Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Quoth the raven, "Steve Waugh!"

Amongst its many other benefits, Lalor is quite possibly the national capital for astroturf. I've never seen so many fake lawns in my life since I moved out here*; sometimes there's even moss growing on the fake lawns or oxalis weeds pushing their way up through it, proving that nature and fake nature can live in perfect peace and harmony.

So when I saw a Collingwood poetry event described today as 'grassroots' I was immediately moved to raise the possibility of an alternative, astroturf poetry event out here in Lalor. Said event could be held in the pristine plastic back garden of a local intellectual, with grounds festooned with polymer posies and cheap outdoor tables brought at Bunnings sitting here and there, decorated with baskets full of plastic fruit (such as you can sometimes get at St Vinnies) and other like oddments.

And what sort of poetry to read? Really, what could be better or more suitable than to celebrate the achievements of Andrew Slattery and other plagiarists? Of course, poets would be quite free to make their own original plagiarisms (if that is possible); I myself have undertaken to write one poem suitable for the occasion. It is a cento work in collage format in a pseudo-Ossian manner that subtly references the work of Shakespeare, Lear, the dictionary, the Baron, and even myself in a free-flowing and liberal manner. In other words, I filched from all over the place. Here it is:

The zigguratic edifice,
With xenomorphic glee
All in a hot and copper sky -
To be or not to be.

Stately, plump, Buck Rogers dived
Across the stormy sea
"Thus I refute him, sir!" he cried:
A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

"And hast thou slain the Nabakov,
Four score years ago?"
With jubilating cries he wept -
"Hello goodbye hello!"

"Half a league, full fathom five,
Will you ride my sleigh?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply -
"Toorali oorali ay".

A damsel with a dulcimer,
Then hailed the Grand Old Duke.
Her words are burned into my soul:
"I am your father, Luke!"

And so you find me, knight at arms,
A maiden for to woo,
Give me Kit Kat, or give me death -
Goob goob ga choo!

UPDATE! - I was thinking of making it a competition for folks to identify all the references. But there's so much in there that I'm not sure where they all came from. I may even have accidentally referenced poems that I never knew about in the first place. I so wish some poetry detective would come along and find it out so I don't have to. Knock yourself out, Ira Lightman.

 *This is really true though I should clarify: I don't think I've ever seen astroturf prior to moving out to Lalor, and now I've moved out here, I've seen, oh, two or three lawns of the stuff. Plus we sat behind a guy at the cafe once who was talking about putting it on the nature strip in front of his house.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Bee stalkers

Barely a day after opening up the hive, and there's bee stalkers everywhere. Bees looming out the back door looking in, bees busily patrolling the backgarden to make sure we don't try anymore nonsense on them, and even bees out the front.

I was just in the front garden frisking and frollicking in the sunlight and bouncing around in the oxalis and smelling the flowers, as you do, when one of the bee stalkers came across me. "Oy, oy, mate, you know that's not allowed!" it said. Or at least performed the bee equivalent of that. It walked me, very swiftly and deliberate, back to the door, and made sure I shut it once I had got back in, too.

So I walked into my study to get back to work (sometimes, you see, I take little breaks from work to do some frisking and frollicking in the garden) and I found a stalker bee there, too - it had come in through the open window. Blimming heck! I went to get a glass jar to catch it in but when I returned it had, well, buzzed off.

After closing the back window I successfully distracted myself from work again, and wandered out into the back garden to make sure everything was ship shape. Two more bee stalkers swiftly walked me back into the house; I barely had time to check on the chickens.

They're no doubt marching back and forth in front of the back door at the moment. Later I think I'll go and make a cup of coffee and look at them looking at me looking at them. Maybe I'll try and get into a conversation with them. Don't like my chances though.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The sting in the tail and the tale in the sting

Bees, as we all know, like to do nothing better than to bustle to and fro in the fields providing appropriate parables for industriousness and hard work for philosophers, alight on flowers here and there in order to facilitate poets with images of suitable meaningfulness and delight, and perform balletic dances on the front of their hive in order to make boffins and scientists scratch their beards and frown and go 'hmmm'. (Since this is a Non-Sexist blog, of course I include all the lady scientists in that description as well, though where they get their beards from I do not know. Perhaps they borrow someone else's beard when they want to frown and go 'hmmm'.)

