9/11: after so much manipulation, only the absurd remains credible!
quote by Octav Bibere
Added by Kitsy Bush
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However Absurd
Ears twitch, like a dog, breaking eggs in a dish.
Do not mock me when I say this is not a lie.
Its funny thing, half serious, with our hands on our ears.
Living dreams with mouths ajar, wide awake, we go to sleep.
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
Something special between us, when we mmade love the game was over.
I couldnt say the words, words wouldnt get ny feelings through,
So I keep talking to you...
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
Custom made dinosaurs, too late now, for a change.
Everything is under the sun, but nothing is for keeps...
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
However absurd, however absurd... it may seem.
song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Manipulation Got You Tripping
Lead me on then, tell me whatever you want me to know, yeah just tell it to me, I'll will absorb it, I'm so dumb I will remember it
Manipulation got you tripping
Oh for real, we going to do that and that and go here and there and be together forever
Manipulation got you tripping
Did all this and that, thought I was doing all the right things to make things straight for us Manipulation got you tripping
Dang for real, oh yeah, all this time this was only gonna lead to this and me feeling sick Manipulation got you tripping
Oh that was cold, got me here while you over there talking to him
Manipulation got you tripping
Alright, it is what it is then, I guess I ain't wanted here no more
Manipulation got you tripping Well yo gat damn, time to be the Nupe I am and wake up my fans
Manipulation got you slipping, cause now I'm dipping
poem by Coker George
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sestina: Terminataur
Enveloped by the glow of bedside light,
a small child listens spellbound to a plot.
A parent tells a story quite absurd
of cyborgs, birds and dinosaurs, most mean.
A science fiction tale of keen-edged claw
and culminating fast with time machine.
‘A fearsome shrewd reptilian machine
was lurking ‘mid striated cycad light.
His iridescent scaly skin and claw
advising ‘gainst the trespass of his plot.
A grey bird hovered close; what could it mean?
and conversation flowed; now that's absurd'!
‘Tyrannosaurus said, 'You're quite absurd',
'a cyborg bird with so-called time machine',
'and plans which sound both devilish and mean',
'involving death by catastrophic light'.
'You wish to beg my pardon for the plot',
'and ask respectfully to shake my claw'? ! ? ! ? ! '
‘The cyborg bird said, 'Cousin, take my claw',
'I'm your descendent, though it sounds absurd'.
'Our fourth millennium A.D. course is plot',
'whereby we triumph over man machine'.
'I'm here to guide the bird-made meteor light',
'so we can wing ascent; see what I mean'? '
‘Just then a ratty mammal, snide and mean,
who hid within the cycad's curving claw,
quick swiped the heedless bird in dusky light
and thereby foiled cretaceous scheme absurd.
The meteor missed and dinosaur machine
retained its topmost spot, in spite of plot'.
The father closes zany fiction plot
and though his sharp-toothed grin looks wily mean,
he is a loving dinosaur machine.
The sleepy dino-child lets go his claw
and slips into a dreaming world absurd.
He kisses scaly snout and dims the light.
The moral here is both absurd and light.
I mean by this: Beware the bird machine
which may still plot to claim the upper claw.
poem by Diane Hine
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Love Remains (feat. Christopher Cross)
Album: When It All Goes South
When the last drop of rain has fallen
When the final note has drifted away
When the earth ceases to turn
And the last fire has burned
When the wind stops its ceaseless blowing
When the last wave has come into shore
When the sun has called it a day
And the stars have all floated away
My heart will still be yours, baby
My dreams will still be yours, darlin'
You and I will find nothing has changed
Love, love, love
Love, love, love (remains)
When we have grown old together
And the hourglass runs out of sand
Darlin' you will kiss me and then
Forever starts all over again
My heart will still be yours, baby
My dreams will still be yours, darlin'
You and I will find nothing has changed
Love, love, love
Love, love, love (remains)
My soul is one with yours, baby
Just to hold you drives me crazy
In your eyes I see... you feel the same
Love, love, love
Love, love, love remains
Love remains like an endless flame
Through the brightest joys and the darkest pain
In the end....
