Hemiplegia Looking For Bike

anations with Respects to Preserving Their Own, Producing a new legend Additional That Would make infinite sense of and Our Environment, by Which to fathom What is to Become of us in it. As a response, my Priests Are crafting a multi-dimensional Which scripture in all the great Gods and lesser deities May pastoral history converge in Without abandoning the specifics of STI diverse parts, But The Proposed dictum is convoluted with Superimposition, a loosely bound Dislocated months to a universal focus unsteady with players, and it is Written in Such a Manner That leads fearfully, allude to, and culminate in, a void indefinite, Desperately That one awaits a massive fill of Further enlightenment Which Can not Be Gathered from the Philosophies of and Stock Existing in or lost tribe

Facebook Do They Know If I Remove My Tag Phone Post

COMPLETE My Phone Post (5 min.) Seems To Have gotten lost. The remainder is definitely too cheap to let stand. So, in stead STI, here is my translation of the poem Inglés I Had originally Phone in USA:

Ode to Federico García Lorca by Pablo Neruda


If I could mourn with fear in a home alone
if I could gouge my eyes out and eat them, would
orange for your voice and your mourning
poetry coming out screaming. Because

painted blue for you
hospitals and schools grow and docklands areas,
and feathers are filled with wounded angels,
and covered in fish scales bridal
and fly away to heaven l,
planets and maps come with blood,
divers arrive covered with ashes, dragging
masked maidens come
crossed by large knives come
roots, veins, hospitals,
springs, ants,
night comes with the bed where
dies in a hussar spiders alone, comes a rose
hate and pins, a boat arrives
yellowish
comes a windy day with a child, I come
with Oliver, Norah
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, Maria Luisa and Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti, Carlos
, Baby, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez, and other
that I forget. Come
crown you, young
health and the throttle, pure young woman as a black lightning
free forever,
and talking among ourselves,
now, when there is nobody among the rocks,
just as you are talking about just me:
verses what they are for if not to spray?

For what are the lines if not for that night
bitter that we find out a knife, for that day,
for the twilight, so that corner where the beaten
dead man's heart is about to die?

Especially at night, night
there are many stars, all within a

river like a ribbon next to the windows of the houses
llenas poor people.

Someone has Died,
may have lost their jobs in offices, hospitals
, in elevators,
in mines stubbornly
beings suffer and no purpose
wounded and crying everywhere:
while the stars are in an endless river
much crying on the windows, thresholds
worn with tears,
the bedrooms are wet with tears
that comes in the form of wave to bite the carpet.

Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
vinegar,
bounces at stations when the smoke rises
wheels
critical to where there's nothing but some
separations, stones, railroad tracks.

There are so many people asking questions
everywhere. There is the blind
bloody and angry, and discouraged
,
and miserable, tree nails,
the bandit with envy on their backs.

That's life, Federico Here
the things I can offer my friendship
of melancholy man manly.
You know yourself a lot. And others go knowing
slowly.







Federico García Lorca Ode To



fearsome If I could weep in a lonely house
If I could wrench my eyes out and eat
Them Would I do it for your mournful orange-tree voice
and for your poetry that is borne forth screaming.

Because for you hospitals are painted blue
and out grow the schools and seaside hoods,
and wounded angels are settled in feathers,
and nuptial fish are covered in scales,
and urchins take flight to the sky,
for you, outfitters with their black membranes
fill their selves with spoons and with blood,
and engorge red ribbons, and kill themselves with kisses,
and dress their selves in white.

When you soar clothed as a peach tree,
when you laugh a laugh of whirlwind rice,
when to sing you shake the arteries and teeth,
the throat and the fingers,
I would die for the sweetness of you,
I would diome I with Oliver, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marma, Maria Luisa and Larco,
the Blonde, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti, Carlos
, Baby, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales Concha Mendez,
chance and Others I forget.

May Come so That I crown you, youth of health
and of the butterfly, so pure
youth like a black lightning-flash perpetually free,
and conversing, Between you and me,
Now, When no one is left by the rocks, let us speak Simply
of how You are and how I am:
What Are The verses use if not for the dew?

What Are The verses use if not for That night, in Which a bitter
dagger Finds us out, For That Day,
for that atmosphere in flux, for that torn corner
where the stricken heart of man deems itself to die?

