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Some of our most exquisite murders have been domestic, performed with tenderness in simple, homey places like the kitchen table.

quote by Alfred Hitchcock
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Gareth And Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Tenderness

(bernard edwards/nile rodgers)
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness I confess
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness nothin less
Love me with a tender touch
Kindness I need very much
It is so hard for me to trust
But deep inside I know I must
Love me all through the night
Hug me till the first rays of sunlight
Be sweet, make me unafraid
cause tonight Ill play with you
Please be gentle
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness I confess
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness nothin less
Love me, try to be understanding
Tenderness is all that Im asking
Dont feel like Im making conditions
I wanna to overcome my inhibitions
Love me all through the night
Hug me till the first rays of sunlight
Be sweet, make me unafraid
cause tonight Ill play with you
Please be gentle
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness I confess
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness nothin less
Love me with the tender touch
Kindness I need very much
It is so hard for me to trust
But deep inside I know I must
Love me all through the night
Hug me till the first rays of sunlight
Be sweet, make me unafraid
cause tonight Ill play with you
Please be gentle
Love me
Kindness
Love me
Hug me
Please be gentle
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness I confess
Tenderness is the best
Tenderness nothin less
Tenderness is the best

[...] Read more

song performed by Diana Ross
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Murders In The Rue Morgue

I remember it as plain as day
although it happened in the dark of the night.
I was strolling through the streets of Paris
and it was cold it was starting to rain.
And then I heard a piercing scream
and I rushed to the scene of the crime
but all I found was the butchered remains
of two girls lay side by side.
Murders in the Rue Morgue
someone call the Gendarmes
Murders in the Rue Morgue
run before the killers go free
There's some people coming down the street
at last there's someone heard my call
I can't understand why they're pointing at me
I never done nothing at all.
But I must have got some blood on my hands
because everyone's shouting at me
I can't speak French so I couldn't explain
and like a fool I started running away.
Murders in the Rue Morgue
someone call the Gendarmes
Murders in the Rue Morgue
am I ever gonna be free.
And now I've gotta get away from the arms of the law.
All France is looking for me.
I've gotta find my way across the border for sure
down the south to Italy.
Murders in the Rue Morgue
someone call the Gendarmes
Murders in the Rue Morgue
I'm never going home.
Well I made it to the border at last
But I can't erase the scene from my mind
Anytime somebody stares at me, well
I just start running blind
Well I'm moving through the shadows at night
Away from the staring eyes
Any day they'll be looking for me
'Cause I know I show the signs of...
Murders in the Rue Morgue
running from the Gendarmes
Murders in the Rue Morgue
running from the arms of the law
Murders in the Rue Morgue
running from the Gendarmes
Murders in the Rue Morgue
am I ever gonna be free
It took so long and I'm getting so tired
I'm running out of places to hide

[...] Read more

song performed by In Flames
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Murders In The Rue Morgue

I remember it as plain as day
Although it happened in the dark of the night.
I was strolling through the streets of paris
And it was cold it was starting to rain.
And then I heard a piercing scream
And I rushed to the scene of the crime
But all I found was the butchered remains
Of two girls lay side by side.
Murders in the rue morgue
Someone call the gendarmes
Murders in the rue morgue
Run before the killers go free
Theres some people coming down the street
At last theres someone heard my call
I cant understand why theyre pointing at me
I never done nothing at all.
But I must have got some blood on my hands
Because everyones shouting at me
I cant speak french so I couldnt explain
And like a fool I started running away.
Murders in the rue morgue
Someone call the gendarmes
Murders in the rue morgue
Am I ever gonna be free.
And now Ive gotta get away from the arms of the law.
All france is looking for me.
Ive gotta find my way across the border for sure
Down the south to italy.
Murders in the rue morgue
Someone call the gendarmes
Murders in the rue morgue
Im never going home.
Well I made it to the border at last
But I cant erase the scene from my mind
Anytime somebody stares at me, well
I just start running blind
Well Im moving through the shadows at night
Away from the staring eyes
Any day theyll be looking for me
cause I know I show the signs of...
Murders in the rue morgue
Running from the gendarmes
Murders in the rue morgue
Running from the arms of the law
Murders in the rue morgue
Running from the gendarmes
Murders in the rue morgue
Am I ever gonna be free
It took so long and Im getting so tired
Im running out of places to hide

