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
To Summer by William Blake
O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Friday, 14 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Elvis Has Entered The Building
Last years bride stands barefoot on threshold of her dystopian dawn
Last years bride clutching attic dolls wrapped in the old sex towel
Last years bride mulls the contents of her saddened handbag mind
Last years bride stands stone alone, by her hereditary blood throne
by albi
Last years bride clutching attic dolls wrapped in the old sex towel
Last years bride mulls the contents of her saddened handbag mind
Last years bride stands stone alone, by her hereditary blood throne
by albi
Monday, 10 August 2009
Friday, 7 August 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