Above all at night,
at night are numerous stars,
all within a river like a ribbon along the windows of houses bulging with destitutes.

Someone has died on them, perhaps they've lost their posts in offices, in the hospitals, in the elevators, in the mines, beings suffer wounds stubbornly and there are designs and grief all around: meanwhile the stars run within an interminable river
there's much weeping at the windows,
the threshholds are worn from the weeping,
the alcoves are drenched with a weeping
that comes in form of a wave to bite the carpets.

Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
the vinegar,
the farewells on the station platforms
when the smoke lifts its decisive wheels
towards where there is nothing but a few
separations, stones, railroad tracks.

There are so many people asking questions
everywhere.
There's the bloody and blind, the irate, and the
disillusioned,
and the miserable, the tree of fingernails,
the robber emburdened with envy.

That's life, Federico, here you have
the things that can offer you my friendship
that of a melancholic, manly man.
On your own, you know many things
and others you will come to know slowly.
f I Could pack Councils city with soot, and sobbing, overthrow the clocks, it Would Be to discover the Following Things when to arrive to your house: summer with STI busted lips, insufferable Many people in rags, regions of Their brilliance dulled Sadly, oxen dead at the plow and poppies, Those That and Those Things That bury ride horses, orbiting planets and maps sprinkled with blood, snorkelers Covered in ashes, masked men dragging damsels Were Whose paths crossed by great cutlery, ensoiled roots, blood veins, hospitals, bubbling springs, ants, the night on the bed containing a lone Cavalryman Which is Thrown to the spiders to die, a rosy hatred and needles, a yellowish barge, a windy day with a boy, And Then, I arrive with a bunch of miscellaneous people, Some of Which flee my remembrrobber with envy pressing upon His shoulders. That's the way life is, Federico, here You Have The Things That Can offer you my friendship, my company, That of a melancholic, virile man. In and of yourself, you know Many Things, and Others slowly you will learn.

Film In Streaming Blog Spot

I'm sitting at my desk, writing a story about a dog. Several dogs, in FACT, Their histories and Their misadventures. My mother just

Brought me a slice of chocolate cake. One of the Sisters made it at her congregation. I Happen to Be Allergic to chocolate, the cocoa bean, That Is ... and Congregations, too, for that matter. I take two bites and leave it on the kitchen counter. I decide it's too raw, too cold and soggy, it bleeds an icing too sweet and slimy.

"Did you like it?" she ASKs.
"It's ok," I say, unthinkingly, or Should I say, thinking about dogs.
"What?" What did you say? "

I hate repeating myself.

"It's poison," I say, gravely.

Whether or not i actually speak Rarely has bearing and Stockfrom the act, right-through the mask of cologne I splash on for propriety - However, she can not pin the origin of Precisely Any one scent, Meaning she can not Distinguish Between the lingering odours of tobacco and weed and the residual stench left on a body, for it seems, Knowing the difference is like HAVING too gross an acquaintance with an all-together disgusting habit, so, the parental alert reads nothing more Than evil smoke.

"Hear what?" I ask, deleting a sentence .*

"I Think We Have termites!"




* EDIT (4 / 10) This morning, after much consideration, I added the sentence back.

Lori Luna Body Building

The crack house next door is playing its SOUL-BROTHER MUSIC really loudly again. Through my window, it seeps, something sweet and guttural, albeit a bit distorted, reaped from that ancient wax. I step out back to get a better listen. The old rhythm and blues permeates my neighbor's cluttered, run-down yard; it washes over the patio, the plants, the people snapping their fingers in their lawn chairs -- it splashes the corners and the walls and falls back onto itself -- it sounds off with the accompanying whir of a rickety record player from the 1960's and the scratchy temporal sound settles into a comfortable lull that tints the place with a jazzy gray.

