Chocolate. Murphy wants. Murphy wants all sorts of things that are going to make her terribly upset. With all their prettiness and smugness and smooth skin.
Cheers.

Murphy, kaha thha na paani chala jayenga!

Murphy is a stud. And is bored. Murphy is so not going to do well in her Corporate Law paper this Thursday. She's more concerned with her hair and not as pleased with her hair guy as she was a few days back. It's too short from the front! And is curling! Murphy has one more holiday before she's expected back at work and has to go buy yet more hair-pins tomorrow. Since she left all of hers in a friend's blazer pocket at The Wedding.

Hee :)

Proust, Remembrance of Things Past:

Tea-soaked madeleine-

a childhood recalled. I had

brownies like that once.

Homer, The Odyssey

Aegean forecast-

storms,chance of one-eyed giants,

delays expected.

St. Augestine, The Confessions:

This is just to say

I screwed around. Forgive me.

I enjoyed it so.

Machiavelli, The Prince:

What I learned at court:

Being more feared than loved - good.

Getting poisoned - bad.

Einstein, Relativity: The Special and General Theory

Cherry blossoms fall

at light speed through curved space-time

and land with a thud.

Defoe, Robinson Crusoe:

Alone for twelve years,

then a footprint in the sand.

Thank God! A servant!

Nabokov, Lolita:

Lecherous linguist-

he lays low and is laid low

after laying Lo.

Tolstoy, war and Peace:

Guns roar, Russia burns.

Where's Andrey? Who is Petya?

Confused, France retreats.

Vatsayana, The Kama Sutra:

Advice for those in

a difficult position.

First, be flexible.

Goethe, Faust:

He's damned-no, he's saved!

For German engineering,

another triumph.

We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

My Groupie by Charles Bukowski

I read last Saturday in the
redwoods outside of Santa Cruz
and I was about 3/4's finished
when I heard a long high scream
and a quite attractive
young girl came running toward me
long gown & divine eyes of fire
and she leaped up on the stage
and screamed: "I WANT YOU!
I WANT YOU! TAKE ME! TAKE
ME!"
I told her, "look, get the hell
away from me."
but she kept tearing at my
clothing and throwing herself
at me.
"where were you," I
asked her, "when I was living
on one candy bar a day and
sending short stories to the
Atlantic Monthly?"
she grabbed my balls and almost
twisted them off. her kisses
tasted like shitsoup.
2 women jumped up on the stage
and
carried her off into the
woods.
I could still hear her screams
as I began the next poem.
mabye, I thought, I should have
taken her on stage in front
of all those eyes.
but one can never be sure
whether it's good poetry or
bad acid.

I'm truly happy she's gone. It's like the end of smog.

Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.