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Ashley Tisdale

I'm very sassy. I want to show people in my album I'm not like my characters on TV.

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Sally Field

I really have no ulterior motive in taking on certain roles. I have no larger issue that I really want to show people. I'm an actor, that's all. I just do what I do.

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Twins at birth

we may be the same in face and needs
but! i am different in value and deeds.

while you love to flaunt your looks
i love to sit and read books.

you want to be the center of the crowd.
'i just look at you and frown'

you want to show people that.you are
the better of the twin
because you are happy and carefree.
but this is not what all people see.

there are times in life that
we are alike.
but! we are both seperate individuals
with different personalities.

i believe in the goodness in life
having children and a wife.

while you believe in the party rule.
in my eyes you are such a fool.

when it is time and the lord
calls our name.
will you still feel the same.

we are twins this i can see
but you are not the same as me.
so when you see that it's time for change
i will love you just the same.

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Might Have Known

I might have known
said Dotty
I might have known

you were just like
all the rest of men
but

said Brintskin
don't you but me
you slime snake

Mother always said
men weren't
to be trusted

and she was right
I should have listened to her
instead going off with men

at such a young age
but hang on there
Brintskin said

I was getting a lift
in a woman's car
after a hard day's work

sure
Dotty said
sure you were

I know women
and I know men
and what happens

when they get together
and what did she want huh?
want to show you her etchings?

no it wasn't like that at all
she just asked
did I want a lift home

after work and I said yes
Brintskin said
I bet you did

I bet you couldn't
get that word yes out
quick enough

why I bet she had her panties off
before you could blink an eye
and as usual

you had to get
caught out didn't you
and Dotty paused

for a moment
to pour a drink
and sip it

all the while
glaring at Brintskin
and he stared at her

as if she'd changed
into a bullfrog
and then she sighed

and said
well what happened?
nothing happened Sweetie

Brintskin replied
she just offered me
a lift home in her car

and I said yes please
and so she gave me a lift home
Dotty sat down

in the armchair
and crossed her legs
and Brintskin studied her thighs

as the skirt rose up
as she sat down
and Dotty said

ok so maybe I believe you
maybe what you say is true
and I am just getting

the wrong end
of the stick
you sure are

Brintskin said
following the line
of his vision

as far as his eyes
could go
and caught a glimpse

of panty line
whiter than snow.

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The Politics of Narrative: Why I Am A Poet

