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Stephen Rea

I have never been to a brothel. I don't think I could go into one.

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The Ballad of Villon and Fat Madge

‘'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.' -Falstaff
‘The night cometh, when no man can work.'

What though the beauty I love and serve be cheap,
Ought you to take me for a beast or fool?
All things a man could wish are in her keep;
For her I turn swashbuckler in love's school.
When folk dropp in, I take my pot and stool
And fall to drinking with no more ado.
I fetch them bread, fruit, cheese, and water, too;
I say all's right so long as I'm well paid;
‘Look in again when your flesh troubles you,
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.'

But soon the devil's among us flesh and fell,
When penniless to bed comes Madge my whore;
I loathe the very sight of her like hell.
I snatch gown, girdle, surcoat, all she wore,
And tell her, these shall stand against her score.
She grips her hips with both hands, cursing God,
Swearing by Jesus' body, bones, and blood,
That they shall not. Then I, no whit dismayed,
Cross her cracked nose with some stray shiver of wood
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

When all's made up she drops me a windy word,
Bloat like a beetle puffed and poisonous:
Grins, thumps my pate, and calls me dickey-bird,
And cuffs me with a fist that's ponderous.
We sleep like logs, being drunken both of us;
Then when we wake her womb begins to stir;
To save her seed she gets me under her
Wheezing and whining, flat as planks are laid:
And thus she spoils me for a whoremonger
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

Blow, hail or freeze, I've bread here baked rent free!
Whoring's my trade, and my whore pleases me;
Bad cat, bad rat; we're just the same if weighed.
We that love filth, filth follows us, you see;
Honour flies from us, as from her we flee
Inside this brothel where we drive our trade.

I bequeath likewise to fat Madge
This little song to learn and study;
By god's head she's a sweet fat fadge,
Devout and soft of flesh and ruddy;
I love her with my soul and body,
So doth she me, sweet dainty thing.
If you fall in with such a lady,

[...] Read more

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A Welcome Burden

Shout!
Heavy! you want it heavy!
Welcome to my world, either way you pick youre winding down
Heavy! I want it heavy!
Welcome to my world, either way you pick youre winding down again
Gather your pathetic masses and bring them to me
To a world devoid of lie
To another time, to another place
And then they pick a man, (? ) tastes my misery
Rip away her disguise and brothel the lies that ya find
The truth is sickening!
We dont need to change it, really
I kind of like it ugly!
Lay it mean! it binding! seathing! blinding! screaming!
Gather your psychotic masses and bring them to me
To a world devoid of sanity
Another time, & another place
And then the violence creates calamity
Rip away her disguise and brothel the lies that ya find
The truth is sickening!
We dont need to change it, really
I kind of like it ugly!
The race of the mother culture is thickening!
The rape of the mother culture is nearing!
The face of the mother culture is sickening!
The rape of a mother is the loving I need
Bleeding now - 1! 2! 3! 4!

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Francois Villon

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?
_He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away,
And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!
But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride,
And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside,
What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie;
'Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel
The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!'
He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane--
'Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!'
And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly,
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;
_He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den--
He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men!
His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!--
'Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!'

* * * * *

So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality--
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

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Fate-6

Fate
a fool in wise
a wise in fool
kind in cruel
cruel in kind
love in hell
a hell in love
divine in brothel
a brothel in divine
polygamy in joy
monogamy in lust
Fate is what...
we never thought of
we never dreamt of
yet, we always feel............

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BROTHELS IN TORONTO June 25th,2011

It seems we may indeed have open brothels in Toronto soon,
The Charter of Rights and a lady who wanted to be immune,
Went to the Ontario Supreme Court and won her case,
So an open Toronto brothel may no longer be a disgrace.

The religious types and Toronto politicians are confused,
While some of them I think are more likely very amused,
Can’t have a brothel next door to a politician though,
The bright lights and tourists might leave the street all aglow.

The powerful media moguls of course are not amused,
They know the religious activists, whose egos might be bruised,
We should make bylaws for where brothels should and should not be,
Maybe go to Amsterdam, look in windows and walk around and see.

June 25th,2011

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City of Moon

City of Moon

If your heart is not ruined by wild beast
Touching the flower the sun spread smell sweet
Because of southern wind’s touch as storm rises in sea
Unknown lady with your touch I want to reach in moon city.

Touching the flower the sun spread smell sweet
Love that goes to brothel is not clean and nit
Unknown lady with your touch I want to reach in moon city
Puzzled vagabond wishes to be illuminated you are not lucky.

Love that goes to brothel is not clean and nit
Dwelling together with moon- is parallel unknown lady sweet
Puzzled vagabond wishes to be illuminated you are not lucky
In favorite dew bathed grass looks at sun and sea.

Dwelling together with moon- is parallel unknown lady sweet
Alas! The slaves become ruined when the sun and sea meet
In favorite dew bathed grass looks at sun and sea
Glided light is laughing as you appear to me.

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Theodora And Beruriah's Sister

The words for Handel’s “Theodora”
are not written in the Torah,
or even in the book they call
the gospels, or epistles Paul
wrote to the Romans and Galatians
and other gentiles whose persuasions
conflicted with his own. Their source
is neither classical nor Norse,
but comes from legends Christians told
about the martyrs in their fold.

