Pirate's Life - We Cut Corners

William Blake

Back of a Truck

She lifted the monument in her monumental arms

She was the Mother Superior with her carry-on luggage charms

She was this androgynous powder nosed girl next door

She had eaten her dog and she was back for more

Back for more, back for more

Oh she was back for more, some more, yes please, some more

Her gym teacher thought himself a sweat-socked demi-god

And her geraniums thought themselves an alien pod

And her front porch gave way beneath the classified weight

And when an ambulance came they said it's much too late

Oh it's much too late, oh it's much too, much too late

Oh it's much too late, how late? Very late, too late.

Now the people of New Guinea and the people of L.A.

Have been penpals for years cause they both hate ballet

Only the pandas and bears have made a clean get away

But the news bulletin claims it is gonna be okay

Now Miss Lucy had a sweat shop where the immigrants work

Problem was they all turned to pumpkins at the 12 o'clock stroke

Promptly confiscated by police precinct number X

That was when alien geraniums entered into a fight

No violence, of course, no violence, no violence, of course

Hey no violence, of course, of course, why yes, of course

I mean, I mean, of course, why yes, of...of course

Here the story gets hazy and the hair gets too long

And the T.V. gets quiet as I hear a real bad song

The mothers get whiskey and the girlfriends get tongue

And there's a back of a truck selling smoke free lungs

And there's a back of a truck selling alien pods

And there's a back of a truck selling game show hosts

And there's a back of a truck selling the souls of the dead

And there's a back of a truck selling crumb free bread

This is New York!

Now there's a back of a truck selling the back of a car

And there's a back of a car selling road way maps

And there are road way maps selling a back of a head

Hey how much for that back of a head, man?

Hey wait a minute, hey wait a minute

Wait a minute that's...wait a minute that's my back of a head

Hey you can't sell that, man, that's my back of a head

Hey, hey sell it back to me, man, sell it back to me

Hey it's, it's my m-m-m-m-m-m-mine

She lifted the monument in her monumental arms

She was the Mother Superior with her carry-on luggage charms

She was this androgynous powder nosed girl next door

She had eaten her dog and she was back for more

She had eaten her dog, D-O-W-G

She had eaten a dog, d-d-dog, d-d-dog, dog, dog, dog

She had eaten a...eaten a...eaten...eaten her...ooooh

Mmmmmm...mmmm...mmm

Ohhhh...ohhh....ohhhh

Ooooh....ooooooh...ooooh

Some more, yes please, some more

Some more, yes please, some more

Convoluted thoughts

Within the acronymity of titular self-defense, I find that the words perforate with the barbs of a bramble. 

I cannot bear to face the eyes within the cracking frame of shattered reflections.

A myriad of thoughts that shall never be.  

They're as jarring as broken teeth in the mouth of a young man.   

When I have Fears

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piled books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

-John Keats



Desmond Tutu

Happy 80th Birthday!

Thanks for being a voice of reason.

You are an icon.

Apparently there's protest action going on on the Rooiplein because the Dalai lama wasn't allowed into the country for your birthday. It's absolutely outrageous that the ANC are only looking out for their own interests and I will say it for as long as I am able.

Here's hoping there will be many more. 

                                               The world needs more voices like yours.

School

The words are a swarm of bees in the sultry heat of the afternoon. Their monotonous drone languidly fills the space. They are an irritation on the periphery of private worlds. The girls sit, inattentive and apathetic, consumed by the minutaie of their solar systems, of which they are the model sun.

Meanwhile the speaker in front continues his litany. He is a puppet of the system. To his audience he is as wooden and inanimate as the hard desks to which they are bound daily - inmates of their ignorance.

The ancient globe creaks on the rusty hinges of its axis, as it slowly turns its face away from the sun's penetrating stare. A bell cracks the soundproof glass and sound pours into the void. 

It is Tuesday.