[...] Read more

song performed by Iron Maiden
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Jughead

Keep it nice and quiet, keep it nice and quiet
What the hell was that?
(hey yall, I thought we bust this new hype before)
All across the land
(new dance commercial take 2)
Rio, marbella - we gettin stupid
Ha, germany, paris france - we gettin stupid
Yeah, stockholm sweden, we love ya
Let me shed, its easier said code red
Bust the new groove just hyped 4 the jughead
Bass thumpin everybodys doin the bumpin
Oops, I slipped on a move
I think its time 2 bust somethin
Sleazy, but cool and easy
(is this the right one? )
Yeah - this is 4 the hood
Better keep it greasy
Better yet on a smooth tip
I dont wanna sweat
I want my slimmie 2 get with this
Move your head and shoulders from side 2 side
Take your back foot, and then u let it slide
Yo, in a fade motion, lots of attitude, coast 2 coast
Then ure floatin homeboys boastin -
U made his skeeze freeze
Uve been chosen, p
Ladies and gentlemen, npg introduces the...
Jughead (jughead)
Yeah, we gettin funky in the house tonite
Kickin the jughead (doin the jughead)
Come on, get stupid, get stupid
Kickin the jughead (jughead)
Oh yeah, we gettin funky in the house tonite
Kickin the jughead, yeah (doin the jughead)
Wait a minute, whats he doin? (get stupid, get stupid)
Well, mack daddy in the house over there
What u doin dawg?
(gettin busy g, kickin the jughead)
Yeah, babys gettin busy in my face
Cold housin a future
Everything has been well placed
This daddys 2 fly
He bust the jughead as he floats to the other side
U watch the rotation, theres a bit of hesitation
This is some new hype stuff ure facin
U gotta come with a new git
The j-u-g-h-e-a-d, and Im flowin with it
U could say Im on a roll
Npg and yall, and were gettin bold, oh
Yes - bold steps must be taken

[...] Read more

song performed by Prince
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Whipping Something In My Kitchen

When the Sun wakes me up.
And it is at the crack of dawn?
I feel it appropriate,
On some days...
To lay in bed and enjoy it my way.

Using the mind all the time,
Is a 'burning-out-of-mind' doer.
And I had been done...
To be 'done' to do that over again!
With a winning of 'anything' as a destination.

I longer deliver to myself those messages.

When the Sun wakes me up.
And it is at the crack of dawn?
I feel it appropriate,
On some days...
To lay in bed and enjoy it my way.

And do nothing but...
Whatever I wish.
And do nothing but...
Nibble a bit.
And do nothing but...
Chip and dip!
If I'm not whipping up,
Something in the kitchen.

Or do nothing but...
Whatever I wish.
And do nothing but...
Nibble a bit.
And do nothing but...
Chip and dip!
If I'm not whipping up,
Something in the kitchen.

Using the mind all the time,
Is a 'burning-out-of-mind' doer.
And I had been done...
To be 'done' to do that over again!
With a 'I Have To Win' attitude.

I longer deliver to myself those messages.