Jill's a good kid who's had some tough luck. But that's
another story. It's a day when the smell of fish from Tib's hash
house is so strong you could build a garage on it. We are sit-
ting in Izzy's where Carl has just built us a couple of solid
highballs. He's okay, Carl is, if you don't count his Roamin'
Hands and Rushin' Fingers. Then again, that should be the
only trouble we have in this life. Anyway, Jill says, "Why
don't you tell about it? Nobody ever gets the poet's point of
view." I don't know, maybe she's right. Jill's just a kid, but
she's been around; she knows what's what.
So, I tell Jill, we are at Izzy's just like now when he
comes in. And the first thing I notice is his hair, which has
been Vitalis-ed into submission. But, honey, it won't work,
and it gives him a kind of rumpled your-boudoir-or-mine look.
I don't know why I noticed that before I noticed his face.
Maybe it was just the highballs doing the looking. Anyway,
then I see his face, and I'm telling you--I'm telling Jill--this is
a masterpiece of a face.
But--and this is the god's own truth--I'm tired of
beauty. Really. I know, given all that happened, this must
sound kind of funny, but it made me tired just to look at him.
That's how beautiful he was, and how much he spelled T-R-
O-U-B-L-E. So I threw him back. I mean, I didn't say it, I say
to Jill, with my mouth. But I said it with my eyes and my
shoulders. I said it with my heart. I said, Honey, I'm throwing
you back. And looking back, that was the worst, I mean, the
worst thing--bar none--that I could have done, because it
drew him like horseshit draws flies. I mean, he didn't walk
over and say, "Hello, girls; hey, you with the dark hair, your
indifference draws me like horseshit draws flies."
But he said it with his eyes. And then he smiled. And
that smile was a gas station on a dark night. And as wearying
as all the rest of it. I am many things, but dumb isn't one of
them. And here is where I say to Jill, "I just can't go on." I
mean, how we get from the smile into the bedroom, how it all
happens, and what all happens, just bores me. I am a concep-
tual storyteller. In fact, I'm a conceptual liver. I prefer the
cookbook to the actual meal. Feeling bores me. That's why I
write poetry. In poetry you just give the instructions to the
reader and say, "Reader, you go on from here." And what I like
about poetry is its readers, because those are giving people. I
mean, those are people you can trust to get the job done. They
pull their own weight. If I had to have someone at my back in
a dark alley, I'd want it to be a poetry reader. They're not like
some people, who maybe do it right if you tell them, "Put this
foot down, and now put that one in front of the other, button
your coat, wipe your nose."
So, really, I do it for the readers who work hard and, I
feel, deserve something better than they're used to getting. I
do it for the working stiff. And I write for people, like myself,
who are just tired of the trickle-down theory where some-
body spends pages and pages on some fat book where every-
thing including the draperies, which happen to be burnt orange,
are described, and, further, are some metaphor for something.
And this whole boggy waste trickles down to the reader in the
form of a little burp of feeling. God, I hate prose. I think the
average reader likes ideas.
"A sentence, unlike a line, is not a station of the cross." I
said this to the poet Mark Strand. I said, "I could not stand to
write prose; I could not stand to have to write things like 'the
draperies were burnt orange and the carpet was brown.'" And
he said, "You could do it if that's all you did, if that was the
beginning and the end of your novel." So please, don't ask me
for a little trail of bread crumbs to get from the smile to the
bedroom, and from the bedroom to the death at the end, al-
though you can ask me a lot about death. That's all I like, the
very beginning and the very end. I haven't got the stomach for
the rest of it.
I don't think many people do. But, like me, they're either
too afraid or too polite to say so. That's why the movies are
such a disaster. Now there's a form of popular culture that
doesn't have a clue. Movies should be five minutes long. You
should go in, see a couple of shots, maybe a room with orange
draperies and a rug. A voice-over would say, "I'm having a
hard time getting Raoul from the hotel room into the eleva-
tor." And, bang, that's the end. The lights come on, everybody
walks out full of sympathy because this is a shared experi-
ence. Everybody in that theater knows how hard it is to get
Raoul from the hotel room into the elevator. Everyone has had
to do boring, dogged work. Everyone has lived a life that
seems to inflict every vivid moment the smears, finger-
ings, and pawings of plot and feeling. Everyone has lived un-
der this oppression. In other words, everyone has had to eat
shit--day after day, the endless meals they didn't want, those
dark, half-gelatinous lakes of gravy that lay on the plate like
an ugly rug and that wrinkled clump of reddish-orange roast
beef that looks like it was dropped onto your plate from a
great height. God what a horror: getting Raoul into the ele-
vator.
And that's why I write poetry. In poetry, you don't do
that kind of work.

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Don't say everything you want to say lest you hear something you would not like to hear.

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Greek was very much a live language, and a language still unconscious of grammar, not, like ours, dominated by definitions and trained upon dictionaries.

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Deer Hunting

Hunting deer is hard to do.
But not for Michael Waddel.
Michael is an amazing bow hunter.
He only hunts deer with a bow,
Which is very hard to do anywhere.
Most people hunt with powerful guns.
But not Michael.
He uses his skills to lure the big deer in.

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Untitled

When I started out I wanted to make people happy and smile
and let them feel good about themselves
and that made me happy... for a while
but it's just not the same anymore

I can't keep putting on a smile and a happy face
because it just makes me realize
I can't take this place
and all the things I used to go through

I can't take always being there
every day and night
and living a life that's so unfair
and I never thought it would come to this

I just can't stand to make people feel happy and good
or put another smile on another person's face
because this doesn't make me happy anymore, and that's not how it should
I don't want to let people feel something I can't, not anymore

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Miss Him Always

I will miss him always
As he always showed the best ways
Suited to my future and career
He remained near and dear

He may be acting as very harsh person
But there will always be some reasons
Who may not like to be kid to their children?
There can’t shift in relation all of sudden

Many children won’t go near to their father
The hard face may push them farther
The cruelty and unknown sentences can be read
They will think badly about their dad

