I WANT
- Thread starter thrawn
- Start date
F
Fatdaddy
Guest
a portion of an oscar wilde poem:
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
P
PinkysAvenger
Guest
The Hollow Men
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Walking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together and avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Walking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together and avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
F
Fatdaddy
Guest
T
Talkie
Guest
K
Kander77
Guest
Mean Mr. Mustard
Always shouts out something obscene
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin
If my ear was a cunt Id fuck it
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin
If my ear was a cunt Id fuck it
A few political tunes from one of my favourite bands, Propagandhi:
"Haillie Sellasse, Up Your Ass"
You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief
In a god that's left you behind?
You've simply filled the gap between the upper and lower class
And your faith merely keeps you in line.
An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought.
What will that get you? Not a fuck of a lot.
Take a look at your promised land.
Your deed is that gun in your hand.
Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza Strip.
Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops.
Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism.
Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.
"Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes"
The tangled webs they weave span from Pine to Ruby Ridge, way back from Shay's defeat on up to Gustafsen (now cue the ass parade of ditto-heads and commissars and pricks to drown out this faintest threat of commie faggot heretics). Conclusion: the nail that sticks up gets hammered down and the master's finest tools are found slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony of screaming billboards and Disney-fied history. Sometimes the ties that bind are strange: no justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked Hampton, Weaver or Anna-Mae where Federal Bureaus and Fraternal Orders have cast their shadows; permanent features built into these borders. But undercover of the customary gap we find between History and Truth, the Founding Fathers bask in the rocket's blinding red glare. The bombs bursting in air. One nation. Indivisible? The truth is when the back-country learned of ratification the People had a coffin painted black and solemnly borne in funeral procession, they buried it deep in the earth as an emblem of the dissolution and internment of their Public Liberty. Someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.
"Rio De San Atlanta, Manitoba"
Our cities seem to function quite the same:
sweeping ghettos under one big rug makes them easier to contain,
so the upper-middle class can sleep
(or shop in peace)
and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty.
Yes, murderers walk our streets and their weapons are their pens, desks, policies and P.R. campaigns
(fed by the spoils of war)
against the "lazy, shiftless" populations of the poor.
This system cannot be reformed...
(so how about we try something different?)
"Haillie Sellasse, Up Your Ass"
You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief
In a god that's left you behind?
You've simply filled the gap between the upper and lower class
And your faith merely keeps you in line.
An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought.
What will that get you? Not a fuck of a lot.
Take a look at your promised land.
Your deed is that gun in your hand.
Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza Strip.
Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops.
Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism.
Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.
"Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes"
The tangled webs they weave span from Pine to Ruby Ridge, way back from Shay's defeat on up to Gustafsen (now cue the ass parade of ditto-heads and commissars and pricks to drown out this faintest threat of commie faggot heretics). Conclusion: the nail that sticks up gets hammered down and the master's finest tools are found slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony of screaming billboards and Disney-fied history. Sometimes the ties that bind are strange: no justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked Hampton, Weaver or Anna-Mae where Federal Bureaus and Fraternal Orders have cast their shadows; permanent features built into these borders. But undercover of the customary gap we find between History and Truth, the Founding Fathers bask in the rocket's blinding red glare. The bombs bursting in air. One nation. Indivisible? The truth is when the back-country learned of ratification the People had a coffin painted black and solemnly borne in funeral procession, they buried it deep in the earth as an emblem of the dissolution and internment of their Public Liberty. Someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.
"Rio De San Atlanta, Manitoba"
Our cities seem to function quite the same:
sweeping ghettos under one big rug makes them easier to contain,
so the upper-middle class can sleep
(or shop in peace)
and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty.
Yes, murderers walk our streets and their weapons are their pens, desks, policies and P.R. campaigns
(fed by the spoils of war)
against the "lazy, shiftless" populations of the poor.
This system cannot be reformed...
(so how about we try something different?)
I pulled out my cock tip for you
So dust my ficus leaf with your sweaty ball sac
You dirty little whore
Take a shit on my eye lid and I’ll wash it off with goat’s cum (x 2)
Mommy don’t stop
Daddy please watch (x 10)
Daddy’s hands sure are cold
Written by: elpmis
So dust my ficus leaf with your sweaty ball sac
You dirty little whore
Take a shit on my eye lid and I’ll wash it off with goat’s cum (x 2)
Mommy don’t stop
Daddy please watch (x 10)
Daddy’s hands sure are cold
Written by: elpmis
Syrup Beaver
pants log
Muffin man - Frank Zappa
The muffin man is seated at the table in the laboratory of the utility muffin
Research kitchen... reaching for an oversized chrome spoon he gathers an
Intimate quantity of dried muffin remnants and brushing his scapular aside
Procceds to dump these inside of his shirt...