When the Sun wakes me up.
And it is at the crack of dawn?
I feel it appropriate,
On some days...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Shorty

Intro]
Shorties everywhere
Bounce, bounce
Uh huh, now bounce, bounce
Come on, uh huh
Come on shorty
Bounce, bounce
(Bounce for me)
That's right, come on
I met her at a naughty show
I'm thinking 'bout felacio
But, but you gotta hit me, oh
Didn't think she would though
Got home and had a voice mail
It's her, like butter for real
Left the number to her cell
Sayin' when I'll be free, give her a yell
Never knew you'd be the one for me
Never knew all the things you done, done for me
Who'd have known you'd have a son for me
Just gotta let you know
Shorty
You can have my box number, cell number
Fax number, mamma number
Call me
I'll be right there
Always baby, cuz you want me
Phone me
I will never hurt you
Never leave you, I'll always want you
Shorty
You know you're like my homey
Cuz you're my shorty
She the type that go outside, house shoes
Weave undone, and still look good, son
Type to fight at the club
When a nigga' tryin' to mug
Cuz it's how she show her love
Type that go through your pants pockets when you sleep
Check your pager when it beep
Tryin' to catch you on the creep
She'll wash your clothes, cook your food
Watch the kids, love at the same time
I'm so glad she's mine
I knew you were the one for me
I know my playa days were done for me
Shorty girl, you're really something
And I just wanna let you know, oh
Shorty
You can have my box number, cell number

[...] Read more

song performed by Next
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Try A Little Tenderness

(harry woods/jimmy campbell/reg connelly)
Oh she may be weary
Young girls they do got weary
Wearing that same old shabby dress
Yeah yeah yeah
But when she gets weary
Try a little tenderness
Oh yeah, thats all you gotta do
You know shes there waiting
Just anticipating
Things that shell never, never possess
No no no
But while shes there waiting
Try a little tenderness
Its not just sentimental, no no no no
She has her grief and cares
But the soft words
That are spoke so gently, yeah
It makes it easier, easier to bear
You wont regret it
Young girls they dont forget it
Love is their only happiness
Yeah yeah yeah
Its so so easy
Try a little tenderness
You know what I mean
But the soft words
They are spoken so gently, yeah, yeah
It makes it easier, easier to bear
She may be weary
Young girls they do got weary
Wearing that same old shabby dress
Yeah yeah yeah
But when she gets weary
Try a little tenderness
Yeah, a little tenderness
Thats all youve gotta do
Listen to me
Try, try, try, try
One time for the last time
A little bit of tenderness
Tenderness, tenderness
Ooh, need you, I love you
I want you tonight, love me, baby
A little bit of tenderness

song performed by Rod Stewart
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Lancelot And Elaine

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazoned on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climbed
That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
For here two brothers, one a king, had met
And fought together; but their names were lost;
And each had slain his brother at a blow;
And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
And lichened into colour with the crags:
And he, that once was king, had on a crown
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
All in a misty moonshine, unawares

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Your Own Disater

Just think of this and me,
as just a few of the many things,
to lie around and clutter up your shelves
I wish you wern't worht the wait
cos theres somthing id like to say to you
and i dont think that you knwo what you've been missing
and i dont think that you knwow hat you've been missing
and i dare you to forget
the marks oyu left across my neck
from those nights when we were both at our best
and now i could make this obvious
and you, you could deny me
all in one breath you could shug mr off your shoulders
cos i dont think that you know what oyuve been missing
and i dont hitnk that you knwo what you've been missing
cos i dont think that you,
i said i dont think that you know
cos i dont think that you know what youve been missing
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
hey lush have fun
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
hey lush have fun
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
(oh i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)

[...] Read more

song performed by Taking Back Sunday
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Something Interseting Sestina #1

as long as you live, there is love
but in the recceses rise hate
all these words I draw with passion
with nothig to support me, except my faith
but to others my philosophy seems fake
so I go eat in a kitchen

build me a broken kitchen
that can be worsen by love
a kitchen that make all truth fake
one that is made whole with hate.
There I can vehemently laugh at those with faith,
there I have no time for passion