But all of sudden the spring may bring boom
They all may be laughing in their room
As father had always looked after their needs
Provided all the comforts and valuable feed

We could read change on his face
He wanted to find real roots and trace
Where we all be heading in near future
He wanted to make it doubly sure

We loved this quality very much
He was not blind to eventuality as such
He would take us into confidence
Treat us as friends and confide at once

When we are fast asleep
He would never allow us to cry or weep
He had planned well in advance for our upkeep
He has now nothing to worry or any tension to keep

Soon it has become distant reality
He is no more among us and taken away by almighty
We are missing him dearly
But it was understood by us clearly

All heads of the family may be of same stuff
We can hardly make any move to bluff
They are made of fine blend to take our care
Without him we may have no place to go anywhere

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Its A Hard World

I live in a vacumn, no air
Im stuck in back room, somewhere
But it dont bother me amyway cos I know
Goin to get out soon, I got places to go
Theres a big world waiting for me
I just need a break, someone to believe
But right now Im just tryin to survive
Livin rough, shackin up, hangin tough, shapin up
Get the picture, get the scene I paint fo ryou
Ah, but its worth it, all the pain Im goin thru
Beat the sidewalk, hear the fast talk, everyday
I dont worry cos I know Im on my way
The view from my window, aint too good
Should be some mail for me soon from hollywood
When the phone rings, could be big things, anytime
Operator is there somethin wrong with this line
Rejections, Ive had a few
Happens to the best, it aint nothin new
Still I keep on swingin away
Sgonna be a breakthrough any day
Keep hanging in there, thats my philosophy
And soon Ill find my big chance, wait and see
Some make it fast, but they just come and go
Me, Im built to last and thats one thing I know
Those straight life people, they dont understand
Yeah they just want it all laid out and planned
Me, Im not like them, I do things my own way
I know Im gonna break thru any day
Life in the city, can get you down
Theres amillion guys out there all snooping around
You gotta think youre the best, beat out all the rest
And fight your way up to the top of the town
Theres a big world waiting for me
I just need a break, someone to believe
Right now Im just tryin to survive
Im know Im gonna get there, dead or alive
Im going to reach for the moon
And all the stars too
Im gonna get there real soon, I know I will
I want the universe, and all the planers too

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Rudyard Kipling

Norman and Saxon

My son," said the Norman Baron, "I am dying, and you will be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for my share
When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:—

"The Saxon is not like us Normans, His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, "This isn't fair dealings," my son, leave the Saxon alone.

"You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears,
But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.

"But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.
Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they're saying; let them feel that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes you all day.

"They'll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark,
It's the sport not the rabbits they 're after (we 've plenty of game in the park).
Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-at-arms you can find.

"Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say 'we,' 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking instead of 'you fellows' and 'I.'
Don't ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em a lie!"

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As Previously Advantaged, Now Disadvantaged

we are humbly sorry that our ancestors
sailed with ships from Europe
to discover other continents,
putting their intelligence and advanced
technology into good practice,
discovering the Cape of Good Hope
and developing this country
to the best of their ability and knowledge
while your ancestors migrated from the big lakes
in central Africa, under chief Dlamini
from eMbo killing the other local inhabitants
as far as they were going,
even wiping them out after they had settled.

We are humbly sorry that our ancestors
took you from the bush, tried to teach you
Christian values and a Christian religion,
instead of worshiping to ancestral spirits,
dead stones of which you believe the silence
have greater meaning and more depth
than any other teachings,
tried to teach you to earn a living
by planting crops, maintaining and herding cattle
instead of pillaging, robbing and killing others,
instead of trapping, killing animals,
with sticks, stones and iron spears.

We are humbly sorry that our ancestors
took the wild bush as pioneers
planned and developed
farms, towns and cities, mines, factories,
the infrastructure that are in them,
developed water resources,
electrical powering and laid railway lines,
developed the roads,
the harbors and airports that link them
to each other and the rest of the wide world,
which you now view as belonging to you,
to at your discretion take over by force
from the people to whom they did belong,
to rob, kill and pillage property
to rename airports, harbors, streets,
towns and cities at your own discretion.