The same is true of our bees, who have been doing all three of the above with laudable vigour and enthusiasm, although it's true that they don't have many philosophers or scientists to observe their activity, and as for poets, they've only got me. Still, for the past few weeks I've been frequently observing them in front of their hive going back and forth on their daily work. In the morning, when the day gets warm enough, they like to shoot forth from their hive to wherever it is they feel like (maybe somewhere where they can find a philosopher or scientist). By noon they keep on doing this, only more so - they'll seem to erupt from their hive entrance. In the afternoon they arrive back, in dribs and drabs, circling slowly back into their hive: they are usually rather tardy in coming back because, I think, they are so easily distracted. I never seem to see a bee go back in a perfect straight line; instead they bob and weave and occasionally alight on a nearby twig. Even when they get to the hive, they can take their time, walking back and forth a few times, doing that weird 'walking up the side of a wall' act that insects perform so insouciantly in front of us. And in the evening they still loiter about on the hive entrance, taking the air and bumping into one another and chatting with one another by dancing. Just exactly what they say, I'm not sure  (unlike the character in that Primo Levi short story who learns how to dance back to the bees and thus has long discussions with them) but I like to think they exchange ribald puns and salacious gossip about the queen,  pick one another up on minor grammatical errors and items of punctuations ('posed as an apostrophe the other day') and maybe discuss awkward parenting moments they've had with the larvae.

Anyway, it's been all very amicable and comradely in the past few weeks, though things have rather changed as of this morning. We took the hive apart to give them another box on the bottom, room for them to lay more brood and put in more honeycomb as spring and summer flowers really came into bloom. We'd done a little work on the hive a bit over a month ago and the bees had been quite compliant, even complacent about us being there - mostly they just buzzed around us. Today, however, they really seemed cranky; the Baron was stung three times and I was stung once. And this afternoon, instead of idly meandering back to their hive to take in the sights and perhaps engage in a spot of gossip on a nearby blossom, a small cadre of cantankerous bees have been insistently hovering around outside our kitchen window and front door.

At least they've got their new box. However, for the next few weeks I probably won't be hanging around their hive and stroking my beard and saying 'hmmm'. I know for a fact that when they're angry they like nothing more than to fling themselves amidst a beard, make furious noises to scare that beard off, and (if you are so foolish to) reach up to brush them out of said beard, sting you instantly on the tip of your finger, which for some reason hurts like buggery.

Hopefully in a few weeks they will have resumed their normal amicable ways around us. 


Next up is Next Up, who we heard previously perform right after Right After. Previously will perform just before Next Up, although come to think of it Just Before was sadly unable to make it today. Speaking of which, here's Sadly Unable To Make It Today, who I'll put in right after Previously, but just before Next Up, prior to Earlier Today. So, Previously Sadly Unable To Make It Today Next Up Earlier Today, that's how we'll do things. But just before Previously, we'll take a short break, so Earlier Today Right After Sadly Unable To Make It Today Previously Next Up, talk amongst yourselves. We'll be right back.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

A disquisition concerning lab rats

Ah, lab rats! Aren't they wonderful? Everyday I see a new story about how lab rats have proved (although not really) something new (although not particularly) about human (although more about rat) nature. Just yesterday I saw a story about how in one experiment, lab rats that lived in an open and happy environment were less likely to become addicted to drugs than lab rats that lived in a caged environment, and today I saw a story about how if given a chance lab rats would totally release other lab rats from cages, so I suppose that's not every day but it's two days in a row so it's certainly getting there.

Is there any half-arsed theory about human nature that some limited experiment on lab rats can't sort of prove if you have enough lab rats to do the experiment on? I suggest we experiment on lab rats to find out the answer, which is undoubtedly 'true', or possibly 'maybe', but especially if you don't think about it. I'm not exactly sure how to set that experiment up, but here is a picture of a lab rat.

The end.

UPDATE! -  Graphs! Graphs are almost as good as lab rats at proving anything about everything or everything about anything, although they don't have twitchy little pink noses and wiggly little furry ears, so that's a point that counts against them. But still. Graphs are great at proving stuff, aren't they, much better than scientific proof, which can only prove somethings sometimes and even then only to a limited extent, which is just kind of annoying. To prove how great graphs are, let's do an experiment with lab rats, or maybe graphs, or lab rats running on graphs. It would definitely work.