I have no time for you because you have no time for me dear passion
that's why you can't be a recipe in my kitchen
an the essence in my food is not threw faith
don't love
lie, loath, be livid, and hate
understand such rules with sincerity, don't be fake

yes I say that because the mind of the world is fake
no true passion
much mocked hate
but all is genuine and true in my kitchen
no false love
and lots of thrawted faith

tried faith
and to others this isn't fake
the situation is as real as love
and love as real as unforgiven passion
and both passion and love will destory my uncanny kitchen
which is established by raw hate

that word hate
miss understood by those that don't know the meaning of its faith
but all my creations thrives on it in my kitchen
and yes I will assure you no thing is fake
plus all creations are made without passon
and all creations in my kitchen are mained by love

So come in with hate, and finally take in all creation that's not fake
renew and change your faith, and here make lame all passion
in my kitchen, the place that no one love.

poem by Victoria Lee
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Kitchen Poem

An Elegy for Tristan Tzara

In the hungry kitchen
The dog sings for its dinner.
The housewife is writing her poem
On top of the frigidaire
Something like this:

    'Hear in the kitchen
    The crows fly home
    Into the red-robed trees
    That walk across the sky.

    Hear under the floor
    The three fountains rising and
    Trickling through the bridge
    Into the sea of poems.'

In the kitchen the housemother
Pours soup for her thousand children
As her man eats his silence
And the dog swallows its poem.

In all. the kitchens of Europe
The radio shouts good news:
'Millions have had no accident today
All wars have come to an end
An honest politician
In another country
Wants to become a plumber
All men will be equal, next year
Volcano vomits ice-cream
A silent poem has been invented.'

    In my holy kitchen
    I draw the blinds of night
    On the homes of sleep.
    I hold the world in my palms.
    Now that I am old
    I can measure life with words.
    There's a nightingale in my coffee.
    My bread is buttered with memories.
    Since the old woman died
    I have two souls.

When I was small we had a lucky black cat.
We had a magic horse-shoe on the wall,
It was rusty and brought no luck
But fetched the fields into the kitchen
And made us not forget horses.

[...] Read more

poem by Francis Scarfe
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First The Tenderness

First the tenderness; I feel the tenderness,
the downy edge of the leaf, the eyelash,
the green tooth of the leaf
gently opening its mouth to the air,
its flag of being high in the branches
unfurling like a sky of its own,
startled by the taste of the first star.
Every dropp of rain that falls
is a jester's cap,
three bells and a splash and that's me
learning how to swim in this new space
with an ark and a flood, you
the dove with the leaf in its beak, returning.
Then I check a little calendar of razor-blades
to see if any of the days
are holy days circled in my blood,
if I'm late for a sacrifice somewhere,
if there's a landmine waiting
like a spiny sea urchin buried in the sand,
glass petals shed from a broken rose,
waiting for me to take my boots off
and walk barefoot dazzled along your shore.
You are honey and wheat, and, angry,
a small storm that bleachs lightning white.
Brave despite myself,
your beauty crowns me King of Fools,
and though I meant to disguise my helplessness
by standing my ground like a iron thorn,
I can already feel the earth turning to quicksand
beneath my feet,
and tremors of an approaching earthquake
that might heave me up out of the sea
like a new mountain.
And it's too early to tell
if it's demons or angels
that prod my heart
with their taunting spears of fire,
or if they're just bored,
hanging out on call,
like a gang of crows
pecking at the seed
I left hope against hope on the moon,
but to judge from the way I feel
like a new element
discovered first on the sun,
all my cells and molecules assuming
a new paradigm, a new mandala,
a new configuration of shining,
an unknown constellation in the doorway,
through either end of the telescope,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Finding Oneself......... [EXTREMELY LONG; Growing Up; Relationships; Humor

Part One

When Bri was 13 and in grade 8,
he noticed classmates beginning to date.
At school (other) boys got their way with the girls with a kiss.
But Bri didn't have the urge; he thought 'what's this? '
He decided he should give it a try,
but each time he tried, the girl would cry.
Not only would she cry; she would run away and hide.
Bri felt between himself and the other boys a great divide.