He turns to us and speaks:
Some people like cupcakes better. I for one care less for them!
Arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully charged icing
Anointment utensil he poots forths a quarter-ounce green rosette (oh ah yuk
Yuk... let’s try that again...!) he poots forth a quarter-ounce green rosette
Near the summit of a dense but radiant muffin of his own design.
Later he says:
Some people... some people like cupcakes exclusively, while myself, I say
There is naught nor ought there be nothing so exalted on the face of god’s grey
Earth as that prince of foods... the muffin!
Girl you thought he was a man
But he was a muffin
He hung around till you found
That he didn’t know nuthin’
Girl you thought he was a man
But he only was a-puffin’
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin’
The muffin man is seated at the table in the laboratory of the utility muffin
Research kitchen... reaching for an oversized chrome spoon he gathers an
Intimate quantity of dried muffin remnants and brushing his scapular aside
Procceds to dump these inside of his shirt...
He turns to us and speaks:
Some people like cupcakes better. I for one care less for them!
Arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully charged icing
Anointment utensil he poots forths a quarter-ounce green rosette (oh ah yuk
Yuk... let’s try that again...!) he poots forth a quarter-ounce green rosette
Near the summit of a dense but radiant muffin of his own design.
Later he says:
Some people... some people like cupcakes exclusively, while myself, I say
There is naught nor ought there be nothing so exalted on the face of god’s grey
Earth as that prince of foods... the muffin!
Girl you thought he was a man
But he was a muffin
He hung around till you found
That he didn’t know nuthin’
Girl you thought he was a man
But he only was a-puffin’
No cries is heard in the night
As a result of him stuffin’
Not sure these qualify as "literature" but you did mention song lyrics:
-------------------
You must understand how the touch of your hand makes my pulse react,
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract
It's physical, only logical,
You must try to ignore that it means more than that
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
What's love but a second hand emotion?
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?
---------------------
Do you believe in life after love?
I can feel something inside me saying, I really don't think you're strong enough.
What am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for you?
Well I can't do that, and there's no turning back.
I need time to move on, I need a love to feel strong,
'Cause I've got time to think it through, and maybe I'm too good for you.
Well I know that I'll get through this,
'Cause I know that I am strong.
I don't need you anymore.
I don't need you anymore.
I don't need you anymore.
No I don't need you anymore.
-----------------------
Yes, I'm getting hard-hearted these days
-------------------
You must understand how the touch of your hand makes my pulse react,
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract
It's physical, only logical,
You must try to ignore that it means more than that
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
What's love but a second hand emotion?
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?
---------------------
Do you believe in life after love?
I can feel something inside me saying, I really don't think you're strong enough.
What am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for you?
Well I can't do that, and there's no turning back.
I need time to move on, I need a love to feel strong,
'Cause I've got time to think it through, and maybe I'm too good for you.
Well I know that I'll get through this,
'Cause I know that I am strong.
I don't need you anymore.
I don't need you anymore.
I don't need you anymore.
No I don't need you anymore.
-----------------------
Yes, I'm getting hard-hearted these days
From Zappa's "Broken Hearts are for Assholes":
You say you can't live with what you been through
Well, ladies you can be an asshole too
You might pretend you ain't got one on the bottom of you,
But don't fool yerself girl
It's lookin' at you
Don't fool yerself girl
It's winkin' at you
Don't fool yerself girl
It's blinkin' at you
That's why I say
I'm gonna ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Corn hole*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Fist fuck*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Wrist-watch; Crisco*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Pud!*
Don't fool yerself, girl
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
*Aw, I knew you'd be surprised...*
You say you can't live with what you been through
Well, ladies you can be an asshole too
You might pretend you ain't got one on the bottom of you,
But don't fool yerself girl
It's lookin' at you
Don't fool yerself girl
It's winkin' at you
Don't fool yerself girl
It's blinkin' at you
That's why I say
I'm gonna ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Corn hole*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Fist fuck*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Wrist-watch; Crisco*
Ram it, ram it, ram it
Ram it up yer poop chute
*Pud!*
Don't fool yerself, girl
It's goin' right up yer poop chute
*Aw, I knew you'd be surprised...*