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"Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius." - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
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Beck- Diamond Ballocks (Version A)

Looking back at some dead world that looks so new..
offices and fountains that they named for you.
Dazzlements of accidents rejoice their doom
Hari Karis spinning 'round the golden looms..
Girl! You dream infections from the nauseous heart!
Choice cut meats from derelict boulevards..

Hear that lonesome whistle blow
no direction to be known, in a senile revelry
a tearful gaze turns away emotions cold and grey
scented eunuchs clothe our wretchedness

Looking back at some dead world that looks so new!
offices and fountains that they named for you.
So grateful to Who's and What's His Face
Perilous confections look so out of place

Looking back at some dead world that looks so new.
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new.
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new.
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new.
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You lay down like an undulating plumage eel
In canyons of custardy exhaustion.
Your buttocks ripple enticingly
A mare in blueberry ice cream corrosion-

You had that Sashay Jonquil Walk
with all your piccolo electrons screaming,
'I'll get you back!  I'll get you back
for that dress you made me wear at your wedding!'

I am the Black Titted She Wolf of Canterbury
reading a well-thumbed book on crime
I'll lay you down in a field of elderberries
and twist it where you said that you wouldn't mind
I'll sip the slime, if you have the time-
Ah! I've a one track mind.

 A bored Rabelais; you labored in solitude
over your  fledgeling testicle verse..
but I have my own  labyrinths of solipsism!
Hon, I've got my own puppies to nurse!
I'll do the crime, if you have the time!
Oh! I've a one track mind-
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I'm having this awful image in my head, and I couldn't get it out even with a crowbar at this moment. So I'll simply share it with whatever poor unfortunates read this.

I'm having sex with the Quaker Oat man. He's on top of me. Oh, his smug smile and his perky, crimson colored cheeks! And two pugs are positioned on either side of me, licking my toes with their miles-long toungues.

Is this is called a Jacksonian dreamy state, or an absence seizure?

Low blood sugar?

Oh, help.

(He's not bad, though.)
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Evidently, Eddie took a crap. He escaped last night, and came home about three pounds lighter with a slender waist.

There is something to be said for the simplicity of reduced expectations. Who would have thought that the most blissful thing I can imagine at this moment is a working cat anus? I picture it in the sky, all celestial-  surrounded by seraphim and wreaths of peonies, with bees buzzing around them, and ants crawling on the buds to get them to open.

Will he live a while longer? Alleluia! I'm afraid to hope, the way things have been going...
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'To see the world in a grain of sand/and heaven in a wildflower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/and eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage/puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove house full of doves and pigeons/ shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate/ predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road/ calls out to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry from a hunted hare/ a fibre from the brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded from a wing/ a Cherubim doth cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp'd and armed for fight/doth the rising sun affright.
Every Wolf and Lion's howl/raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The Wild Deer, wandering here and there/ does keep the Human Soul from care.
The Lamb misus'd breeds Public strife/ and yet forgives the Butcher's knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve/ has left the Brain that won't believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night/ speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt a little Wren/ never shall be belov'd by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has moved/ shall never be by Woman lov'd.
The Wanton Boy who kills the Fly /shall feel the Spider's emnity.
He who torments the Chafer's sprite/ shall weave a Bower in the endless night.
The Caterpillar on the Leaf/ repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.
Kill not the Moth or Butterfly/ for the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat/ feed them and thou will grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his summer song/ Poison gets from slander's tounge.
The poison of the Snake and Newt/ is the sweat of envy's foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee/ is the Artist's jealousy.
The Prince's robes and Beggar's Rags/ are poisons on the Miser's Bags.

A truth that's told with bad intent/ beats all the lies you can invent.
It was right it should be so/ Man was made for joy and woe,
And when this we rightly know/ through the world we safely go.
Joy and Woe are woven fine/ a Clothing for the Soul Divine,
Under every grief and pine/ runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swaddling bands/ throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, and born were Hands
Every Farmer understands.
Every tear from Every Eye /becomes a Babe in Eternity:
This is caught by Females Bright/ and return'd to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow and Roar
are waves that beat on Heaven's shore.