Back home after school he'd seclude himself in his room and cry.
Through his mind was repeated the question 'why? ' 'Why DO they cry? Why? '

Bri was a straight A+ student with no flubs.
He played football but (except for 'Cooking') he joined not clubs.

After a few months Bri gave up (on girls) . He had NO close friends to set him right;
his parents should have known the problem, but they weren't bright.

In high school he took AP courses, and took 3 courses at a nearby college.
He ignored girls and sports and concentrated on gaining knowledge.

He got a full scholarship to Harvard, but his advisor looked at him funny.
By age 26 he had his PhD in psychology and started making money.
But he still asked 'why? '
It still bothered him and at times he'd cry.

Then waking up one day from a dream, Bri suddenly asked himself 'were they shy?
And if so, why with ME and not the other boys? Why DID they cry? '
The answer could be that his brain and looks were superior.
Were those girls only uncomfortable with boys that were inferior (to him) ?
If that really was the answer, he could now save face,
and could pursue women with HIS high level of brains, looks, and grace.
(But WAS it the answer? He was still not SURE why they did cry.)
For now he would work hard, avoid girls, and try to keep his eyes dry.
In two more years would be a second high school reunion. Thoughts of attending gave Bri a fright. (He'd skipped the first,5 year, reunion.)
But by going this time he might find out if his answer to his 'why? ' was right.

PART TWO

For two more years he waited anxiously for invitation he was dreading.
At times he'd awaken at night from a 'reunion dream', profusely sweating.
Finally it arrived in mail; it would be in June, before it got TOO warm.
He kept his calendar free for the whole month, doubting, at work, he could perform.
He got out the yearbooks his Mom had bought, and he studied each girl's name.
Would he have the nerve to ask them 'why? ' ….OR would he be too scared and lame?

He lived on sedatives for a week. He picked his favorite tie, and a light grey business suit.
Would he find out if the girls had just been shy, or would they give him 'the boot'?

[...] Read more

poem by Bri Edwards
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Shadow

Paul Jannes was working very late,
For this watch must be done by eight
To-morrow or the Cardinal
Would certainly be vexed. Of all
His customers the old prelate
Was the most important, for his state
Descended to his watches and rings,
And he gave his mistresses many things
To make them forget his age and smile
When he paid visits, and they could while
The time away with a diamond locket
Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket,
And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.
This watch was made to buy him blisses
From an Austrian countess on her way
Home, and she meant to start next day.

Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame
Of a tallow candle, and became
So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince
Striking the hour a moment since.
Its echo, only half apprehended,
Lingered about the room. He ended
Screwing the little rubies in,
Setting the wheels to lock and spin,
Curling the infinitesimal springs,
Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings
Of precious stones lay strewn about.
The table before him was a rout
Of splashes and sparks of coloured light.
There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite
A heap of emeralds, and steel.
Here was a gem, there was a wheel.
And glasses lay like limpid lakes
Shining and still, and there were flakes
Of silver, and shavings of pearl,
And little wires all awhirl
With the light of the candle. He took the watch
And wound its hands about to match
The time, then glanced up to take the hour
From the hanging clock.
Good, Merciful Power!
How came that shadow on the wall,
No woman was in the room! His tall
Chiffonier stood gaunt behind
His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined,
Hung from a peg. The door was closed.
Just for a moment he must have dozed.
He looked again, and saw it plain.