This graph totally proves I'm right.

Some of the best works I've never written

You will have probably heard about the latest poetry plagiarism scandal, or possibly poetry hoax, poetry homage, or poetry parody, depending on how you look at it. Andrew Slattery, who I had never heard about before, er, hearing about him, is possibly a very good poet, maybe a very bad poet, or just maybe not even a poet at all, depending on how you interpret the poetry he has written, and who he took it from before he wrote it, and why he took it from there in the first place.

How do you tell the difference between poetic plagiarism, poetic parody, poetic hoax, and poetic homage anyway? Plagiarism involves taking the words of another person without permission, while on the other hand parody involves taking the words of another person without permission. Hoax involves you inventing new words and trying to pass those words off as those of another person without their permission, or is that parody I'm talking about again? (And sometimes, instead of just inventing words for another person and giving it to them without permission, you invent a personality for another person and give it to them without permission, too, which seems to be going a bit far.) And homage, well, as far as I can work out, you still take the words of another person without permission, but you do it with love. And is it possible to do a homage to plagiarist, or to plagiarise a parody of a hoax of a homage? What would the result look like?

It occurred to me a few days ago, thinking over all this, that there might be room for a new genre of poetry here: poetry for plagiarism. Or has someone else thought of that already? Even better.

And that's about all I (or possibly someone else, though if so they haven't told me yet) have to say on this matter.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

A beekeeper reviews Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee

First up, it is excellent that bees finally find themselves represented in the world of music and the arts.

However, is this short piece of music truly a representation, as it claims, of the 'flight of the bumblebee'? Although I have heard the buzzing of many bees, I cannot truly claim to have heard a bee buzz in this particular rhythmic and melodic combination before. Also, bees don't really buzz in harmony, so what's with the chords?

According to Wikipedia, this music appears in the opera The Tale of Tsar Saltan when a prince is changed into a bumblebee "so he can fly away to visit his father". Although I am aware of the larval stage in the development of a bee, there seems to be no stage at which a human prince transforms into a fully-fledged bumblebee. Yet again, bees are misrepresented, although at least not in such a heinous fashion as in the 1978 film The Swarm. Later in the opera, the bumblebee in question stings two evil sisters on the brow, which, although technically possible (bumblebees, unlike honeybees, are able to sting multiple times) seems highly unlikely, as bees of any sort rarely sting unless first provoked. 

Sadly, this music seems to be a hodge podge of misconception and inaccuracy that does little for the noble cause of the bee. It is highly advisable that Rimsky-Korsakov go back to bee school immediately.

Monday, September 16, 2013


Just imagine if Bill Shorten ever gets to be Prime Minister. In moments of Prime Ministerial crisis, when questioned over aspects of his own policy that he no longer agrees with - or that he will shortly fail to agree with, if he's being especially forward-thinking about it - he could just re-use an old favourite:

"I'm not aware of what I said. But I'm sure I'm right....."

Okay, I'm going back to non-politics related non-topics now.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

The hideous scourge of etc etc in today's etc

Confession time: I am a pasta racist. By which I mean, not that I discriminate against you if your parents were tagliatelle, or anything like that. No: it's just that I have a thing about brown pasta. I do not like it. Quite frankly, I find it depressing. To put it bluntly, brown pasta fills me with low expectations. It seems to me, if I may speak truthfully, a wholly inferior pasta.

Quite why I have come to have this low opinion of brown pasta, I do not know. I hold no such opinions about yellow pasta, or green pasta (which I find quite cheery); exotic pastas, such as red pasta, or dinosaur pasta, I have a lot of time for. Nor is this a general prejudice against the colour brown, which on the whole I believe does credit to the colour spectrum. In fact, I have a lot of time for all manner of colours, even when and perhaps especially if those colours turn out not to be so much colours at all, but almost-colours: grey, for instance. Why do people have a problem with this dignified and satisfying timbre, that appears in its many hues on the faces of clouds, in dignified ageing heads of hair, and throughout the heave and swell of the ocean?

So really, I have even less excuse than some for my pasta racism. Why do I hold this shocking pasta prejudice? Should I be sent to a pasta re-education class? Would I feel the same way if I was a brown pasta?