Most of these martyrs met their death
with Jesus’ name upon their breath,
impressing Romans by their dying
joyfully, as if relying
on Jesus to provide them better
lodging with the First Begetter,
His Father who ruled heaven and
the still unholy Roman land.
They threatened Theodora with
a far worse fate, so goes the myth.
This fate all legends have reported
by martyrdom became aborted,
for only by her death could she
make such a fate be incompli,
since it involved the cruel loss
not of her life, as on a cross,
but her virginity within
a brothel––what a heinous sin
this seemed to her, and so she gave
her life her purity to save.

Her fate recalls that of a maid,
a famous sister Romans made
a prostitute like Theodora.
Horny men would come from fora
to visit her, sister-in-law
of Rabbi Meir, whose wise squaw
was Beruriah, who though he wedded
was, like all women, too light-headed:
this false charge led to suicide
because it caused her to backslide.

Her sister while in Rome would make
excuses like those wives who fake
a headache, thus remaining pure
till rescued by a saboteur,
the rabbi married to her sister.
In the brothel a resister
of all advances made by Romans,

[...] Read more

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Ben Hecht

In Hollywood a starlet is the name for any woman under thirty who is not actively employed in a brothel.

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Gustave Flaubert

That man has missed something who has never left a brothel at sunrise feeling like throwing himself into the river out of pure disgust.

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Oregon

Oregon is bad
Stop it if you can
Here it comes
Here it comes
Now its after you
Flee to someplace new
Run away
Run away
From the penthouse to the prison
To the humble piedterre
Are they taking up the cry
In the brothel
In the castle
On the crowded boulevard
Do they sing the dreadful words
Oregon is bad
Stop it if you can
Here it comes
Here it comes
Oregon is bad
Stop it if you can
Run away
Run away

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Wystan Hugh Auden

The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears.

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He who has one foot in a brothel, has the other in a hospital.

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There are no virgins in a brothel.

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I think he's Will 's partying a lot in Cabo. I think he's running a brothel. I don't know what he's doing.

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Cavern

Your time is near, the missions clear
Its later than we think
Before you slip into the night
Youll want something to drink
Steal away before the dawn, and
Bring us back good news
But if youve tread in primal soup
Please wipe it from your shoes
Just then a porthole pirate
Scourged the evening with his cry
And sanctuary bugs deprived
The monkey of its thigh
A dust arose and clogged my nose
Before I could blink twice
Despite the stuff that bubbled up
I gave some last advice:
The flesh from satans dogs
Will make the rudiments of gruel
Deduct the carrots from your pay
You worthless swampy fool
Exploding then through fields and fen
And swimming in the mire
The septic maidens gargoyle tooth
Demented me with fire
I drifted where the current chose
Afloat upon my back
And if perchance a newt slimed by
Id stuff it in my sack
Soon I felt a bubble form, somewhere below my skin
But with handy spine of hedgehog
I removed the force within
Suzie then removed her mask
And caused a mighty stir
The angry mob responded
Taking turns at grabbing her
The foggy caverns musty grime
Appeared within my palm
I snatched ricks fork to scrape it off
With deadly icy calm
[(original lyrics - from 4.22.90)
The brothel wife then grabbed a knife
And slashed me on the tongue
I turned the blade back on the bitch
And dropped her in the dung]
The crowd meanwhile had taken sue
And used her like a rag
To mop the slime from where the slug
Had slithered with the bag
In summing up, the moral seems
A little bit obscure...

[...] Read more

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sixth Book

THE English have a scornful insular way
Of calling the French light. The levity
Is in the judgment only, which yet stands;
For say a foolish thing but oft enough,
(And here's the secret of a hundred creeds,–
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell,
By re-iteration chiefly) the same thing
Shall pass at least for absolutely wise,
And not with fools exclusively. And so,
We say the French are light, as if we said
The cat mews, or the milch-cow gives us milk:
Say rather, cats are milked, and milch cows mew,
For what is lightness but inconsequence,
Vague fluctuation 'twixt effect and cause,
Compelled by neither? Is a bullet light,
That dashes from the gun-mouth, while the eye
Winks, and the heart beats one, to flatten itself
To a wafer on the white speck on a wall
A hundred paces off? Even so direct,
So sternly undivertible of aim,
Is this French people.
All idealists
Too absolute and earnest, with them all
The idea of a knife cuts real flesh;
And still, devouring the safe interval
Which Nature placed between the thought and act,
They threaten conflagration to the world
And rush with most unscrupulous logic on
Impossible practice. Set your orators
To blow upon them with loud windy mouths
Through watchword phrases, jest or sentiment,
Which drive our burley brutal English mobs
Like so much chaff, whichever way they blow,–
This light French people will not thus be driven.
They turn indeed; but then they turn upon
Some central pivot of their thought and choice,
And veer out by the force of holding fast.
–That's hard to understand, for Englishmen
Unused to abstract questions, and untrained
To trace the involutions, valve by valve,
In each orbed bulb-root of a general truth,
And mark what subtly fine integument
Divides opposed compartments. Freedom's self
Comes concrete to us, to be understood,
Fixed in a feudal form incarnately
To suit our ways of thought and reverence,
The special form, with us, being still the thing.
With us, I say, though I'm of Italy
My mother's birth and grave, by father's grave
And memory; let it be,–a poet's heart

[...] Read more

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Edgar Lee Masters

The Hill

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.

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Arthur Koestler

One may not regard the world as a sort of metaphysical brothel for emotions.

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William Faulkner

The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in.

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To take part in this brothel through the payment of my taxes, that had become to me unbearable.

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