Every Saturday afternoon, the Boss throws a Customer Appreciation BBQ in the backyard as a sort of 'thank you' to the peom doghouse. Its tail wags side to side in a fearsome wave, jutting out the entrance arch. The generic
Springfield
The Fastest sodas disappear, and Sometimes, the event Generate a long line of derelicts muttering, WHO hypnotically ratione smoke cigarettes or animated exchange, cackling pleasantries, licking Their dry, cracked lips, unable to keep still. The line extends Along the driveway, past the Boss's classic Jaguar, Which Sits like chiseled obsidian and Reflects the busted, gaping grills of guests As They inch and sashay forward, and the people in the rear spill out to the sidewalk, and wrap-around the gate, so to grimace That People Have Their necks and stretch out to see what's left, if anything. A motley line, Mostly consisting of bums, junkies, people too lazy to

Bow Necklace On Sonny With A Chance Inquiry.

Concerning my journal, aniccata writes:

The wind blew the door back on its hinges as she entered the book store, making her pull it closed behind her. She pushed her glasses up with a long finger, the nail bitten short and ragged, and with her other hand unzipped her corduroy jacket. She grabbed a copy of French Vogue from the magazine rack and sat at a little table by the window.

Of course he had been watching her since the second she opened the door, absently shifting his pencil from hand to hand and scrawling words into his notebook. As she took off her jacket and hung it on the chair, he gazed at her neck just where it met the green sweater that was almost a little too small, exposing her slender, pale wrists. He took a sip of his coffee, already turning cold, and sighed. Why must it always be so difficult for him?

She seemed bored with Vogue, or so he thought, and he considered himself the savior of young beautiful bored girls in book stores. He cleared his throat and stood, slowly moving toward her table. She looked at her thick, utilitarian silver watch, glanced out the window and then turned a page. When she looked up, he was standing next to her.

\h and the gum stuck to the bottom of historical shoe, how Would she smile and tilt her head to the left as she listened thoughtfully, how she Would Reach out a hand to adjust historical necklace, how historical Would accidentally touch her foot under the leg table and She Would not move away. Already Had I imagined her going home with him to historical drafty apartment with mismatched furniture, where 'Would she take off her brown shoes inside the front door, Revealing striped socks match That Did What She Was Wearing. Already Had I imagined how she Would peek inside the book I Kept next to His bed while I WAS getting a glass of water from the kitchen, how Would she want to read more But Would put the book back as she Suddenly Heard in the historical footsteps hallway.

Imagining He is so busy and I's notxactly sure how he came to be sitting next to her at the table. She talks and laughs, her delicate hands animated like birds, playing with her earring and touching the magazine from time to time. He does most of the talking, though. He tells her of traveling to the ocean, of staying in a hotel where the beach ran up to his door and the palm trees cast shadows intended only for his benefit, about finding abandoned sand castles along the shore and picking up a tiny shell shaped like a carrot that he carried in his pocket for days, about feeling the sand between his toes and hearing the voices of children in the distance. He talked about reading The Seducer's Diary as he sat in a chair, the bright sun warming him as he turned the pages, and he said, smiling, \



aniccata


,

Thank you for restoring my faith in the preciseness of human intuition.

Love,

A book store predator.

Sealing Travertine Shower A tragedy of waves and stone. Two Bodies crushed to a single flour.

y lids and they would slowly drift back to their royal slumber of fanning palms, perfumed linens, of fat juicy grapes lowered into wanton mouths in the pacific hiss and lull of your white-froth whisperings. The little boys and girls romped in the shallows and unknowingly did enter and exit their parents' afternoon dreams, the old haunts, as their guardians torpidly slipped in and out of that sad adult sleep. The children had once been pleasant notions jetting inside those dreams, figments of a forgotten dreamscape of the makers, darling wonders captured and carnalized.

A few of the smaller children held back; they were timid, reluctant to play with you. They thought you a strange new bully, one with delightfully wild and fun intentions, but one that was also unaware of its own hulking size and careless might. You didn't know it, then, but you played too rough sometimes, and one wrong move could prove disastrous. A force of nature, they feared! They clutched their plastic shovels and pails to their hearts and sat with their feet buried in mounds of patted sand, wiggling their toes in the cool, deep in. They watched intently as the others played gaily with you and each other, with the keenest of squinting eyes, lightly frowning, but daring never to enter. Oh, but your presence was enough to nurture possibility and promote freedom, and their self-imposed restrictions would cause their lonely minds to privately boil and to harness your energy, to rub and spark an imaginative wildfire and perpetrate some amusements of their own. Most of them would get antsy, runaround in circles, kick a ball around, toss a frisbee; Some artistic Would catch the bug to create and take to the ground to fashion works of sand, like Tortoise, Sandman, Hamlets, castles with Moats. Would They Themselves busy, like mad scientists, with ephemeral sculpting miniature worlds and fantasies, Which out of the sand you'd make malleable, Dampener by your kiss.

