A day to write... |
Limiting FrictionBy Carrie Lewis Disturbed, perturbed,These are the wordsShe uses to describeHis affliction.Rude and crude,But fairly shrewd,He is able to begetHer conviction.Astray, he mayCause this ... Posted by on Sun, 10 Aug 2008 20:37:00 GMT |
Coalition of the...um... |
So, Donald Rumsfeld is briefing George Bush in the Oval Office..."Oh, and finally, Sir, three Brazilian soldiers were killed in Iraq today."Bush goes pale, his jaw hanging open in stunned disbelief.&n... Posted by on Fri, 11 Apr 2008 04:33:00 GMT |
All about you! |
Leave your name in my blog comments. Once you do that, this is what I'll do for you...1. I'll respond with something random about you.2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.3. I'll pick a ... Posted by on Mon, 04 Feb 2008 18:23:00 GMT |
Palindromes |
Weird Al parody of Bob Dylan:
And as a reference point:
And because I love INXS: Posted by on Tue, 01 Jan 2008 18:18:00 GMT |
Flamer |
Ahoy-hoyMy half-truthed,InsecurePerfectionist.Give me a shotTo showcaseMy conceit.Allow meTo devourYour drapes,And spreadTo your ceiling.And as my heatRises from your ashYou won't forge... Posted by on Sun, 25 Nov 2007 11:00:00 GMT |
Just wanted to share |
I suppose I should preface the following. I find chicken-scratched scraps of paper here and there, and when I reread the mess, I find at least one solid point, or mantra worth relaying. Th... Posted by on Fri, 26 Oct 2007 12:22:00 GMT |
"You’re my Carrie Cure-all!" |
You won't have to ignore my sales pitch, I'll keep it to my own. I speak for myself, whether I speak to you or not, and this smile is but a loan.
I can be alone. Butt alone. Posted by on Sun, 21 Oct 2007 06:06:00 GMT |
Unfinished is the least of it. |
Attempting to finalize some poems is like searching for lost socks.
the stars have alignedproducing the signswhich followed in timecause you to be mine
see faith in my eyesa love that defiesthe h... Posted by on Fri, 19 Oct 2007 09:01:00 GMT |
Memories are made of this... |
Memories and fantasies, memories and fantasies, with reality tottering between the two. I would argue that memories are a finite series of synapses, but as memory serves, well, it serv... Posted by on Thu, 11 Oct 2007 03:08:00 GMT |
Louis MacNeice |
The Sunlight on the Garden
The sunlight on the gardenHardens and grows cold,We cannot cage the minuteWithin its nets of gold;When all is toldWe cannot beg for pardon.
Our fre... Posted by on Sun, 07 Oct 2007 05:34:00 GMT |