We are humbly sorry that our ancestors
after fighting victoriously against yours
at Blood River and in other wars and battles
respected you as people living in this country,
did not like the Americans and Australians
go out to wipe you out of the country,
administered medicine when your ancestors
where dying form plagues and devastating
spreading illnesses like measles and influenza,
that they fed your ancestors
to try and save a whole nation
when your ancestors destroyed their own crops,
killed all their own cattle at the insistence
of the witch medium Nonqawuse.

We are humbly sorry that our ancestors
tried to teach you to only have as many children
in families, as you can support as parents,
not to breed as many as is possible
to prevent dwelling in shacks, impoverishment,
diseases like cholera spread by urinating and defecating
in drinking water.

We are humbly sorry that our ancestors,
and the terrible Apartheid government
tried to provide you with schools
where you urinated in cans in public,
where you broke all the windows,
where you broke tables, chairs and black boards
which you burnt down to the ground,
preventing yourselves
to get a proper education, where a whole
generation of your youth decided
on first getting liberation and later education
and are not literate at all.

We were happy to have learned discipline,
Christian values, languages, mathematics,
science, geography and any other subjects
and having received canings, for being disobedient,
for doing things wrong, for not studying
and now really prefer the teacher’s union riots at schools,
especially schools where those unions do not belong,
we prefer the wanton destruction of school property,
the chaos in which teachers have got to instruct,
the new curriculum based on human rights,
the spreading of lawlessness among children,
the drawing of swords, knives and guns,
even pairs of scissors to settle issues
the disrespect, the chaos, the pregnancies
of school children, the disowning of religion
at schools, the disowning of culture, language
and well-taught values.

We are humbly sorry that we are experiencing
a secret war in which you are wiping out our families
one by one, in which thousands of white people
have already perished,

we are humbly sorry that we hear the current government
is singing inciting songs, that advises their followers
to kill us, to shoot us,

we are humbly sorry
that the robberies, affirmative action, raping,
torture and murder of our friends
and our family members
prevents us from not being bitter,
proof to us your inhumanity,
that you are secretly hiding behind
the ancient rights of pillage,
that you are openly hiding
behind human rights,
while smiling in pleasure.

We have all the reason in the world
to trust the new government
as none of its members
were previously involved in bombings,
terrorist attacks in churches,
murders, setting alive people on fire,
corruption or other financial irregularities.

We are humbly sorry that we have no trust
in the South African Police Service,
or any of its officers,
who walk us out of the way with sub-machineguns,
in shopping malls,
who search us and take our cellular phones
when we receive calls at public roadblocks,
who do not find our stolen property,
or our stolen cars,
who admit quite openly
that they are inadequate to fight crime
and have lost that fight,
while they just carrying on
as if they are really interested in doing their duty,
who do not control rioters
damaging innocent individuals or property,
who do not have a vehicle available
in a real emergency,
but arrive with five vehicles
when there’s a family incident
or where a child falsely
accuses the parent of sexual battery.

We are humbly sorry that the members
of our national teams
are not selected on merit,
but on color,
that winning and patriotism is not important,
to the citizens of this country
or to the sponsors who pay the bills.

We are humbly sorry that jobs
are not determined on merit,
education, experience but by
affirmative action, that you
have flung the borders open wide
to citizens of all countries in Africa,
illegal immigrants from all
of the African countries
which are huge economic powerhouses,
are streaming here in a new migration
after kicking out the white settlers,
are becoming citizens over night.

We are humbly sorry that
that universities, hospitals, water cleaning facilities,
roads, railroads and electricity supplying facilities
are going slowly but surely into ruination
as you are preventing skilled white persons
from running these facilities,
have driven a lot away to work
in foreign countries
where there skills are really needed.

We are humbly sorry that we
do not believe in ancestral spirits,
any kind of witchcraft, urinating on trees,
on buildings, at street corners,
spitting anywhere, slaughtering live
cattle and bulls for sacrifices
in our back yards
or on our properties in town,
virginity testing, circumcision,
cures from seawater, beetroot or garlic
and any other barbaric practices
like trading for or buying
the woman that you want to marry.

This clearly state that we
come from quite another world,
than yours and that our world
which is in the whole
of the civilized western society
is inadequate against yours,

that we are truly sorry that we are not up
to being indoctrinated into your
primitive culture, way of life,
life expectancy, values and religion,
that this country will never
rise to its full potential.

