How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

[where]

I don't care for him.

To each his own.

His love poetry melts me, but I'll admit to not being wild about poetry. It's the literary equivalent of sculpture.

 

[Byron In Exile]

His love poetry melts me, but I'll admit to not being wild about poetry. It's the literary equivalent of sculpture.

Sculpture, like painting, is static.

Poetry, like music, moves in time.

 

[fair_warning]

Good-Night by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood --
Then it will be -- good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

 

[blunt_trauma]

I meant the country, not you personally.

We could still sex it up -- it wouldn't be incest, technically.

why do people never sex it down?

hahahahaha!!!!!!!!!

*highbrow

 

[Byron In Exile]

why do people never sex it down?

That's difficult to do.

Once things get going, it becomes hard to put them down.

 

[clutch1]

Grab your glass and get your seat,
And I'll tell you about Big-Ass Lil and Yukon Pete!

Now, Lil was the village queen,
The fuckinest whore you'd ever seen.
While some girls fucked with grace and ease,
Lil blew dick like the summer breeze.
But when she fucked, she fucked for keeps,
She piled her victims up in heaps.

There was a rumor 'round that town,
That no man could put Lil's ass down.
But way up north, where twin rivers meet,
Lived a one-balled half-breed, name Yukon Pete!

Pete was a dirty, motherless soul,
Who fucked bears, sheep and woodchuck holes.
He got a whip for Big-Ass Lil,
Packed up his rubbers, and came down the hill.
He strode into town on size 32 feet,
Dragging sixteen yards of that red-hot meat!

Well, the scene was set at windy mill,
By the brick shithouse, high on the hill.
All the ladies came for a ringside seat,
Just to watch that half-breed sink his meat.

Well, they fucked, and they fucked, and they fucked for hours,
Uprooting trees, shrubs and flowers.
Lil did front flips, back flips, stunts
All unknown to most common cunts.
But Pete caught on to every trick,
And kept on pumping in more dick!

Then Lil gave Pete a whorehouse squeeze
That brought that half-breed to his knees.
But Pete came back with a Yukon grunt
That popped out her eyes, and split her cunt!

Well, Lil rolled over, cut two farts and sighed:
"Boys, I've been fucked," cut one more, and died.
When they asked that half-breed of his amazing feat,
He just said, "Boys, I'm going back to the Yukon, and beat my meat!"

 

[Saint Peter]

rose are red
byron is blue
if your shirt was oily
you'd be blue too

 

[Byron In Exile]

rose are red
byron is blue
if your shirt was oily
you'd be blue too

Very clever.

It was a cheap shirt, secretly.

I replaced it at a very low cost.

 

[Saint Peter]

Very clever.

It was a cheap shirt, secretly.

I replaced it at a very low cost.

You were still blue. Don't lie to me.

 

[Byron In Exile]

You were still blue. Don't lie to me.

Well, alright.

It was sentimental.

But you did that on purpose.

Don't you lie to me, now...

 

[Saint Peter]

Well, alright.

It was sentimental.

But you did that on purpose.

Don't you lie to me, now...

Glasnost from this day forward.

 

[Byron In Exile]

Glasnost from this day forward.

For Batchels.

I gave my shirt for her.

No more war.

 

[where]

Sculpture, like painting, is static.

Poetry, like music, moves in time.

sculpture and painting is no more static than poetry. Just one moves the mind, the other moves the eye and both should move the soul

 

[Saint Peter]

All the above is static.

Sorry.

 

[Byron In Exile]

sculpture and painting is no more static than poetry. Just one moves the mind, the other moves the eye and both should move the soul

All four move the soul, but in different ways.

Sculpture and painting move the soul immediately, and drastically.

They have an immediate impact.

Poetry and music are different. They move the soul across time.

 

[Byron In Exile]

All the above is static.

Sorry.

Oh, shit. Don't be a Philistene.

 

[where]

All the above is static.

Sorry.

I think you are wrong, but no need to apologise

All four move the soul, but in different ways.

Sculpture and painting move the soul immediately, and drastically.

They have an immediate impact.

Poetry and music are different. They move the soul across time.

I think you are wrong too. It very much depends on the individual.

With a very few exceptions, poetry does nothing for me in any way and the same is true of music.

Paintings on the other hand get me as close to god as it is possible for a non-believer to be.

Sculpture is usually something I trip over when I stand back to look at a painting, however.

 

[Byron In Exile]

I think you are wrong too. It very much depends on the individual.

With a very few exceptions, poetry does nothing for me in any way and the same is true of music.

Paintings on the other hand get me as close to god as it is possible for a non-believer to be.

Sculpture is usually something I trip over when I stand back to look at a painting, however.

But that has nothing to do with time.

The impact, with a painting or sculpture is practically instant.

But, I do believe, that with time, one can acheive what you seem to lack.

The Brandenburg Concertos are your next assignment.

 

[Saint Peter]

I think you are wrong, but no need to apologise

I am only sorry looking.


Get real here, people! The poem is at rest until we add energy to the system. Static.

Same thing with Byron's shirt.

 

[Angeline]

George Gordon, for you~

HAMLET

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king
and queen moult no feather. I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so.

 

[blunt_trauma]

That's difficult to do.

Once things get going, it becomes hard to put them down.

i'd be harder not to put down if i ate lots.

 

[phrodeau]

No need to bicker about various artforms which don't fit comparisons anyway. There's a reason that the Greek ancients had nine different Muses.

 

[Shadowann2]

The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator by Anne Sexton


The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

 

[Shadowann2]

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

193. O Captain! My Captain!





O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.



O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.



My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Points to anyone who knows who this poem is about!!

 

[where]

But that has nothing to do with time.

The impact, with a painting or sculpture is practically instant.

But, I do believe, that with time, one can acheive what you seem to lack.

The Brandenburg Concertos are your next assignment.

I'd rather have rostropovitch playing the cello concertos or gould playing the goldberg variations. I like my music, like my men. Simple but with depth and subtlety