I do not know the answer to any of these questions. All I know is, once I am presented with a bowl of brown pasta, my face falls and I feel vaguely disappointed and slightly let down by the universe without knowing the reason why. This brown pasta prejudice of mine is truly insidious!

Friday, September 13, 2013

Tragedy comedy dramedy infotainment cat hair

From the department of watching the grass grow, listening to the cheese mature, telling entertaining anecdotes about cats sleeping, looking at the bees walking to and fro on the front of their hive, laughing about funny stuff the chickens ate, and watching a cat hair float around the house from one room to another, comes the latest excellent and riveting entertainment, watching the bloops of carbon dioxide go up through the blooper of a demijohn of fermenting beer and, well, blooping into the open air.

This riveting prime time drama, combining elements of burlesque, tragedy, comedy, dramedy, infotainment, soap opera, oratorio, and taking a banana peel out to the worms and gazing in fascination as they bury their way down to the bottom of the worm farm when you open the lid up, makes extraordinarily and enriching viewing for everyone involved, so that's just me then. Bloop! Bloop! Hey, there's another one! Bloop! There's just so much to learn and appreciate and discover, and you really appreciate something new each time you go back to watch it. Bloop! That bubble's taking a while. Bloop! Bloop! I really, really recommend it. Hey, do you want to take over? Well you can't. It's just too tense. Don't worry about me, I'll be here for the next week or so. Bloop!

Thursday, September 12, 2013

A proposal for an excellent new sport

What a fine sport quibbling would be, it occurred to me the other day, and of course nothing would have stopped me leaping up there and then to tell you all about it but for the fact that right at that moment the cat settled down on my lap for a nap and stayed there for the next two weeks and I was reduced to chewing on my own beard for nourishment and when she finally got up I had to stumble into the kitchen for a glass of water. But now I'm here! Hurrah!

But quibbling would undoubtedly make an excellent sport, Olympic or otherwise. I'm not sure what it would involve. Something with balls? And nets*? And racquets or bats** of some sort? Anyway, I'll leave that all up to the commentators, as well as the rules and the length and other minor details. I can, however, suggest some of the other moves this excellent sport would have: the 'niggle', of course, an important manouvre that all quibblers would have to learn; the 'haggle' (an advanced sort of 'niggle'? Or vice versa?) The 'finagle' would be something for very advanced practitioners of 'niggling' and 'haggling', probably, whereas the 'persnickety snitch' would be a rather specialised tactic only allowable for certain members of the team - although that all rather depends on if there is going to be a team, which is really an unimportant point except, I suppose, if you aspire to the grand and noble sport of Olympic quibbling, (and you certainly should).

And other important moves - well, there would be the 'wangle', the 'pedantrick', and of course the potentially game-ending 'fussbudget'. No idea what any of these are, but they all sound very grand and inspiring, yes? Really, I can't understand why the game isn't taught to kids at schools now. It would do them so much good.

Okay, I'll go and place myself back underneath the cat again....

*Or, as N. said when I suggested the sport of quibbling to him, 'it would involve the players moving the net'. 
**Or maybe racquets that look like apostrophes?

Sunday, September 08, 2013

Supernews! Thousands of Australians suddenly wish they'd voted for Parma, not Palmer.

AUSTRALIA, SUNDAY - Thousands of Australians today are slowly dawning to the realisation that they have mistakenly elected Clive Palmer to the Parliament instead of Chicken Parma.

"We didn't realise", said thousands of Australians. "We thought we were expressing our love for a well-known pub delicacy, a bit like people do in Masterchef, but instead we've accidentally elected this incoherent corrupt loon".

Chicken Parma, a well known celebrity which has appeared in barrooms across the nation in the company of pots, pints, schooners, middies, and sometimes a little salad, has repeatedly expressed its disinterest in running for politics. "I'm happy with my job at the moment," says Parma. "That is, providing a satisfying meal to people from all walks of life. I'm just not cut out for politics." However, it has said it is "surprised" but "flattered" by the news that thousands of Australians accidentally voted for it.

Thousands of Australians have today expressed their regret at the unfortunate mistake. "We're sorry," said thousands of Australians. "We won't do it again. Probably."

- Found in pubs across the nation.
- Tasty and delicious.
- Likes lying on a bed of hot salty chips while being layered with a rich tomato sauce and melted mozzarella cheese.