I as a poet am truly sorry
that this might be the last poem
that I publish against the current government,
as from tomorrow freedom of speech may be gone
and I might be arrested for these words,
as any government that suppresses human rights,
have things to hide from its own citizens
and from the wide world.

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Patrick White

I Don't Want To Have My Eyes Glazed Over Nacreously

I don't want to have my eyes glazed over nacreously
if I were a grain of sand, a diamond in the rough,
living in a pearly world. Cataracts in the eye,
flowers in the sky. I don't want to live in a spiritual trance
blissed out like the first crescent of the moon
smiling down upon everything as if I weren't
attached to any particular atmosphere and all
the waters of life were frozen like tears in a jewelled locket
I kiss once in awhile in a rush of gushing devotion.

I love the mystic details of the concrete specifics of the world.
The stylus of the birds that can write with their beaks and feet
like cuneiform on the skin of an apple,
and wormholes that burrow even deeper
into the sweetness of the flesh, neolithic barrow tombs
aligned with the vernal equinox, and that soft blue talc
as if the dew had turned to powder that clings to the autumn grapes.
I like the spelling errors fate makes
on the staves of our foreheads where it writes
the picture-music of our destinies in such a way
that everything that's written there, over the course of time,
our eyes will live long enough to see.

I don't want to turn my spirit into a cosmic perfumery
and extract my essence from the ambergris of my presence.
I don't want to transform whale vomit into an alluring fragrance
that isn't naturally its own. Or suggest to certain flowers
they gargle the rain like mouthwash, or smear
the eyelids of the rose with a snailtrack of stars.
What did the Zen master say? The stone is lustrous,
but there's nothing inside. The ore is different
but from it comes gold. Why hide the bruises and scars,
sunspots like black eyes, or the pitted complexion of the moon
from the third eye of Galileo's telescope trying futilely
to show a Vatican cardinal the mutability of the firmament?
Things are rough out there, and happenstance is neither fair
nor unjust. Things pass into their return like the earth
going around the sun in a five billion year old roulette wheel,
and every asteroid might dream it could grow up to be
the cornerstone of a planet, and then come down
on the dinosaurs like an avalanche without sin
that threw the first rock at Mary Magdalene.

I don't want to disperse every breath I take and exhale
aurorally like veils, as lovely as they are, over the face of the sky
as if it had something indecent to hide like snow on a dungheap.
I don't think the dung needs to be dressed up like a festering virgin
that needs to be purified. Snowflakes on a slow methane furnace
I think the dung and the snow go the way of all flesh
though some walk, some run, some flow, some evaporate
and some are just inflammably combustible, but all
know their own way back to their roots as well as anyone.
Never known a river that needed a guru
to find its own way back to the sea, or a cloud
that was ever unhappy about the way it was shaped by the wind.

I wash my hands, and I'm bathed in the waters of Jordan.
I open my eyes, and God says fiat lux, let there be light.
I walk over to the window and look down on the morning street
and Muhammad makes that my quibla, my direction of prayer,
and under the eaves there's a mourning dove
singing the shahada like a muezzin to its young.
I put my clothes on, slowly rising to consciousness
until my thirteenth year and I'm wearing my tallit and tefillin
at my own bar mitzvah, listening for the Aliyah
to call me up and recite the Torah. I admire the stamina
of the petunias still brimming over the rims of the whiskey barrels
municipally placed between the parking meters
in a biting autumn wind, and the Buddha hands
Ananda a flower and smiles as if I could understand him.
I rescue a fly from drowning in a toilet bowl
with a piece of kleenex like something it can cling to
because I think one day that could be me
praying for a lifeboat, and Beelzebub commends me
for my lack of discrimination, and Lucifer's intrigued
while Jesus befriends me because my compassion isn't fastidious.

What's so unspiritual about mundanity as it is?
Samsara is nirvana. Delusion the door to enlightenment.
Every chore, a religious ritual, a do, a path in a participatory world.
Every farmer in the Perth Restaurant at their daily coffee clutch
a sage as wise as the rocks and stumps he's cleared
like a backhoe from his fields laid out like scripture
covered in mustard, goldenrod, vetch and purple loosestrife.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You want to touch the soul,
it's not out there out of palpable reach, it's
the starmud between your fingers and your toes,
under your nails, the sweetmeat of your brain
in a black walnut shell, the very stuff your hands are made of.
And this is more of a mystery than looking for it anywhere else.