My heart will still be yours, baby
My dreams will still be yours, darlin'
You and I will find nothing has changed
Love, love, love
Love, love, love (remains)
My soul is one with yours, baby
Just to hold you drives me crazy
In your eyes I see... you feel the same
Love, love, love
Love, love, love remains
Love, love, love
Love, love, still remains
Love, love, love
Love, love, remains
Love, love, love
Love, remains
Love, love, love
Love, love, still remains
Love, love, love
[...] Read more
song performed by Alabama
Added by Lucian Velea
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Theatre Of The Absurd
(ian hunter)
My tea turned seven shades darker
As I sit n write these words
And londons gettin paler
In my theatre of the absurd.
You figured for an evening
And you made it all worthwile.
Its seldom people have a job
And even rarer that I smile.
Play me some, play me some,
Play me brixton power.
Teach your children to be them
And never ever ours.
Play me some, play me some,
Play me brixton power.
Someone took the park away
But they left a lonely flower.
And if your songs be classics,
Throw them to the hurd.
Truth is where they came from
And not this theatre of the absurd.
Some say you wanted to play for me
But its only what youve heard
That made you want to capture me
In your theatre of the absurd.
It was not me, I said myself
And you must do so, too.
I hope you have the strength to stay
When Ill be watchin you.
So baby,
Play me some, play me some,
Play me brixton power.
Teach your children to be them
And never ever ours.
Play me some, play me some,
Play me brixton power.
Someone took the park away
But they left a lonely flower.
Oh when I got here back home tonight
Something within me stirred.
Oh it must have been a different kind of play
That touched my theatre of the absurd.
Now Ill be on my way alone
But an interesting thing occurred
See nobody ever shared too much
In my theatre of the absurd.
And there I was back in london,
Thought about history.
It was just like being in school again
But I felt something movin in me.
[...] Read more
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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Defenseless Against Critics
As long as your stature remains credible,
I will defend you.
And nothing you do...
In my eyes,
Will be regrettable.
As long as your ideals remain upfront,
Without the pulling of stunts...
That initiates the beginning of a witch hunt.
I will defend you.
That's what I will do to prove my loyalty is true.
I am not one quick to leave when the heat gets hot.
I am not one to flee from a good thing I've got.
I'll even accept mud thrown in my face...
If that's what it takes,
To keep you and I protected in a safe place.
As long as your stature remains credible,
I will defend you.
And nothing you do...
In my eyes,
Will be regrettable.
And regardless of what others may say,
I've been with you too long...
To be chased away.
This I have proven over our time spent together.
And you know this.
How many times have you healed my wounds?
When I came to you,
Defenseless against critics.
To become even stronger...
As if it was meant for us together to stick with it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Conversation
Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Conversation in its better part
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil,
On culture, and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
As alphabets in ivory employ,
Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy,
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee
Those seeds of science call’d his a b c;
So language in the mouths of the adult,
Witness its insignificant result,
Too often proves an implement of play,
A toy to sport with, and pass time away.
Collect at evening what the day brought forth,
Compress the sum into its solid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are false, or algebra a lie.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought!
But all shall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or sell their glory at a market-price;
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.
There is a prurience in the speech of some,
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb;
His wise forbearance has their end in view,
They fill their measure and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,
Names almost worthy of a Christian’s praise,
Would drive them forth from the resort of men,
And shut up every satyr in his den.
Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower;
Its odour perish’d, and its charming hue,
Thenceforth ‘tis hateful, for it smells of you.
Not e’en the vigorous and headlong rage
Of adolescence, or a firmer age,
Affords a plea allowable or just
For making speech the pamperer of lust;
But when the breath of age commits the fault,
‘Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault.
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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Born To Rocknroll
If music be the food of love then play on
Lend me your ears as I lay down this song
Youre touched by the feeling-its hard to control
Let me tell you people
I was born to rocknroll
Some people want to fight- some people want to fly
Others live for pleasure-even do or die
Some are born to power-try to save a soul
Let me tell you people
I was born to rocknroll
It may sound a little absurd
But I was born to spread the word
Got the music in my soul
I was born to rocknroll
Some people are born to money
Privileged all their days
Never had a problem-never had to pay
But I dont have a doubt about the feeling in my soul
Let me tell you people
I was born to rocknroll
It may sound a little absurd
But I was born to spread the word
Got the music in my soul
I was born to rocknroll
(instrumental)
It may sound a little absurd
But I was born to spread the word
Got the music in my soul
I was born to rocknroll
It may sound a little absurd
But I was born to spread the word
Got the music in my soul
I was born to rocknroll
Born to rocknroll
I was born to rocknroll
song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Ballad of Freedom
Now Mr. Jeremiah Bane
He owned a warehouse in The Lane,
An edifice of goodly size,
Where, with keen private enterprise,
He sold imported napery
And drapery - and drapery.
