tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14331485784035715382024-03-05T05:10:51.566+00:00deliberate daily musescarefully considered muses will appear here daily in between seasons(more or less...they can be unpredictable, fickle even).ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-35338605016283828332012-06-05T18:13:00.001+01:002012-06-05T18:13:07.362+01:00the brainy girl<div style="text-align: justify;">
the brainy girl is hungry. she has already eaten four books, all of them fiction, and she's starting to think it is probably not a balanced diet. but what to do to still the gnawing! though she has a healthy appetite for philosophical treatises, they tend to give her heartburn. and academic essays leave her feeling bloated. so starved is she for ideas and novelty, she's succumbed to junk food, guiltily snacking on news feed between meals. she finds herself famished for something of substance - she could eat an entire library in one sitting! she'd lick the images off the pages, stuffing all the words into her mouth until her ravenous mind grew full. alas, for now all she can do is savor the thought…</div>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-14562646615629903762012-05-29T16:49:00.000+01:002012-05-29T16:49:32.054+01:00a message from cloud girl<div style="text-align: center;">
"moody, brooding, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
distracted, unclear,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in bad shape, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
idealistic, a drifter"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you say</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
sorry to rain</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
on your parade</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
i'm not what you make of me</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
quit trying to steal</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
my thunder</div>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-80277416372911440662012-05-14T19:26:00.000+01:002012-05-20T14:00:22.909+01:00whale womanshe rises early<br />
always to the same blue sound<br />
the tone of a deeper sadness<br />
on days<br />
the colour of<br />
a sunless sea<br />
she tries<br />
to sing back<br />
but longing fills<br />
her voice with water<br />
she only knows<br />
that in the vast blackness<br />
of that song<br />
there is the slim white notes<br />
of a deeper synchrony<br />
<i>a sudden swift crescendo</i><br />
<i>like the simultaneous flash</i><br />
<i>of a thousand silver tails</i><br />
<br />ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-43775912883453949962012-05-07T11:38:00.000+01:002012-05-07T11:38:10.698+01:00cat lady<div style="text-align: center;">
"It's four in the afternoon and you're still sleeping?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Where were you last night?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"You did what?!"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"What do you mean you got yourself into this, you can get yourself out?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"How can you look this gorgeous all the time?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"You're the director? How did you get all the way up there?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Are you calling me a bitch?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>A cat lady never tells.</em></div>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-981002273970525922012-04-09T17:30:00.001+01:002012-04-09T17:33:00.815+01:00the good girl<div style="text-align: justify;">she has a heart of gold. it shines through her, an emblazoned message of warmth, glimmering hope and pure, honeyed sweetness. she might as well have a neon sign ("there's a good girl") pointing at the exact spot where all of her precious love can be accessed - which can be problematic... especially since her heart is said to be unbreakable, and this seems to entice some to test it. the good girl feels uncomfortable carrying her heart, something of such apparent value and solidity, in the brittle chamber of her chest, but everyone assures her: it's in the right place.</div>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-26297709235146111582012-04-02T23:47:00.001+01:002012-04-02T23:51:29.650+01:00the girl next doorshe could be anybody. she wears jeans and a ponytail and the look of a screen door: like she might just let you in, but you're not exactly welcome. she has a smile that is hardly secretive, but you think that she has secrets. you can hear the muffled melody of her days through the walls and you imagine you would miss it, you would miss her if she was gone. it never occurs to you to ask what her name is. you're not even sure you would recognise her should you ever meet in a non-mundane setting. she has never asked you for your name either. she has a smile that does not borrow anything. she wears jeans and a t-shirt and the look of backyards and supermarkets: an offer of comfort that could disappoint in future. still, you're convinced, it's nice to know she's there.ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-75699754881955256182012-03-26T21:15:00.000+01:002012-03-26T21:15:42.795+01:00the light girlshe blows in through your window bearing gifts of angel cake and sparkling wine. she says she has a gypsy caravan waiting if you want to come - you can only take one suitcase the weight of reverie, three poodles, or a vision of a lithuanian hot air balloon. then she laughs like it's summer and you're having popsicles, and tells you not to take her seriously. but it's too late. you have your suitcase in one hand carrying nothing but love, the kind that melts fast, and you're hopeful.ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-49117659301627573852012-03-15T16:02:00.004+00:002012-03-15T16:11:40.383+00:00cover girl<p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">she is tired of excuses. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">correction: she is tired of being an excuse. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">anyway, it's not like her life is a breeze. she can never claim a bad hair day or the time of the month or the side-effects of left-over nightmares. she has to show up. she has to grin and bear it: the smile spilled all over her face, the appearance of always being mid-dance, or beaming with gladness, awash in sunlight and colour and all that is wholesome, as if anyone would just love living a never-ending detergent commercial. and everyone simply glosses over her – for once, she wishes they would stop and consider what it's really like to be her.</span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> to be so exposed, </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">to have a surface for a face and to know that whatever you try to hide behind is but paper thin. </span> </p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-78075128097661841562012-03-05T16:42:00.003+00:002012-03-05T17:21:54.723+00:00chocolate girlof course i'm messy. but you still love me, don't you? maybe it's my own insecurities - i mean, sometimes i get this feeling that i'm too much, but at the same time, that i can never be enough... it's just that i feel like you're pushing me away, like there's this obligatory distance you seem compelled to impose between us. i know, i know, boundaries and all that. i don't want to be clingy - i'm stuck on you, that's all. come on, i'm trying to be sweet here! don't you want me? yes, i have my dark side and yes, there are moments when i'm a bit intense. but am i really so bad? don't i make you happy?ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-1731730296971390482012-03-01T15:28:00.003+00:002012-03-01T15:40:56.449+00:00the one who thinks herself a bird<p>fell in love with the sky.</p><p>*</p><p>lives for the inbetween seasons.</p><p>*</p><p>majored in metaphysics.</p><p>*</p><p>will not (ever) use Twitter.</p><p>*</p><p>only pecks at her food.</p><p>*</p><p>is all for liberation movements and ardently supports V-day </p><p>(though she skirts around certain issues).</p><p>*</p><p>is often admired for her sense of perspective and unique points of view.</p><p>*</p><p>never has storage problems.</p><p>*</p><p>has yet to experience that sensation of falling in her sleep.</p><p>*</p><p>sings herself awake.</p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-84225433668477270622012-02-28T16:41:00.003+00:002012-02-28T17:08:23.102+00:00the new girlshe's back. no-one knows where she's been. just that she is back. and somehow new. no-one remembers her from before. that's what makes her new, somehow. she simply appeared. you notice her in the hallway, you find her on your doorstep; she hangs around the moon, sits under trees. she pops up everywhere, but without yelling 'surprise'. more like inside laughter. you wonder why you're not afraid of her, and if you should be. then again, no-one fears what is fresh. and she is that. and so new, she is untouchable.ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-50366565879408660002010-05-21T17:21:00.003+01:002010-05-21T17:33:46.562+01:00The freedom fighter<p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">it started with small freedoms:</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of pressing the snooze button<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of letting your hair down and letting it be<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of stretching and unbuttoning<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of the last little bite and the first sip<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of humming to yourself.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">but soon she set her sights on greater targets:<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of going unwashed for a day or two<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of tearing up traffic fines<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of unconventional punctuation (...!)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the freedom of spontaneous dancing, lucid dreaming and random acting.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">stealthily and with impressive prowess, the freedom fighter got to all of them.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">she managed to rob you of ("liberate you from") every smile, song,<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">glance and idea that you'd freely express.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">and you realized that she would not stop<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">you saw "Operation CATS" printed in bold in her mission statement:<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Choice, Access, Thought and Speech - she would fight them until the very end.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">she knew what's best for you, after all.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span></p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-19467572318320239962010-04-26T13:08:00.002+01:002010-04-26T13:44:38.839+01:00the audience memberher face is obscured, a halo of sepia. but you can see her, she knows. there is a connection between you, of course. you've touched her, and you can feel the blush in her hands left by the applause. the audience member never leaves (you) - she is still there, in the third row, on the left, long after the room has grown dim and awkward with its emptiness. she protects you from its blank stare, her gaze a puppyish spotlight following you wherever you may go. she is there in the shadows, keeping you a-lit, and she knows you can see her too.ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-62805031780076847292010-04-14T22:36:00.001+01:002010-04-14T22:38:50.094+01:00the violinist<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">she wears vintage dresses. every day she irons them into classic symphonies. so she tends to leave notes everywhere. at night she can't sleep because her sheets are covered in music.</span>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-53584524697136097142009-06-17T19:42:00.003+01:002009-06-17T19:51:52.617+01:00the rebirthday girlfirst find a wall.<br />preferably a white one, in the shady part of a garden.<br />it can also be a wall in a quiet room full of books.<br />as long as it is sturdy and somehow gentle, as if breathing.<br />for the wall will rock you to sleep. the wall will cradle you.<br />then press yourself against the wall as close, as tightly<br />as possible.<br />don't close your eyes (yet).<br />just lean into the wall like you'd lean into a caress.<br />only then, close your eyes.<br />and dream of yourself as a butterfly.<br />dream vividly and without fear.<br />a smile will appear in your dream.<br />when this happens, start spinning.<br />let out all your silky thoughts and let them<br />weave in criss-crossing strands around you.<br />only you will know these thoughts, even though they would be<br />outside of you. they are still part of you.<br />they are no longer frightening or disturbed:<br />they are at rest, finally, beautifully.<br />they always were beautiful, but you did not always know that.<br />now that they are a silken blanket folding around you,<br />now you know.<br />now you can rest, as well.<br />keep dreaming.<br />one of these days the wall will wake you.<br />you will slip out of your thoughtful sleep.<br />and you will be a butterfly, reborn.ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-11669803118910285082009-06-08T18:47:00.003+01:002009-06-08T19:08:16.770+01:00Dangerous girl<div style="text-align: right;">it is the emptiness. the bottom of the lake. silent as the past. it is the numb laughter at the end of the knife. tracing the curve of her mouth. over and over. it is the pounce in her fingertips. the impression of poise before poison. her look that dares you (not) to come closer. <br />this is what scares you.<br />beware.<br />you are standing on the edge of her.<br /></div>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-19932413357671285982009-06-01T17:54:00.000+01:002009-06-01T17:55:27.844+01:00The feministi<br />am<br />not<br />a<br />muse<br />dddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-35087140269550061152009-05-11T19:06:00.005+01:002009-05-11T19:11:55.142+01:00The naïve girl<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she hates it when her feet get wet and being scared most of the time.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she wears skirts and a soft expression: she aspires to be full of grace.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she hopes someone is secretly in love with her.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she has strong opinions which she keeps to herself.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she has a recurring dream about crushed flowers.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">she carries the scent of that dream: of something evaporating,</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">of tissue paper; and fragile, momentary anger.</span>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-15525977617772834932009-03-25T12:47:00.002+00:002009-03-25T12:58:23.086+00:00The groovy girl<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The groovy girl needs to get her groove back. And fast. And drugs won't do. Not this time. This time it is serious: she is wearing black. Gone are the greens, the orange and oh the fuchsia. A friend suggested she self-publish a slim volume of her poetry. Self-publishing poetry and dressed in black - she would look almost cool. And 'almost cool' is not groovy. What she'd like is the sway in her hips back. That smile on her skin. She'd like to hear the music of her body again. Feel all its colourful sensations. She wants to sparkle and bring on the good vibes. She wants to be tequila and siesta, languid and lush. She wants to be her catlike self again. Now that would be groovy. Like totally.<br /></span>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-54751941447352441272009-03-02T19:31:00.002+00:002009-03-02T19:43:39.574+00:00the moon girl<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">the moongirl is nostalgic for sunset. she longs for dusk, desires its intensity of vivid, rare colours. every day the moon girl stares into the white eye of the sun from behind the blue curtain of sky. without regard for the pale, the sun looks past her. but she is there...watchful and still as she grows full of dreams.</span>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-7947886081163513062008-05-29T20:41:00.001+01:002008-05-29T20:46:08.852+01:00The girl with blue hair<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="PT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I must be losing my touch, thought the girl with blue hair. People would usually stop and stare at her unabashedly, eyes widening mouths agape. Some would also point, in a slow-motion distracted manner, the possibility that they might be rude overshadowed by the fact that they’d been rendered speechless. The girl with blue hair did not mind the attention; one could even say that she revelled in it a little, that she did feel a tiny bit proud of her ability to astonish. But these days people hardly look at her – indeed, they don’t seem to notice her at all. They just walk right past her, where she stands selling soft toys in aid of charity.