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- Sun, 19:03: RT @jephjacques: Ps: if you interact with a Muslim person today, be extra nice to them to counteract all the hateful shitcocks out there
- Sun, 19:04: @joeyverse curse you erasers!
- Sun, 19:18: RT @garjones66: @neilhimself positive follow up on the disabled guy who had his Superman stuff stolen: http://t.co/IZ1d0aR
- Sun, 19:19: not ashamed to say the link below about the Superman fan made me really teary - great story.
Sep. 12th, 2011
The bad things in life were so few
Sep. 12th, 2011 08:01 pmThe wind is howling with the side effects of Hurricane Kaita and I am sitting here relaxing. And stuffing my face with Battenbergs. Oh God, nom nom nom. I am totally going to regret the sugar crash though.
Poetry, for a windy night.
Flood by Angelo Suárez
We have become estranged, you and I,
as the stars no longer find the asphalt-gray
of streets, the somnolent moon your skin,
the sun the sibilance of speech. How we tremble
now at the slightest hint of touch, the latch
of our desires reopening like a wound
Watch me now as I say: In September's
resolute rains, you are water - fragments
descending as drops from Manila's urban sky.
Thus, you are everywhere, dripping down walls
and sliding off roofs, filling every crease of road
and crevice of soil. And on the rise of flood
floats the carcass of memory, taking
the muddied form of muck, filthy plastic bags,
venomous piss of rat. In this metropolitan marsh
where nothing is left but a squalid sight of swamps,
soggy lampposts, the third-world remnants
of a storm, I dip my hands and dream of fish.
Poetry, for a windy night.
Flood by Angelo Suárez
We have become estranged, you and I,
as the stars no longer find the asphalt-gray
of streets, the somnolent moon your skin,
the sun the sibilance of speech. How we tremble
now at the slightest hint of touch, the latch
of our desires reopening like a wound
Watch me now as I say: In September's
resolute rains, you are water - fragments
descending as drops from Manila's urban sky.
Thus, you are everywhere, dripping down walls
and sliding off roofs, filling every crease of road
and crevice of soil. And on the rise of flood
floats the carcass of memory, taking
the muddied form of muck, filthy plastic bags,
venomous piss of rat. In this metropolitan marsh
where nothing is left but a squalid sight of swamps,
soggy lampposts, the third-world remnants
of a storm, I dip my hands and dream of fish.