Had I come to stand Before your edge, Being under the impression That you've always winked at me from afar and I Were anxious to Receive. Here I waver, to burning spec, wretched clothes and stiff like Scabs, irritable sand in the shoes I Never Thought to remove, at the very end of the land Which Had held me erect in space for All These Years and proceeded to unroll and remove into you. I wish to Surreavy of body and maybe I stuck out in odd places That I Could not see myself.

You unleashed your gaze upon me as a shock of streams, a rush of charging nuzzlings, from all sides, Thousands of gentle licks per second as a single force of savage matter, and the quick, thick liquid embrace of the living surprised me , surround and Conquered my skin, the tiny hairs tingle on my legs That, Partly submerged, now with your Swayed Changing Every Thought. The wind Gasper with me as I Was flanked at the calves and knees by the encompassing clutch of your coldness. You were freezing me this evening, Would Be Worse But the moments you'd recede, the Shivering intervals without you! I walk into you, nonetheless, thirsting to float in the mystic warmth of your focus. On the path, the ground dissolved in chunks and you softened the sand beneath my feet. I sunk a few inches with every step, in which I rose in and out of you, in-out, up and down, on your trail of grainy pudding, on your pavement of veils, as I paced and pulled towards your hidden chambers. Closer and closer, closing in, with such growing inconsistencies at foot, my balance grew more and more skewed, and lines, rules, borders, gravity, all thankfully conceded to your motions. It is in such a way that my mind reels, my stomach sinks, and my heart loses its earthly configurations for an ineffably divine auto-pilot, in the presence of love.

You were much too much.

I couldn't wait. I knelt to have you; a small part of the whole, but a formidable portion, yet. You covered me, slapped me, stole my breath, closed my eyes, tempered me with treatments of ice and withdrawal, while roughly accomodating my sunken groove of a nest. You pulled away rhythmically and plundered continuously, powered by the bosom of planets.

I became numb with this new foreign pleasure. My senses were bared and consumed by you and your actions. My ears were taxed with loud frenzied sounds that came and left. I opened my salty eyes to a bright and blurred world and my nose inhaled wetness, breathed in the stinging marine. This was a lovely encapsulated bliss and a return to exquisite fragility; I hardly knew it. What seemed like a bunch of raw discomforts, I felt, ultimately, as an excessively good and perfect way of being, one that could not be denied, perhaps having indefwn, and in danger of being forgotten.

You were still washing over me when you flashed your stormy adieux. I felt you lingering all around, dripping from every exposed part of me. The bad weather had struck beyond my control, and miserably, I was forced to retreat. I stood up with a few old burdens strapped still to my spine, some that I intended to leave behind, and you lapped frolicsome at the knees and heels of my sad departure. You flow unceasingly without me and I become dry as a husk in recollection ... but I remain your noble loving trespasser.


It's been weeks, you realize! You want me to write about you, and in the context of SOLELY YOU, but you gotta understand ... I like to write with a large degree of presence still intact, when the wave has just beaten me and pulls me in deeper, when my head is submerged and shaken with seawater, perfectly conquered and infiltrated! See, the story would begin to take shape as I withdraw from the whole, a bit on the shore, as I fall back, confidently, on our moist bed of shifting sand, and there, the exhausted poet-in-me's final ruminations will struggle to procure a fit ending, the tide still sweetly at my sides!

Here's the short entry I promised you. I made you an ocean.

Brazilian Waxing Salon Leeds "Shut up," I Explained.

Yuck. The new white meat Chicken McNuggets McDonald's Are the final fuckin 'insult. The eleven mighty franchise is now a full-fledged joke. I'm absolutely hatin ' it! And, to think, Minawnas Mommy! WAS one of my very first expressions as a toddler! Ah me!

're tearing down my old playgrounds, you filthy pimps. And your cookies taste like sawdust!

