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First you're older than Keats, and you freak out a little that the bright star ain't so steadfast anymore. Then you're older than Shelley, and you realize you haven't written a line of serious poetry in several years, and you've got a weed-wacker to trim down those thorns of life. By the time you're older than Byron, you're laughing way more than you're weeping and you're enjoying the ride too much to wonder where it's going to end.
So, being that this is technically the last day of my thirty-sixth year (do the math), there's something I gotta do:
( On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year )
May we all live to be older than Wordsworth and never stop frollicking among the daffodils.
So, being that this is technically the last day of my thirty-sixth year (do the math), there's something I gotta do:
( On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year )
May we all live to be older than Wordsworth and never stop frollicking among the daffodils.
. . . and onto the Victorians
Feb. 23rd, 2005 03:00 pmI betcha Swinburne was totally into leather.
"Dolores"
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
Oooh, tell Momma you're a bad boy.
"Dolores"
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
Oooh, tell Momma you're a bad boy.
