| Topic: |
Science > Abortion |
| User: |
"Xomicron" |
| Date: |
21 Apr 2004 02:02:09 PM |
| Object: |
Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
(WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
Tuesday With Little Spain.
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said,
she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders,
it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret
but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted,
patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud,
a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry,
in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory,
no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river
in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had,
your mix of pales and shades,
your, disctinctive, mythic self,
one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate,
we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
-Will Dockery
How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking cowards.
.
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| User: "gonzo" |
|
| Title: Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
21 Apr 2004 04:44:54 PM |
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Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:Ryzhc.26669$Yf6.12915@fed1read07...
(WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
Tuesday With Little Spain.
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said,
she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders,
it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret
but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted,
patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud,
a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry,
in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory,
no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river
in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had,
your mix of pales and shades,
your, disctinctive, mythic self,
one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate,
we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
-Will Dockery
How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking cowards.
How about you shove your head up your ***** and see if you can
find your brain?
.
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| User: "Xomicron" |
|
| Title: Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
21 Apr 2004 04:52:45 PM |
|
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"gonzo" <rkin@gonzo.esatclear.ie> wrote in
news:c66qed$qqg$1@kermit.esat.net:
Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:Ryzhc.26669$Yf6.12915@fed1read07...
(WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
Tuesday With Little Spain.
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said,
she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders,
it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret
but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted,
patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud,
a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry,
in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory,
no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river
in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had,
your mix of pales and shades,
your, disctinctive, mythic self,
one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate,
we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
-Will Dockery
How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking
cowards.
How about you shove your head up your ***** and see if you can
find your brain?
How about I put your fingers in mousetraps so you'll stop masterbating
every time you read my posts.
.
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| User: "gonzo" |
|
| Title: Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
22 Apr 2004 06:30:16 PM |
|
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Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:N2Chc.27621$Yf6.13611@fed1read07...
"gonzo" <rkin@gonzo.esatclear.ie> wrote in
news:c66qed$qqg$1@kermit.esat.net:
Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:Ryzhc.26669$Yf6.12915@fed1read07...
(WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
Tuesday With Little Spain.
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said,
she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders,
it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret
but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted,
patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud,
a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry,
in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory,
no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river
in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had,
your mix of pales and shades,
your, disctinctive, mythic self,
one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate,
we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
-Will Dockery
How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking
cowards.
How about you shove your head up your ***** and see if you can
find your brain?
How about I put your fingers in mousetraps so you'll stop masterbating
every time you read my posts.
Masterbating? Illiterate *****.
.
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| User: "Xomicron" |
|
| Title: Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
22 Apr 2004 07:57:41 PM |
|
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"gonzo" <rkin@gonzo.esatclear.ie> wrote in
news:c69l06$lp5$1@kermit.esat.net:
Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:N2Chc.27621$Yf6.13611@fed1read07...
"gonzo" <rkin@gonzo.esatclear.ie> wrote in
news:c66qed$qqg$1@kermit.esat.net:
Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
news:Ryzhc.26669$Yf6.12915@fed1read07...
(WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
Tuesday With Little Spain.
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said,
she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders,
it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret
but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted,
patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud,
a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry,
in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory,
no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river
in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had,
your mix of pales and shades,
your, disctinctive, mythic self,
one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate,
we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
-Will Dockery
How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking
cowards.
How about you shove your head up your ***** and see if you can
find your brain?
How about I put your fingers in mousetraps so you'll stop masterbating
every time you read my posts.
Masterbating? Illiterate *****.
So you enjoy spooging at the thought of reading my posts? I thought so.
.
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| User: "ur_droll" |
|
| Title: Re: Tuesday With Little Spain. by Will Dockery |
22 Apr 2004 02:36:45 AM |
|
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"gonzo" <rkin@gonzo.esatclear.ie> wrote in message
news:c66qed$qqg$1@kermit.esat.net...
:
: Xomicron <xomicron@wp.pl> wrote in message
: news:Ryzhc.26669$Yf6.12915@fed1read07...
: > (WDockery) wrote in news:4086c7df$1@nexus.comcen.com.au:
: >
: > > Tuesday With Little Spain.
: > >
: > > And I am shoved back into this night life.
: > > Well, she said, she said,
: > > she said it was impossible.
: > > There is a place, it smoulders,
: > > it is the past, dreamtime,
: > > wander these dark corridors of memory.
: > > I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
: > > my dreams threaten to take me away.
: > >
: > > Floating in a sea of bad vibes,
: > > I do these things over and over,
: > > repentatively, feel regret
: > > but keep doing it over and over.
: > > Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
: > > Grey and pasted,
: > > patched together with spackling
: > > and sheet rock mud,
: > > a disgusted perversion of humanity.
: > >
: > > During the decline and fall of poetry,
: > > in the summer of sardonic excess,
: > > I sat with Little Spain on her steps,
: > > and felt her softness.
: > > Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
: > > brought down from Blue Territory,
: > > no longer in Blue Territory.
: > > I wandered by a cold river
: > > in the flaming copper land of summer.
: > >
: > > This complete process of remaking we had,
: > > your mix of pales and shades,
: > > your, disctinctive, mythic self,
: > > one distinct sing of your eyes...
: > > I must bitterly understand our fate,
: > > we were never meant to be,
: > > Like lost in the mirror'd rooms of a crazy house.
: > >
: > > Crimson on the napkins,
: > > pink fuzz on the clover.
: > > Maneuver to the left, and forward,
: > > into a mud soaked future.
: > >
: > > -Will Dockery
: >
: > How about you write about how Spain is full of a bunch of fucking
cowards.
:
: How about you shove your head up your ***** and see if you can
: find your brain?
He's tried but can't see it....... with his eyes shut
.
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