His singlets and his socks were sent
Out over half the continent;
In clothing for the nursery
And mercery - and mercery
He plied a most extensive trade,
And quite enormous prodfits made,
And barracked, with much fervency,
For foreign-trade - described as 'Free.'
He said,
Indeed,
It was
His creed.
The trade described as Free.
And this good man was known to fame
For charity; indeed, his name
Shone often in the daily press.
When needy folk were in distress
He aided - (with publicity)
Mendicity - mendicity.
And though much cash he thuswise spared
There still were people who declared
His act of private charity
A rarity - a rarity.
Donations, duly advertised,
From business point of view, he prized;
But 'good by stealth' he ne'er could see
Was any use to such as he.
But still,
The press,
With much
Success,
Declared his hand was free.
Now Mr. Bane's employees were
Wont to address the boss as 'Sir,'
To show him most intense respect;
And there were few who would neglect
To couple with civility
Humility - humility.
They dressed in cheap but pretty clothes,
And ev'ry man turned up his nose
And scorned familiarity
Or parity - or parity
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Part Of The Creator
It is absurd to think about the part of the creator
He is the sole judge, care taker and arbitrator
I think it will be too much to think about father of the universe
When tons of praises may be less even if we pray from verses
It will be mere imagination on our part
Some of the universal actions stop or start
It has nothing to do with our thinking
Even if we have some means or little inkling
If we go by any standard of thinking in reality
The human beings are bestowed with very good quality
That is power of judgment and arguments in favor or against
Simultaneous to go in for and deliberately insist
What is he if we carefully analyze and weigh
It will be arrow in dark even if shot by and thought naïve
What it ahs to achieve other than raising the controversy?
This does not, in any way, lower the power of almighty
God has given us the beautiful earth to live and enjoy
It may depend how best use we make of it with joy
How can we leave it to him whether he enjoys or grieves?
When everything is left to you to believe or not to believe
We are mechanics of old junkyard factory
We laugh at little gain and still worry
Somebody’s death makes us to feel sorry
Think of self as donkey for all the burdens to carry
No one has encountered him face to face
But many might claim to have seen in some cases
Yet that impulse has not been delivered to anybody
And as such remains shrouded in mystery with everybody
It can appease some people claiming to be from intelligent class
No one may land credible ears and allow it to pass
As it has no standing or relevance in the topic
The truth remains as hard material and forms basic
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Richard Minutolo
IN ev'ry age, at Naples, we are told,
Intrigue and gallantry reign uncontrolled;
With beauteous objects in abundance blessed.
No country round so many has possessed;
Such fascinating charms the FAIR disclose,
That irresistibly soft passion flows.
'MONG these a belle, enchanting to behold,
Was loved by one, of birth and store of gold;
Minutolo (and Richard) was his name,
In Cupid's train a youth of brilliant fame:
'Tween Rome and Paris none was more gallant,
And num'rous hearts were for him known to pant.
CATELLA (thus was called our lady fair,)
So long, howe'er, resisted Richard's snare,
That prayers, and vows, and promises were vain;
A favour Minutolo could not gain.
At length, our hero weary, coldness showed,
And dropt attendance, since no kindness flowed;
Pretended to be cured:--another sought,
And feigned her charms his tender heart had caught:
Catella laughed, but jealousy was nigh;
'Twas for her friend that now He heaved the sigh.
THESE dames together met, and Richard too,
The gay gallant a glowing picture drew,
Of certain husbands, lovers, prudes, and wives;
Who led in secret most lascivious lives.
Though none he named, Catella was amazed;
His hints suspicions of her husband raised;
And such her agitation and affright,
That, anxious to procure more certain light,
In haste she took Minutolo aside,
And begged the names he would not from her hide,
With all particulars, from first to last:--
Her ardent wish to know whate'er had passed.