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poem by Amy Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
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Fruitcakes

Fruitcakes
By: jimmy buffett, amy lee
1994
--spoken:
You know I was talking to my friend desdemona the other day she
Runs this space station and bake shop down near boomtown. she told
Me that human beings are flawed individuals. the cosmic bakers
Took us out of the oven a little too early. and thats the
Reason were as crazy as we are and I believe it.
Take for example when you go to the movies these days, you know.
They try to sell you this jumbo drink, 8 extra ounces of watered
Down cherry coke for an extra 25 cents. I dont want it.
I dont want that much organziation in my life.
I dont want other people thinking for me.
I want my junior mints. where did the junior mints go in the
Movies. I dont want a 12 lb. nestles crunch for 25 dollars. i
Want junior mints.
We need more fruitcakes in this world and less bakers!
We need people that care! Im mad as hell! and I dont want to
Take it anymore!
Chorus:
Fruitcakes in the kitchen (fruitcakes in the kitchen)
Fruitcakes on the street (fruitcakes on the street)
Struttin naked through the crosswalk
In the middle of the week
Half-baked cookies in the oven (cookies in the oven)
Half-baked people on the bus (people on the bus)
Theres a little bit of fruitcake left in everyone of us
Paradise, lost and found
Paradise, take a look around
I was out in california where I hear they have it all
They got riots, fires, mud slides
Theyve got sushi in the mall
Water bars, brontasaurs, chinese modern lust
Shake and bake life with the quake
The secrets in the crust
Chorus:
Fruitcakes in the kitchen (fruitcakes in the kitchen)
Fruitcakes on the street (fruitcakes on the street)
Struttin naked through the crosswalk
In the middle of the week
Half-baked cookies in the oven (cookies in the oven)
Half-baked people on the bus (people on the bus)
Theres a little bit of fruitcake left in everyone of us
--spoken:
Speakin of fruitcakes, how bout the government?
Your tax dollars at work.
We lost our martian rocket ship
The high paid spokesman said
Looks like that silly rocket ship

[...] Read more

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Parish Register - Part III: Burials

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.
Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!
When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;
When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green: -
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;
Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,
'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

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poem by George Crabbe
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The Great God Guff

There was once a Simple People - (you, of course, will understand
This is just a little fable of a non-existent land)
There was once a Simple People, and they had a Simple King,
And his name - well, SMITH the First will do as well as anything
And they lived upon an island by a pleasant southern sea,
Which they boastfully referred to as the 'Country of the Free.'
This King SMITH was quite a model. He was kind and he was wise.
But, alas! a higher sovereign he was forced to recognise.

As in ev'ry age and nation, since the tale of man was known,
Superstition here existed as the power behind the throne.
It was vague and unsubstantial but its sway was plain enough,
And 'twas known upon the island, simply, as the Great God GUFF.
They made sacrifices to it, treasure, corn and slaughtered beasts,
Good King SMITH cringed to the idol where upon his throne he sat;
And the People feared it greatly; and the priests grew very fat.

Now, the welfare of the priestcraft did not always coincide
With the welfare of the People, hence the wily priests relied
On the hoary superstition that had stood the test of years;
Thus they led both king and people by their rather ass-like ears;
Crying: 'GUFF was ever with us! GUFF the Great must be obeyed!
GUFF the god must be consulted ere a single law be made!'
And the very simple People with their very simple King
Bowed their heads and said, 'So be it. GUFF be served in ev'rything.'

So the nation muddled somehow on its island by the sea -
Simple superstitious people in their 'Country of the Free.'
And whene'er they yearned for Progress, as things drifted to the worst,
SMITH replied, 'Have patience, people. GUFF must be consulted first.
Other lands and other nations may progress without his aid;
But upon our native island never rule or law is made
Till his priests have pondered o'er it, seeking to divine his will.
So it was with our forefathers, so with us it must be still.'

Came a time when folk grew restive, murmurming amongst themselves,
While the nation's schemes and projects lay neglected on the shelves.
Then arose amid the people one of singular renown -
Since his name the eld refuses, let us call him, simply, BROWN.
BROWN was something of a student, strong on things like common-sense;
He was plain and blunt and forceful; and he hated smug pretence.
And before the priests and people, in a manner rude and gruff,
He arose and put this question, briefly: 'Who and what is GUFF?'

Loud the People shrieked in terror; and the High-Priest threw a fit;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Coffee

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It

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poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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