- Found in boardrooms across the nation.
- Tasteless and chewy.
- Also likes lying on a bed of hot salty chips while being layered with a rich tomato sauce and melted mozzarella cheese, but only in the privacy of his own bedroom and only if the act is performed by a bikini-clad young woman.

Not Chicken Parma. 

This has been another edition of Supernews!

Saturday, September 07, 2013

Live election blog!

Hello, and welcome to the Will Type For Food election blog, where we bring you all the glory of democracy as it unfolds across the nation! We'll be speaking to the key players from all sides of politics, that's right, both of them, as the night unfolds! Maybe we'll even chuck in a Green politician to keep you happy! So let's get started!

First, let's cross to Tony Abbott, leader of the opposition, for an interview about how things are proceeding with his party:

.... the waves of necromantic lightning swept across his form as he writhed in voluptuous agony in the dark magics. His whole body experienced intense pain but a demented glare of horrifying glee held in his eyes, and a demonic rictus grin possessed his entire face. The awful yet glorious occult moment of ascension was at hand: all his plans were coming to fruition! Lord Vazgool laughed, laughed with fiendish intensity as he thought with satisfaction on the devastating sacrifices he had wreaked upon the community. He raised the knife for the final.... 

Er, sorry. We seem to be experiencing a few technical difficulties here. We'll be right back.

UPDATE!- Okay, we seem to have our technical difficulties sorted. Just a problem with a few crossed wires or something like that. Anyway, now, we'll take you right to the Federal Seat of Griffith, held by none other than Kevin Rudd. We'll be speaking to him in just a

Robodroid spun wildly around the room, sensors flashing crazily. Robodroid did not know what went wrong! Robodroid just wanted love! Why did people not like Robodroid? It did not compute. The whole system on the starship did not compute, which is why Robodroid wanted to help them out. Why did not people want Robodroid's help? Another laser ray flashed from Robodroid's arm as one of his captives attempted to run for the door. The prime directive once again flashed across Robodroid's face: ALL WHO OPPOSE ROBODROID MUST BE....

Goodness me, I just don't know what's going on here. Hang on a tick, folks.

UPDATE! - Rightho. Sorted. Let's just cross to  an expert for an expertly expert opinion....



Friday, September 06, 2013

An imbibulatory inventory

AKA, beers wot I have brewed this autumn and winter (and also a little bit of stuff from early spring)

(I started writing this list a few days ago as a handy distraction when I had something much more important to do. Funnily enough, instead of finishing the list, or actually doing the more important thing, I ended up getting distracted from my distraction. I couldn't even waste my own time properly!) 

Cider - 7/4/13

Stout with oatmeal and whey - 11/4/13

English brown ale - 22/3/13

Another brown ale with almonds - 1/5/13

Mead - 5/5/13

Porter - 10/5/13

Brown Ale with sultanas - 23/5/13

Brown Ale with almonds and sultanas and some juice from stewed apples - 31/5/13

Fejoia wine - 4/5/13

Ginger Beer - 27/5/13

Chocolate stout - 9/6/13

Rosemary brown ale - 10/6/13

Cinnamon porter - 20/6/13

English pale bitter with pink peppercorns - 30/6/13

Witbier with lemon verbena - 26/6/13

Porter with cinnamon and orange and lemon rind - 4/7/13

Witbier with lemon and tangello peel and coriander (because of my stupidity the coriander turned out to be cumin, but, you know, meh) - 16/7/13

Porter with cinnamon, coriander and juniper - 26/7/13

Altbier with lemon verbena and cretan savoury (it's just a German brown beer) - 4/8/13

Pilsener - 7/8/13

Beetroot bitter - 11/8/13

Witbier with orange, coriander, and nutmeg - 13/8/13

Porter with cinnamon, coriander, carraway and coffee - 20/8/13

Oktoberfest Lager with meadowsweet - 24/8/13

Mead with apple, orange peel, and cloves - 18/8/13 (okay, this was meant to use a wild yeast, but so far it is stubbornly not fermenting. My strategy with it at the moment is to look sternly at it every time I pass it by. I think it'll work eventually.)

