The Days of the Week . . .
Manic Monday. ruby Tuesday. One More Saturday Night. Monday, Monday. Yesterday. Today. Sunday Bloody Sunday. yeah, those are all the songs I can think of that have days in'em, ya know?
Sir Mondale Kite (5:45:45 PM): so, what are you up to?
Toxin55 (5:46:03 PM): run away Simba...Run, Run away and never return
Sir Mondale Kite (5:46:28 PM): you're watching the lion king or trying to speak to me in silly metaphors because you're busy?
Toxin55 (5:48:15 PM): lounging unladylike with candy coted secrets and Bungalo blue toe nails
Sir Mondale Kite (5:48:33 PM): wow, that's beautiful. that's so fucking gorgeous. I wish I could write that.
Toxin55 (5:49:59 PM): lol
Toxin55 (5:49:59 PM): yeha i like that one too
Sir Mondale Kite (5:50:08 PM): :-)
ah, and now a snippet of conversation I just had with me friend. yeah. ain't it grand. I dunno what to write about. the bloody heat is getting to me. I'm gonna transcribe another poem. so, yeah.
Like A Pastry.
The soft, sensual, syncopated rhythms of bliss ring lovingly in man's collective aural history. The love that blossoms from such shear exhaustion is the love that causes the placid flowers to blossom, reach forward, and kiss the world good morning.
Splashes of decadence drip from the seductive flowers, on to the parched and, quenching only the surface. Beneath said surface, is intense moisture, an area moist with all the misgivings and distortions of real perception.
Rose petals fall in lateral, circular motions, hitting the ground in approximate seconds. They reveal a plethora of more petals, and the visceral belongings of a flower on its waning moments. No one cares about what's fallen; its trampled about and transposed with the images of a child's eyes watering a dead garden. And yet, it blossoms once more.
As the sun rises, these are the images which dance forth. A dinner-jacket lies strewn lazily over an oblong chair, covered in touches of lipstick, hiding from the public, a half-tasted glass of bubbly. The typewriter coalesces into noisy anti-climax.
Another unfinished work. Another fragment, of a long, already forgotten night, added to the shards of broken dreams and pocket-book matches. And yet, as he reaches for his morning pastry and coffee, he sighs contentedly, knowing it will never be finished.
As he reaches contentedly for the first bite of the long day to come, an explosion sounds. A pastry never tasted so bitter.
that's the poem. and yeah, I like the smiths. and yeah, it's bloody hot right now. three-day weekend. bowling, shopping, party tomorrow. interview on sunday. nothing on monday. i dunno. I will, however, be online. I'll catch you all later, and possibly have a real update later. *waves* cheers.
Sir Mondale Kite (5:45:45 PM): so, what are you up to?
Toxin55 (5:46:03 PM): run away Simba...Run, Run away and never return
Sir Mondale Kite (5:46:28 PM): you're watching the lion king or trying to speak to me in silly metaphors because you're busy?
Toxin55 (5:48:15 PM): lounging unladylike with candy coted secrets and Bungalo blue toe nails
Sir Mondale Kite (5:48:33 PM): wow, that's beautiful. that's so fucking gorgeous. I wish I could write that.
Toxin55 (5:49:59 PM): lol
Toxin55 (5:49:59 PM): yeha i like that one too
Sir Mondale Kite (5:50:08 PM): :-)
ah, and now a snippet of conversation I just had with me friend. yeah. ain't it grand. I dunno what to write about. the bloody heat is getting to me. I'm gonna transcribe another poem. so, yeah.
Like A Pastry.
The soft, sensual, syncopated rhythms of bliss ring lovingly in man's collective aural history. The love that blossoms from such shear exhaustion is the love that causes the placid flowers to blossom, reach forward, and kiss the world good morning.
Splashes of decadence drip from the seductive flowers, on to the parched and, quenching only the surface. Beneath said surface, is intense moisture, an area moist with all the misgivings and distortions of real perception.
Rose petals fall in lateral, circular motions, hitting the ground in approximate seconds. They reveal a plethora of more petals, and the visceral belongings of a flower on its waning moments. No one cares about what's fallen; its trampled about and transposed with the images of a child's eyes watering a dead garden. And yet, it blossoms once more.
As the sun rises, these are the images which dance forth. A dinner-jacket lies strewn lazily over an oblong chair, covered in touches of lipstick, hiding from the public, a half-tasted glass of bubbly. The typewriter coalesces into noisy anti-climax.
Another unfinished work. Another fragment, of a long, already forgotten night, added to the shards of broken dreams and pocket-book matches. And yet, as he reaches for his morning pastry and coffee, he sighs contentedly, knowing it will never be finished.
As he reaches contentedly for the first bite of the long day to come, an explosion sounds. A pastry never tasted so bitter.
that's the poem. and yeah, I like the smiths. and yeah, it's bloody hot right now. three-day weekend. bowling, shopping, party tomorrow. interview on sunday. nothing on monday. i dunno. I will, however, be online. I'll catch you all later, and possibly have a real update later. *waves* cheers.