User Profile Friends Calendar

Below are the 2 most recent journal entries.

	2005.10.26  10.11 It's the most wonderful time of the year... Later on we'll conspire, As we dream by the fire, To face unafraid, the plans that we've made, Walking in a Winter Wonderland. ( A little bit of a filk. ) current mood: giggle

	2005.01.27  17.35 Rabbitrabidrabbitrabidrabbitrabid So my fish is well and claimed the day, to lay in waste the roaming waves. The rain beat down on the mermaid's breasts, as I sought to argue how more is less. She wouldn't listen to reasonable course, and preferred instead to run off on a horse. I hunted blindly around in the mist but stumbled my way to a snake-lover's kiss. I fought him off, but down we went, into the hellish broken bent of the raging river at the mouth of Yeo, where, unfortunately for my forceful beau, we fell straight in, and my fish swam by, taking me in his golden eye to a nearby bank, where I scaled a tree, and hid there, quaking like a hugry flea. He followed me fast and with irresistable charm injected his venom straight into my arm. I fell into darkness and onto the dirt, where as I lay bleeding he called me a flirt and said I must know what has to occur, so he tore off my skin and replaced it with fur and glistening jewels and a great leather band that would hold my head to my shoulders and hands. He binds me in silks and enjoys my cries, but I cannot explain why I fall into his lies, and lap up this abuse like it brightens the day, you'd think, wouldn't you, there's a better way to deal with love and hatred combined, but tell that to the girl who tear-ridden eyes are glowing with joy as she writhes in the pain of the useless, the helpless, the withered mundane that is captured, caressed, beat down and controlled by the one thing that knows that deep in her soul, it's all she wants - that one embrace that engulfs her and buries her shame-ridden face. But why should I leap when the monkeys are out, and the leprechauns are lurking in my dear friend's grout? To have achieved my dreams is a trial by fire, but to publish in rhyme and poetry dire seems a crime - a twee pointless trick to play on friends who have offered to show me the way of artistic integrity, of unknown choices and paths manifold, that could transform my life to have it written in bold, in a script just for me, that no-one else may read. So perhaps I'm a fool to constantly heed their unselfish advice and spurn their attentions, all for what? Just my naive apprehensions. God help us all, if such is the way, that talent such as mine will choose to display its true colours - and I hope all of you notes that buried in seas of cheese-leaking goats there are still people choking and crying aloud for someone to strike at the heart of the crowd of powerful leaders and their shameful cabals of Tree Council squirrels all shouting "Ja, wohl, mit lebkuchen meine torte ist rote!" So comrades, remember to take up the coat andt he sickle and hammer for the good of the sharks, and pray that the devil has kept his remarks for the last of the faithful to fall into line, cause thus is the world, its reason, and rhyme.