HHH and Noel...you both make me larff
Just going to grab my slightly burnt squash curry and I'll be right back with some kind of offering, whether it is poetic or not has yet to be seen.
HHH and Noel...you both make me larff
Just going to grab my slightly burnt squash curry and I'll be right back with some kind of offering, whether it is poetic or not has yet to be seen.
Originally Posted by Hes
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach for another is to risk involvement.
To expose your ideas, your dreams,
before a crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To believe is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken, because the
greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The people who risk nothing, do nothing,
have nothing, are nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow,
but they cannot learn, feel, change,
grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes they are slaves;
they have forfeited their freedom.
Only a person who risks is free.
(unknown author)
it's after 9pm
I like that very much...
It's normally referred to in the context of mountaineering, skydiving or love. But it looks just as relevent to pension to me too.
being riskyIt's normally referred to in the context of mountaineering, skydiving or love. But it looks just as relevent to pension to me too.
makes you frisky
I didn't have brown rice
so I thought it would be nice
to supplement with something else instead
couscous seems okay
but I'm running far away
so would I have been better off with bread?
hmmm...is couscous carbohydrate, it must be surely?
I'll take the chancebeing risky
makes you frisky
for a little romance
Couscous is just fine,
When seasoned with some lime,
Just before you head right off to your bed.
It's carbs I'm sure,
guaranteed to make you more,
Swift on your feet and keep one step ahead.
So. It looks like it's just me then, talking to myself. Well MD can't you sleep? Nope! Ah, but think on, you've got nothing on our Sylvia....
Insomniac
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Yawn. Well it's back to counting sheep I suppose.
Night all. There's no one there MD. They're either still out on the razzle, baking Christmas Cake No. 2, or they were tucked up and snoring long ago.
Am Yisrael Chai
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