No more good could come from this. No longing looks to distant shores From slowly sinking ships on reefs As tiger sharks circle for the kill, Can stop our inevitable demise.
Placing too much trust in the system Caused this imbalance - this tilt. We observe, oblivious to the slide. It takes us further away from each other, Forcing us to distant poles.
As we slowly move, like tectonic plates, We can't feel the cracks appearing, We can't perceive the rending. To us this will always be a War on Drugs Or a Philosopher's Stone.
We are like Gary Becker, Emma Watson and Ben Crompton, Looking upon the great stagflation; Looking upon the empty Quiddich field; Looking upon the Career of Evil; And wondering when our lives will start again.
This day is known for climbing peaks It's known for smoothing angled beaks It's not business or founding fathers It's not remorse of weeping daughters It keeps me chained to brands redoubled It speaks its mind, its thoughts are troubled It hangs its hat by draughty doorways It plays its sports on smooth green baize It bows its heads to cruellest masters It licks its lips and courts disasters This day is known for climbing towers This day is cursed for losing hours.
So I heard you found someone else. So I heard you paint houses. So I heard it was a great time to grow flowers. So I heard money grows on trees. So I heard Daddy crying in the bedroom. So I heard monkeys can't shuffle cards. So I heard alimony is so expensive. So I heard the bus stops outside your house. So I heard that ankle socks get dirty real easy. So I heard Moniker is a slut. So I heard jobs aren't easy to come by. So I heard the cliffs are still eroding. So I heard music can make millionaires. So I heard the sound of silence. So I heard broken hearts don't beat normal. So I heard you've gone and done it again. So I heard I'd better buck up my ideas. So I heard it's a long way to Sydney. So I heard you found someone better.
Jim Marshall, English businessman and pioneer of guitar amplification, was born today in 1923.
Buckle that swatch, I will wear it. I believe I will fashion a broach And a fine shawl, perhaps a cape, And a sweet hat, topped with fruit. I will wear it on my trip to the coast, It will shield me from wind, rain and sun. In versatility is born frequent toilet visits That allow me to wash my hands of filth. I will create a vast castle of sand And invite the creatures of the forest to reside. A grand and stately home for all the visit And not a penny wasted on heating.
Beatrix Potter, English author and illustrator, was born today in 1866.
"The circle is complete," the despot cries, Strutting like a peacock in his penthouse. In far future, the world is bleached white. The heat of the Sun burns shadows in grass And humanity is reduced to cavemen. He has been here before, in detailed planning, Replaying these scenes, as he corrupts beauty. Watching it burn now, he cackles in glee, Like vengeful rape of innocent, young life, He's taken the vestiges of purity. Dust! Dust! The milky dust of that destruction. It is erotically pleasing to him. Dust! Dust! The seeding dust of that destruction. But it is watered down in the melting. The glazier water washing it down, Deep down into the valleys far below. There, at the bottom, the kindling smoulders. Growing! Growing! The spark becomes a roar! And from the roar the wings are spreading wide The fire-full Phoenix is once again whole. And from the perversity of destruction Is born the purity of creation. "The circle is complete!" The despot cries.
Moments aside in the minutiae, Left holding the roses of a new birth That will kindle future hoping and longing. Keep that vision. Keep true to it, always. In your truth the key to life may reside Coalescing both love and joy inside.
Louise Brown, English woman known for being the first human to be born after conception by IVF, was born today in 1978.
Burning! burning high, up on her altar, Like a blazing beacon for the broken, Her ancient prismatic-magic woven Deep into the folds of her jet black robes, Her rough head-dress of oak, mystically warped Into spiked hoops hanging around her neck, Piercing and scarring her pale, waxy skin. She reveals her breasts, brimming with temptation, And her frantic followers suckle deep. Suckle until their senses numb again - Numb out the empty pain of their long hours; Numb them into slumber at her clawed feet And she takes them slowly: a Succubus.
I will never forget that dark, cold night, When all around did creep and glisten slick With damp and night creatures do slide in trails Of ooze that clings to my deepest, fell dreams. When the howling moon calls to the dark elves Who seek to raise the dead to haunt the world. They send them out to do their work on all With hunters knives and poison dripping blades To clip the wings of doves and watch them fall Into the depths of demon writhing tombs Who'll lock away their souls from freedom's song. They laugh the cackle of despairing pain Regurgitating hate to drive them on. For I can see them now inside my mind, They whip their steeds with scything blades of steel And capitulate to none except their gods, Who guide them on with wickedest delight, Demanding sacrifice of dreamers in their beds They enslave the minds of weaker mortal men And conquer death to rule the world of sleep.