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath/ writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar's rags, fluttering in Air/ does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier, armed with Sword and Gun/ palsied strikes the Summer Sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more/ than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from laborer's hands/ shall buy and sell the miser's lands.
He who mocks the Infant's faith/ shall be mocked in Age and Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt/ the rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith/ triumphs over Hell and Death.
The Child's Toy and the Old Man's Reasons/ are the fruits of Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly/ shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt/ shall put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known/ came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Naught can deform the human race/ like the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plow/ to peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle or the Cricket's cry/ is to Doubt a fit reply.
The Emmet's inch and Eagle's mile/ makes lame philosophy to smile.

He who Doubts from what he Sees/ will never believe, do what You please.
If the Sun and Moon should Doubt/ they should immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion Good may you do/ but no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore and the Gambler, by that State/ Licensed, build that nation's fate
The Harlot's cry from street to street/ shall weave Old London's winding sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse/ dance before old England's hearse.

Every Night and Every Morn
Some to Misery are born.
Some are born to sweet Delight.
Some are born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul slept in Beams of Light.
God appears and God is Light
to those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
to those who dwell in Realms of Day.
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If you've never checked out Rilke, please, DO SO NOW! Oh my! He can say so eloquently so many things that I wish I could put into words..
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       For all those autistic people who have an opportunity to avoid ever entering Burlington Coat Factory....BY ALL MEANS, AVOID IT. 

        I, who needed a good winter coat for Asher, could not avoid it. Piles of boxes thrown chaotically everywhere. Voracious shoppers. You want to run screaming out of the place, but can't even do that very easily, because it is a maze of boxes randomly stacked and thrown everywhere, leading to dead ends. I spent what felt like two hours there, my neurons silently screaming. 

      This morning, however, I allowed myself a moment of quiet pride at the sight of Asher. Not just his essence- who he was, but HOW HE WAS RIGGED OUT. Not even the most established, married, doctor-professorish family in this town could have a complaint with their child being rigged out similarly. 

      The London Fog parka with the furry, dense lining. The matching hat with earflaps! The Sorrell slip-on boots, the slip-on-ness being of extreme importance, because my eight year old Asher cannot yet tie laces. 

       Even Asher seemed transformed with pride in his lovely gear. He waddled triumphantly into school, with that particular walk that children have when they have new, dazzling winter outfits! His cheeks even seemed extra plump- a result of the endless latkes I've fried and fried and fried over the last eight days. 

      It's so nice to see one's hard work pay off.  I've had to set my sights on so many Long Hauls...pleasant to have a Short Haul now and then.
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If God opened the fridge of your brain, would there be a smell? oh yes. I didn't tend
the garden of the fridge of my brain. I just kept it frigid, a frigid fridge, a crying frigate bird
not seaward, just sitting there, growing green fuzz in untended tupperwares. Domesticity grown monstrous. 
I stuck in a box of baking soda and forlornly hoped for the best. 

Oh Lemon Verbena!
Cleanse the Stink of the fridge of my brain!
Bring grace and ease to the daily grind, that it may be blown clean
like a rancid cock made fresh as baby mice
and spicy gingerbread and figs may nestle in that industrial holy space
and tempt us all to nibble and gobble, that we may live again
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OH MY G-D, I'M BACK. No more posting at the library! No more occasional furtive chances to check what people are writing, just for a moment, and not having time to write them back! I'm online in the privacy of my very own room, a full seven months after leaving Blair! 
I've been so lonely for writing. My brain has been simply seething. There are only so many dishes one can wash, as your mind seethes and writhes in its attempts to tell stories to itself, to amuse itself. There are only so many dishes one can wash and stay sane...and yet, by gawd, I wash them all!  No books. No writing. NO TIME for books. No time for drawing. And the ideas keep coming and coming. We've been snowed in for two days. I am not made for this kind of isolation, and I don't think I can possibly convey what it does to a person.
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