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-89209523727422347892008-05-11T18:13:00.001+01:002008-05-11T18:17:41.162+01:00Nude woman in red armchair<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="PT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">She sits in the quiet way of a milky Sunday afternoon – her face still delicately clothed; her thoughts colourless and clear; and then the naked freedom of her body. She sits like a moment of rain that falls suddenly amidst sunshine. Everything softens around her (the red chair, the light, the brushes, your own loud thoughts). How can you (not) paint her?</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-58452696328840513752008-05-07T21:00:00.002+01:002008-05-07T21:05:45.265+01:00The wild girl<p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">Left-wing, left-handed and left to her own devices, the wild girl is always ready to fight for what’s right.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The wild girl frequently engages in radical acts such as cutting her own hair, recklessly breaking mirrors, and unleashing the power within, around and beyond. (These events are often connected.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The wild girl carries her body like a revolutionary flag or a new tattoo.<span style=""> </span>She has a music video walk, a runway run.<span style=""> </span>She looks funky and cool in all manner of t-shirts and footwear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The wild girl laughs, sings, cries, farts and thinks out loud.<span style=""> </span>She’s a billboard kind of girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The wild girl can fearlessly down home-brewed distilled beverages and non-bottled water.<span style=""> </span>She likes her herbal tea the way she likes her food: the hotter, the better.<span style=""> </span>(The same goes for sex, of course.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The words ‘subversive’ and ‘hard-core’ fail as powerful adjectives when applied to the wild girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">The wild girl isn’t actually that wild at all, not in a feral sense at least.<span style=""> </span>All she really wants is to go to Berlin. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-59264650938012479662008-04-27T14:28:00.003+01:002008-04-27T14:34:37.977+01:00Dreamgirl (a song)<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="" lang="PT"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> i saw her on the square<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">white doves in her hair<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">she was humming a lullaby<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">to the ocean in her lap<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">it’s the stuff that dreams are made of<span style=""> </span>she sang<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">the stuff that dreams are made of</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">i saw her on the highway<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">a tiger on her back<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">she was selling second-hand prophecies<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">and offered me a pack<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">it’s the stuff that dreams are made of she said<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">it’s the real deal<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">the stuff that dreams are made of<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">baby it’s a steal</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">i saw her in the sky<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">wearing darkness round her waist<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">her hands were full of laughter<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">and a smile rode on her face<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">she was raining the stuff<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">that dreams are made of...</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">i saw her in the desert<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">a childhood in her fist<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">she had famine in her eyes<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">and calamity in her throat<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="" lang="PT">whispering the stuff that dreams are made of<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">it’s the stuff that dreams are made of<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">baby it’s a steal<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">the stuff that dreams are made of<span style=""> </span>she screamed<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="" lang="PT">it’s the real deal</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="PT"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1433148578403571538.post-29807946326929056232008-04-20T00:22:00.002+01:002008-04-20T00:28:01.132+01:00Call her Indigo<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">She arrives on a rainy afternoon or a Saturday night or as you are pouring wine into only one glass. She places nostalgia on the table, spreading its white linen cloth. She lays out the fine china of insecurity and the silver of longing. Then she arranges a fresh bouquet of hopefulness and the air becomes a sigh of unspoken invitations. You did not ask for her to be there; her silence is disquieting. Still, you let her stay.</span></span>ddm*http://www.blogger.com/profile/00785702192648766056noreply@blogger.com0