cut by sylvia plath wrote:What a thrill --
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man --
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump --
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
Word
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
sylvia plath in poppies in october wrote:Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly --
A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky
Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
from [i]lost in translation[/i].. wrote:Bob: Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?
Charlotte: I'm in.
and great loves will one day have to part -smashing pumpkins
To live as I have done is surely absurd
In cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
Talking to oneself
And screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To persevere
Through storms and hardons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ass
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend!
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to pussy and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing
-Jack Micheline
In cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
Talking to oneself
And screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To persevere
Through storms and hardons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ass
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend!
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to pussy and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing
-Jack Micheline
Licentia Haud Vestigium
Dr. Seuss wrote:
The Once-ler: And at that very moment, we heard a lound whack. From outside in the fields came the sickening smack of an axe on a tree. Then we saw the tree fall... the very last truffula tree of them all. No more trees. No more thneeds. No more work to be done. And in no time, my uncles and aunts, everyone had all waved me goodbye and jumped into their cars, and drove away under the smoke-smothered stars.
The Once-ler: Now, all that was left 'neath the bad-smelling sky was my big, empty factory, the Lorax, and I. The Lorax said nothing. Just gave me a glance. Just gave me a very sad, sad backward glance... as he LIFTED himself by the seat of his pants, and I'll never forget the grim look on his face when he hoisted himself and took leave of this place through a hole in the smog without leaving a trace!
The Once-ler: And all that the Lorax left here in this mess was a small pile of rocks with one word.
Boy: [reading it] "Unless?"
The Once-ler: Yes. "Unless."
Boy: What's an unless!
The Once-ler: Just a far away word/ just a far away thought...
Boy: A thought about what? About something I ought?
The Once-ler: Well...
The Once-ler: A thought about something that somebody ought/ a thought about something... that somebody... ought.
The Once-ler: Unless someone like you, cares a whole awful lot, nothing's going to get better. It's not.
"Unless someone like you, cares a whole awful lot, nothings going to get better. It's not."
The Once-ler
The Once-ler
His Holiness the Dalai Lama wrote: It is not enough to be compassionate. You must act. There are two aspects to action. One is to overcome the distortions and afflictions of your own mind, that is, in terms of calming and eventually dispelling anger. This is action out of compassion. The other is more social, more public. When something needs to be done in the world to rectify the wrongs, if one is really concerned with benefitting others, one needs to be engaged, involved.
"Unless someone like you, cares a whole awful lot, nothings going to get better. It's not."
The Once-ler
The Once-ler