Stealing by Carol Ann Duffy
The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life’s tough.
Sometimes I steal things I don’t need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I’m a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.
I watch my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger’s bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this - Aah.
It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn’t look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world.
Boredom. Mostly I’m so bored I could eat myself.
One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was strangest.
You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life’s tough.
Sometimes I steal things I don’t need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I’m a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.
I watch my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger’s bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this - Aah.
It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn’t look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world.
Boredom. Mostly I’m so bored I could eat myself.
One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was strangest.
You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?
Labels: :), бррр чајче
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Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
A City of Churches by Donald Barthelme
3:05 AM
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2 comments
"Yes," Mr. Phillips said, "ours is a city of churches all right."
Cecelia nodded, following his pointing hand. Both sides of the street
were solidly lines with churches, standing shoulder to shoulder in a variety
of architectural styles. The Bethel Baptist stood next to the Holy Messiah
Free Baptist, Saint Paul's Episcopal next to Grace Evangelical Covenant. Then
came the First Christian Science, the Church of God, All Souls, Our Lady of
Victory, and the Church of the Holy Apostles. The spires and steeples of the
traditional buildings were jammed in next to the broad imaginative flights of
the "contemporary" designs.
"Everyone here takes great interest in church matters," Mr. Philips said.
Will I fit in, Cecelia wondered. She had come to Prester to open a branch
office of a car-rental concern.
"I'm not especially religious," she said to Mr. Philips, who was in the
real-estate business.
"Not now," he answered. "Not yet. But we have many fine young people
here. You'll get integrated into the community soon enough. The immediate
problem is where are you to live? Most people," he said, "live in the church
of their choice. All of our churches have many extra rooms. I have a few
belfry apartments that I can show you. What price range were you thinking of?"
They turned a corner and were confronted with more churches. They passed
Saint Luke's, the Church of the Epiphany, All Saints Ukrainian Orthodox, Saint
Clement's, Fountain Baptist, Union Congregational, Saint Anargyri's, Temple
Emanuel, the First Church of Christ Reformed. The mouths of all the churches
were gaping open. Inside, lights could be seen dimly.
"I can go up to a hundred and ten," Cecelia said. "Do you have any
buildings that are not churches?"
"None," said Mr. Philips. "Oh course, many of our fine church structures
also do double duty as something else." He indicated an handsome Georgian
facade. "That one," he said, "houses the United Methodist and the Board of
Education. The one next to it, which is the Antioch Pentecostal, has the
barbershop."
It was true. A red-and-white striped barber pole was attached
inconspicuously to the front of the Antioch Pentecostal.
"Do many people rent cars here?" Cecelia asked. "Or would they, if there
was a handy place to rent them?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Mr. Philips. "Renting a car implies that you
want to go somewhere. Most people are pretty content right here. We have a lot
of activities. I don't think I'd pick the car-rental business if i was just
starting out in Prester. But you'll do fin." He showed her a small, extremely
modern building with a severe brick, steele, and glass front. "That's Saint
Barnabas. Nice bunch of people over there. Wonderful spaghetti suppers."
Cecelia could see a number of hears looking out of the windows. But when
they saw that she was staring at them, the heads disappeared.
"Do you think it's healthy for so many churches to be gathered together
in one place?" she asked her guide. "It doesn't seem...balanced, if you know
what i mean."
"We are famous for our churches," Mr. Philips replied. "They are
harmless. Here we are now."
-----
He opened a door and they began climbing many flights of dusty stairs.
At the end of the climb they entered a good-sized room, square, with windows
on all four sides. There was a bed, a table, and two chairs, lamps, a rug.
Four very large brass bells hung in the exact center of the room.
"What a view!" Mr. Philips exclaimed. "Come here and look."
"Do they actually ring these bells?" Cecelia asked.
"Three times a day," Mr. Philips said, smiling. "Morning, noon, and
night. Of course when they're rung you have to be pretty quick at getting out
of the way. You get hit in the head with one of these babies and that's all
she wrote."
"God Almighty," said Cecelia involuntarily. Then she said, "Nobody lives
in belfry apartments. That's why they're empty."
"You think so?" Mr. Philips said.
Labels: as you like it, tea poetry
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Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
In My Craft Or Sullen Art by Dylan Thomas
1:08 AM
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7 comments
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
Labels: the soundings of a cup of tea
чајче пијачка
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Browning
11:14 PM
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2 comments
Labels: чај за вас
чајче пијачка
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
Tea with sugar gives me the cramps.
2 comments