/lit/ - Literature

Quietly, the rain, played down on last of the ashes
Quietly, the light, played down on her lashes
She smiled 'n' twisted, she smiled 'n' twisted
Hideously looking back at what once was beautiful

Playing naturally magically
Oh, her ragged hair was shinin', red, white 'n' blue
All 'n all the children screamin'
Why surely madam, you must be dreamin'

You couldn't have done this if you knew what you were doin'
Well, the gold fish in the bowl lay upside down bloatin'
Full in the sky and the plains were bleached with white skeletons
Various species grouped together according to their past beliefs

The only way they ever all got together
Was not in love but shameful grief
It's not the way I'd like it to get together
That's not the kind of thoughts I'd like to keep

The rain played lightly down, down on the form a heap
Oh, lady look up in time, oh, lady look out of love
And you should have us all, oh, you should have us fall

Reading in the rain under a canopy

Calypso was my favorite episode

"A cloud began to cover the sun wholly slowly wholly. Grey. Far.

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind would lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's clutching a noggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

Desolation.

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles Street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley Road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind."

Yourself

Its a dialectical feeling