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Like all pure creatures, cats are practical.

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The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical.

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All The Good Ones Are Gone

(dean dillon/bob mcdill)
(track 2 - time 3:16)
Shell turn thirty-four this weekend
Shell go out with her girlfriends
Theyll drink some margaritas, cut up and carry on
Therell be guys and therell be come ons
Shell probably get hit on
But she thinks all the good ones are gone
Shes got friends down at the office
And she cant help but notice
That when the day is over
How they all hurry home
Every day theres guys she works with
And even some she flirts with
But it seems like all the good ones are gone
And her mama called this mornin
Said Im worried about my baby
I wish you had a family of your own
She said mom its not that easy
You make it sound so simple
But you cant take the first man that comes along
Once she had someone who loved her
Back when she was younger
Now she wonders if she held out
A little bit too long
Back then there were so many
Now there just arent any
It seems like all the good ones are gone
And her mama called this mornin
Said Im worried about my baby
I wish you had a family of your own
She said mom its not that easy
You make it sound so simple
But you cant take the first man that comes along
Shell turn thirty-four this weekend
Shell go out with her girlfriends
Theyll drink some margaritas, cut up and carry on

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All Cats Are Grey

I never thought that i would find myself
In bed amongst the stones
The columns are all men
Begging to crush me
No shapes sail on the dark deep lakes
And no flags wave me home
In the caves
All cats are grey
In the caves
The textures coat my skin
In the death cell
A single note
Rings on and on and on

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All men to me are god-like Gods!

All men to me are god-like Gods!
My eyes no longer see
vice or fault.

Life on this suffering earth
is now endless delight;
the heart at rest, full,
overflowing.

In the mirror, the face and its reflection --
they watch each other;
different, but one.

And, when the stream pours into the ocean...
no more stream!

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Are You Like All the Rest?

Are You Like All the Rest?
Are you like all the rest?
Just want to use me for sex?
I’m just tired of it,
So just go beat on your chest.
I will not waste my time,
I have better things to do then hear you whine.
Don’t tell me you want to be my Valentine…
O.K I’ll try you out for fun,
Don’t think you’re the only one.

Written by Christina Sunrise on September 6,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com

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Sonnet XVI: Mongst All the Creatures

An Allusion to the Phoenix

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round
Of the birds' kind, the Phoenix is alone,
Which best by you of living things is known;
None like to that, none like to you is found.
Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun,
The precious spices be your chaste desire,
Which being kindled by that heav'nly fire,
Your life so like the Phoenix's begun;
Yourself thus burned in that sacred flame,
With so rare sweetness all the heav'ns perfuming,
Again increasing as you are consuming,
Only by dying born the very same;
And, wing'd by fame, you to the stars ascend,
So you of time shall live beyond the end.

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All Of My Heros Are Dead

Today my radio wont play
You - you died and left me here this way
I guess you lived you rlife
Like a loaded shotgun
You thought that your choice
Was no choice at all
I wanted to be just like you
All of my heroes are dead now
Left me here
In this wasted ghost town
All of my heroes
Yeah - your exit had such charm
And you - you ran a fortune
Through your arm
You lived your life like
A molotov cocktail
Always set to explode
Behind the veil
I wanted to be like you
(chorus)

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All Of My Heroes Are Dead

Today my radio won't play
You - you died and left me here this way
I guess you lived you rlife
Like a loaded shotgun
You thought that your choice
Was no choice at all
I wanted to be just like you
All of my heroes are dead now
Left me here
In this wasted ghost town
All of my heroes
Yeah - your exit had such charm
And you - you ran a fortune
Through your arm
You lived your life like
A molotov cocktail
Always set to explode
Behind the veil
I wanted to be like you
(chorus)

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Like All Things With Time Roses Whither Away

Like all things with time roses whither away,
as does the frail beauty of lingering youth
which comes to sweet perfection on a day,
the waning of life is an ultimate truth,

as life and living is not what it seem
and daily we do live and play wantonly
while like roses, life is fair as we do deem,
but destiny strikes uncommonly

while all of life, living is just a show
in which some joy and some errors are made,
while with love at times we do like roses glow,
with time everything does eventually fade,

while at a time the canker of death lies,
even in the most beautiful of eyes.

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Just Like All The Rest.

Just like all the rest, oh girl what have you been through. How can you say such things when you don't know. Hasn't he told you. I'm a train wreck. A man looking for a little substance in my life. And again you say like all the rest. Girl you must be so blessed to say that to me. For i know what i need and so must you. Cataclysmic was the time when we met. I was weak, so were you. I was looking for somebody. So were you. Still i hear you say just like all the rest. I must confess. When worlds collide. And tears fall that we try to hide. Always the better person. So rehearsed. So well versed. I can say just like all the rest. You left in such a mess. And you will still never know. You got to give someone a chance before you just let go. Just like all the rest are words i shall never forget.