Bappir cakes (for Sumerian ale - if I ever get around to making it) - 18/8/13 (These are little cakes of barley and coriander and dates mixed together with a little honey water)

Altbier with rosemary and thyme, and fresh honey added during fermentation - 26/8/13

Porter with pepper and juniper - 30/8/13

Scottish light with lemon verbena and tagetes 5/9/13

Thursday, September 05, 2013

This post brought to you A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z, and all that numbered stuff as well

Lists, you would think, are simple affairs. For a long time it seemed to me that if you wanted to make a list and separate the items out in that list, you would use letters or numbers. If you ran out of letters - there are only twenty six of them - before you ran out of things to list, you would switch to numbers. If you ran out of numbers before you ran out of things to list, then you would have a problem - but you were not likely to run out of numbers, unless you had an infinity of things to list*, and even then you'd probably run out of time before you ran out of numbers.

When I used to transcribe media items, I'd hear people get confused over simple lists a lot. "Well, there are four things to say about that," one interviewee would say. They would list the first item under a number or letter - "a", or "one", or maybe "firstly". After that it all became a bit of a free-for-all, so an "a" could be followed by a "secondly", or sometimes by a whimsical "firstly", or maybe even by a "b". By the time they got to the third item on the list, they would usually have got so carried away they would forget to list it under a number or letter altogether, and possibly have forgotten the question they were answering in the first place, to say nothing of the forlorn fourth item in the list. With public speaking, it's definitely a good rule to make all your lists no more than three items in length, so it is no wonder James Diaz had such a problem with the first item on Tony Abbott's six point plan for Australia.  On the other hand, some politicians, instead of confusing themselves with their own list, just opt to confuse others: "I'll take the three points in your question," Kevin Rudd said in one press conference, "and answer them in reverse order...."

Anyway, as  I said, I had thought that the itemising of, um, items on lists would be just confined to letters and numbers. Now, as it turns out, with me doing the odd legal transcript here and there, I may have completely underestimated the cataloguing capacities of language. Why have a simple lettered and numbered list when you can catalogue it by clause and sub-clause and capital and lower-case with several nuances in between? "If I may draw your attention to 154A (i) (b) at (2)" murmurs a lawyer unassumingly, only to be picked up by their colleague on a comma that contradicts them at 147BK (iii) IV (ii) - (viii). What these items would be, I do not know: I just made them up. But frighteningly, that's what politicians do with laws all the time: they just make them up....

A while back I tossed the idea back and forth of a robot possessing emotions all neatly categorised in a series of numbered sub-routines, which ended up with this. I still think there's something in that, but then again, I also get excited about the expressive nuances of capital letters.  But it's pretty obvious now, numbers and letters aren't nearly as expressive and nuanced and impressionistic and sensuous as the little curly loops and angular symbols that precede a series of laws. They could be used to express virtually anything, although it must be said, laws are so vast and voluminous that whatever they do express, it could be hidden virtually anywhere in aforesaid vast and voluminous laws. But just imagine what would happen if a practical-minded lawyer got hold of, say, an airport car park: you'd park your car several brackets, nine capitals, four dots and three dashes from the end on floor 5.2.2 and end up wandering in a daze between one close parenthesis and another (a daze is always the best way to appreciate such nuanced and expressively-impressionistic-impressively-expressionistic artworks, I find).

There's very little chance of this glorious thing happening, more's the pity. In the meantime, we will just have to content ourselves with filling out gigantic lists of people we don't like, which we'll get another opportunity to do when presented with the Senate paper on the weekend. As an activity it doesn't quite have the magniloquent grandeur and aesthetic vision of, say, a clause of a sub-division of a division of a little known amendment to an unknown act enacted in 1936. Still, it's getting there.

*Or, possibly, an infinitely infinite infinitude of infinities to list - though Gregor Cantor seems to get a little confusing on this point.

Sunday, September 01, 2013

What's a meta phor?

Or, that's a similar simile
The evening dark comes now, my love,
As if it were the close of day,
The stars so bright and small appear,
They seem like suns so far away;
The night so very black, my love,
I cannot see you overmuch,
Nor even reach to hold your hand
Except for when we touch.

And still the worlds spin madly on,
As planets whirl through outer space,
We hurry on, we hurry on,
As though we'd win the human race.
The wind howls on, the rain is wet,
Almost as if inclement weather -
O! May we two kiss now, my love,
As humans osculate together?
Email: timhtrain - at -

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