SO long your reign, said Richard, o'er my mind,
Deny I could not, howsoe'er inclined;
With Mrs. Simon often is your spouse;
Her character no doubt your spleen will rouse;
I've no design, observe to give offence,
But, when I see your int'rest in suspense,
I cannot silent keep; though, were I still
A slave, devoted wholly to your will,
As late I moved, I would not drop a word
Mistrust of lovers may not be absurd;
Besides, you'd fancy other motives led
To tell you of your husband what was said;
[...] Read more
poem by La Fontaine
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To be persuasive, we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; to be credible, we must be truthful.
quote by Edward R. Murrow
Added by Lucian Velea
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To be persuasive we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; credible we must be truthful.
quote by Edward R. Murrow
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Basically what they're saying is, if you want to be on TV, if you want to be a credible candidate, you've got to buy ads. And if you're not buying ads, you're not a credible candidate, we don't cover you.
quote by Robert McChesney
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Propaganda, to be effective, must be believed. To be believed, it must be credible. To be credible, it must be true.
quote by Hubert H. Humphrey
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In 1930s mysteries, all sorts of motives were credible which aren't credible today, especially motives of preventing guilty sexual secrets from coming out. Nowadays, people sell their guilty sexual secrets.
quote by P.D. James
Added by Lucian Velea
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Alsace-Lorraine
I
The sister Hours in circles linked,
Daughters of men, of men the mates,
Are gone on flow with the day that winked,
With the night that spanned at golden gates.
Mothers, they leave us, quickening seed;
They bear us grain or flower or weed,
As we have sown; is nought extinct
For them we fill to be our Fates.
Life of the breath is but the loan;
Passing death what we have sown.
Pearly are they till the pale inherited stain
Deepens in us, and the mirrors they form on their flow
Darken to feature and nature: a volumed chain,
Sequent of issue, in various eddies they show.
Theirs is the Book of the River of Life, to read
Leaf by leaf by reapers of long-sown seed:
There doth our shoot up to light from a spiriting sane
Stand as a tree whereon numberless clusters grow:
Legible there how the heart, with its one false move
Cast Eurydice pallor on all we love.
Our fervid heart has filled that Book in chief;
Our fitful heart a wild reflection views;
Our craving heart of passion suckling grief
Disowns the author's work it must peruse;
Inconscient in its leap to wreak the deed,
A round of harvests red from crimson seed,
It marks the current Hours show leaf by leaf,
And rails at Destiny; nor traces clues;
Though sometimes it may think what novel light
Will strike their faces when the mind shall write.
II
Succourful daughters of men are the rosed and starred
Revolving Twelves in their fluent germinal rings,
Despite the burden to chasten, abase, depose.
Fallen on France, as the sweep of scythe over sward,
They breathed in her ear their voice of the crystal springs,
That run from a twilight rise, from a twilight close,
Through alternate beams and glooms, rejoicingly young.
Only to Earth's best loved, at the breathless turns
Where Life in fold of the Shadow reclines unstrung,
And a ghostly lamp of their moment's union burns,
Will such pure notes from the fountain-head be sung.
Voice of Earth's very soul to the soul she would see renewed:
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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Grave Retrospective
Possessions' progression obsession
poor more, more than best less, must draw
conclusions mistaken, impression
that wealth over health sets the score
for worth on our earth where aggression's
too often condoned by the law,
where success seems a sterile succession
of trangressions that ravage rapports.
This seems tantamount to retrogression
where blunderbuss plunder makes war
where arrogant ego expression
is excuse for abuse all abhor.
Who lusts for a trophy procession
to celebrate, victory's roar,
finds vain remains reign, dispossession,
cyclic atrophy squanders life's store.
Where vice is held virtue, concession
signals weakness, destruction in store,
where thinly disguised indiscretion
pours rewards upon traitor or whore,
where equity's lacks intercession
from power base raw's bloody maw
it is hard to ignore the suppression
of freedom, true rue rotten core.
Where equity finds no reflection
in the eyes of corrupt judge explore
when and how most lost sense of direction,
surrendered control, and deplore
political moral defection,
dereliction of duty, closed door,
or puppet string rigging election,
democracy hard to restore.
Once life's flow more than permanence counted,
Nature guided intemporal tide,
no need for race, steed to be mounted,
no seed but would blossom beside
scheme stream of unconscious connections
as each was in all, all in each, -
no need for trace, gain, greed, projections,
for constrictive force frontiers of speech.
Once no part of the whole was discounted
as second-class link in life's chain,
each link was completely accounted
as interdependent to gain
from Time time to evolve, never static,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11
SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20
“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, 30
And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow, 35
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought;
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send, 40
Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d 45
The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. 50
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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