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Like All of Their Other Excuses

One man has been in their presence,
For just a few years.
However,
Their policies have been eroding for decades.
And yet a crisis that besets them...
They claim he has caused.
By exposing their flaws and misdeeds.
This they wish,
Those absent of a consciousness...
Will accept and believe.
Like all of their other excuses,
Laid at someone else's doorstep.

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Now all the lovely days are past

Now all the lovely days are past,
The hours of sun and leagues of sea,
And starry nights that lay between
Yourself and me.
Our boat has left the sea behind.
She lies beside the friendly dock.
And soon the gangway will go down,
And lips will meet, and hands will lock,
And carriers will come climbing up
To take my things and leave us free.
There's trams and streets and home at last
For you and me.

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All The Good Ones Are Gone

How many times have I heard it said,
especially by ladies out there.
They see someone with happiness
and wish they had a share
in all the happiness and fun.
When you ask them why
they don’t have someone,
they turn, frown, and simply say
all the good ones are gone.
This view isn’t only with the ladies,
I know a lot men who
will say the same sort of thing too,
that all the good ones are gone.

3 February 2008

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Cats Are

cats are
they come go
accept reject

in independent thought
in secret feline thought
loyal to moments in time

enjoying totally in luxury
exultation of comfort purring
day vision night vision shifts

shifting in time
shifting in mind
shifting in mood

light changes seen through
optical shifts in feline slit eyes
adjusting light sound perception

living moments lapping contentment
changes changes of timeless sleep


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Like The Spoiled Children They Are

People are quick to express their wrongdoings,
As if shocked those most affected...
Are upset because those 'wrongdoings',
Had been purposely directed to sacred beliefs...
Maintained for centuries,
With a smearing done by those of free speech...
Who expect without respecting the values of others,
They can do and say what they please...
Just to get an attention like the spoiled children they are!
Believing they should be forgiven for their misdeeds.

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All The Things You Are

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song
You are the angel glow that lights a star
The dearest things I know are what you are
Some day my happy arms will hold you
And some day Ill know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine
You are the angel glow that lights a star
The dearest things I know are what you are
Some day my happy arms will hold you
And some day Ill know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine

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I Like To Think That You Are Much Better Than Myself, But...

you are years ahead
i like you to think that you are much better
in terms of compassion

knowledge had always been
younger than compassion

yet compassion is as meek
as it is not assertive

i like to think that you are much better
but you have not lived that much

you are never water to fire
never a tree to a bird

you have taken side with the ax
and the flint

there is so much blood around
the rocks are bathing

confusion flows to the sea
the rivers are willing victims

you put gasoline on chaos
and you dance around that big fire

i like to think that you are older and much better
than myself

but your hands have grown nails and splinters of glass
and like a hand grenade

you finally exploded and killed so many and
died

i like to think that i should have done better
you have nailed my feet on the floor and splinters wound my soles

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I'm like all lovers, wanting love to be

I'm like all lovers, wanting love to be
A very mighty thing for you and me.
In certain moods your love should be a fire
That burnt your very life up in desire.
The only kind of love then to my mind
Would make you kiss my shadow on the blind
And walk seven miles each night to see it there,
Myself within, serene and unaware.
But you're as bad. You'd have me watch the clock
And count your coming while I mend your sock.
You'd have my mind devoted day and night
To you and care for you and your delight.
Poor fools, who each would have the other give
What spirit must withhold if it would live.
You're not my slave, I wish you not to be.
I love yourself and not your love for me,
The self that goes ten thousand miles away
And loses thought of me for many a day.
And you loved me for loving much beside
But now you want a woman for your bride.
Oh, make no woman of me, you who can,
Or I will make a husband of a man.
By my unwomanly love that sets you free
Love all myself, but least the woman in me.

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Rudyard Kipling

For All We Have and Are

For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and meet the war.
The Hun is at the gate!
Our world has passed away
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone.

Though all we knew depart,
The old commandments stand:
"In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."

Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old:
"No law except the sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled,"
Once more it knits mankind,
Once more the nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe.

Comfort, content, delight --
The ages' slow-bought gain --
They shrivelled in a night,
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewd and re-renewed.

Though all we made depart,
The old commandments stand:
"In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."

No easy hopes or lies
Shall bring us to our goal,
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul.
There is but one task for all --
For each one life to give.
Who stands if freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?

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Federico García Lorca

Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

2. The Spilled Blood

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!

I will not see it!

The cow of the ancient world
passed har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!

Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!

But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!

3. The Laid Out Body

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.

All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

4. Absent Soul

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever

The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

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