The black-eyed Susans, the New England asters,
the last of the wildflowers aren't just things to look at
but seers in themselves the stars consult like oracles
of what's to come, and when you look at the maple trees aflame
who needs anymore martyrs or heretics than that,
and sometimes you can even see Raphael throwing his paintings
in the Bonfire of the Vanities while Savanarola rails like the wind
against the Medici he's trying to drive out of Florence
or the Taliban trying to purge what's she's reading
out of a young girl's eyes with the formic acids
of stinging nettles and ant heaps clinging to the Koran
like a no trespassing sign at all the crossroads of life
where the Sufis whirl like galaxies into rapturous extinction
and Allah sends no more rasuls like prophets with books
and forgoes the words for the grammar of natural things
as signs of the Friend within and without
and everything's a metaphor of the tauhid and unity
of the worlds within worlds in light upon light.

Work is as much a form of worship when you see it right
as the Hindus do, as love is. So when you're feeding the cats
or putting out oats for the horses, this is the mysticism of action
beyond the contemplative, actualizing the abstract
in an act of devotion such that for every roofing nail
a carpenter drives into a rafter, a temple is built in the heart,
and hundreds of loveletters are released for free
like doves and flamingoes or sidereal swans and eagles,
Japanese plum blossoms into the sky that writes back like the moon.

And, yes, there are times when I go mad in my isolation cell
and fling my inkpot at the wall like Luther at the Devil,
and want to get out of here so badly I set my desk afire
and let it drift like a Viking funeral ship all the way to the bottom
and the next thing you know coral's trying to grow
a Gothic cathedral out of it, complete with angels and gargoyles,
virgins and saints, and grief turned fluid once more
is flowing like a river of stone back to the sky again
as all the masons and their families that laid the heritage field stones
dance around it like fish in the Great Barrier Reef
as the cardinals stand around in their bifurcated, goose-necked,
bi-valved barnacle hats astonished by what metaphors can achieve
polyp by polyp, dropp by dropp in a limestone cave, star by star
in an expanding universe, or cell by cell in the body of a human
when imagination is free to work in tandem with the random
like genetic mutations on helical stairwells of dna
sliding down the bannisters as if even evolution
were a game of spiral snakes and ladders with oxymoronic rungs
and if you're lucid and want make things clear as starmud
you have to resort to speaking in tongues.

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Moon crowded by clouds

Sycamore fingers spread

blackened veins to hide

cold night...one to fur the face

lamp behind the veil

who can tell

what you want to show

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Wong Kar Wai is a very intense character, very personable, and I believe in general he does not like and he would not want his actors to show their true looks and their true personality on screen.

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Very curious, at the age of about 13 years, Oswald began to study Marxism and he kept on in his writing, affirming that he was a Marxist. Probably he did want to show himself as a great, supreme Marxist.

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When part of what you're trying to get at is the truth hidden under a taboo, or when you want to nail a hypocrisy, laughter is a very useful tool. I want to show the painful side of existence, but there is no question I also want to make people laugh.

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At Some Moment...

you feel like all wrapped up
you dream of a very cold running river
you undress,
remove everything
underwear
whatever
somehow you go beyond it
you shed off
skin and
flesh
and you arrive at this last feeling
that you finally
want to show them
bones
your bones
and veins
wanting to find out
what ugliness
brings

will those spectators
continue
dissecting you?

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Shamso

You are the little computer chip in my brain and,
I will love you for what you are to me;
But try to be brave enough to have my babies!
For Shamso is very intelligent enough and,
I want you to stimulate me before the foreplay.
Come and touch my heart and show me the way,
For your love is like the little computer chip;
And many love to see you around me.

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This Heart

this heart churns love
this heart brews hatred
this heart houses my passions
my passions share a room with my disinterests
this heart manufactures aspirations
and later decides to go against them
this heart admires
this heart chastises
this heart misses you
and this very heart avoids letting that show
this heart longs for you
yet it doesn't want to be broken by you
this heart is a superwoman
juggling between east and west,
what's right and what's wrong,
reality and fantasies
and puts it all in perfect balance

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