Are Two deaf girls sitting in a booth eating burgers Directly in front of me. They Had Walked in as soon as I Had sat down at my wobbly table with the tiny blue stamp handicap at the edge so That my friends Know Where to wheel up. They scrunched Their faces and a flurry of gesticulations Indicated Occurred Had Something dreadful just recently, maybe in class. Oh, There Were secret joys, They paused for Some confidential nothingness That spread to pregnant Between Them and Their Shot Through linked jest stare. They Covered Their Mouths in unison and giggled unabashedly. The one with the brown curls absent-mindedly floater over to the cashier and slipped her a yellow index card across the tile counter and They Both payed ready money.

I love how Sometimes You Can Tell the health of a girl by the full thickness and Their rosy cheeks and fleshiness of the showy bits of the ankles, and plump the "above the shoe sandal, or by the brilliance of Their indelible smiles, an outward Harmonious display inner workings of perpetually That Remain unperturbed by annoyances like hisses and sirens shrill city. Two deaf girls with very large bones, AmaziahMLXC They've dumped the contents of Their fry cartons together to form a large pile on a tray and Them They pick at, one at a time, unconsciously waving wands to conjure Them as an inaudible word and to banish it Without a sound. They swipe occassionally Their cups and drink the watered down soda bubbling That tastes like medicine Nowadays, jets Which wild Into Their throats untempered by straw, all crashing fluid in the tender portal. No music is borne of These gullets, But They Are content to jerk Their arms and hands skillfully in the Exercise of a story, quick circular strokes sentential As They sculpt a shape of abstract squiggles, Which Their nods and shrugs punctuate like possessed marionettes, Their That thread eyes like needles Their Exchange of woven telepathies. They Are warblingus in their whipping movements; their arms, a tongue, their bodies, a tongue, palms, fingers, vivacious playful tongues! The expressions on their faces are bright beacons that shimmer with every tiny inaudible point of digression in the animated telling. The air between them is thick with twisting, darting signals that float, merge, and hang, a flapping tapestry.

I covet, at times, in almost unbearable bursts ...

I wanted them. I wanted them both. I wanted to bed them that sole hot instant because I am forever clumsy and dumb with handshakes and meaningless casual embraces, and my sights were fixed on this fine plateau where bodily extremities are perfect communicative instruments in a comfortable silence ... and the act of sex is the most potent way I can

Wet Sanding Sunfish Boat Hull

, pejorative reviews, so that I might dauntlessly retort. Instead, I got the cold-shoulder from most of the membership, and I immediately drew some C's from the jealous hack constituency. adiaadore , my journal is NOTHING like yours. If I ever, God forbid, so much as write even a few short lines of existential Weezer fan fiction

, for whatever reason, I give you full permission to SHOOT ME IN THE FACE as many times as it takes for me to DIE and stay DEAD. I wouldn't be able to live with the shame ... and you shouldn't either. orbitalocularit 's rank is high on the LJ intimidatingly Celeb Hierarchy, so I'm not gonna step events! All I'm going to say, in my defense, That is my journal is more Than Masterpiece Theatre Entertainment Tonight. As You Can Easily make out from her in-your-face

userpics , snickersaddict

Lived in a bell tower in Paris for MOST of her life and WAS raised by an evil cardinal . Now, she is found and her greasy little finger is fixed on the LiveJournal Firmly press of what's hot and not. She Thinks Are my absolutely bland entries and, of course, due to her overbearing obesity, can not help but write a snide remark Without making references to 'flavor' and eating cake. Speaking of EATIng, I would be SCARED AS SHIT to be a Snickers bar if this was to be the last thing I saw. Looking back at previous entries in the community, I see that she votes very frequently and vituperatively, with a supremely self-satisfied air; the girl dishes out a lot of C's from on high. I bet she's really proud of it, too ... deep down, I bet it warms those rank arteries of hers, clogged with rotten nougat. Her journal is nothing special, except for the redeeming close-up photo of kiwifruit, which looks delectable as hell ... and her writing is common-place at best, but I exaggerate. Eva ( evitalerue ), Sarah (

b ougainvillea ), and Callie ( ) Are a band of copycats! Thanks for embarrassing me in front of the Entire class, guys! Eva Eichmann up unexpectedly and proceeded to make a perfect spectacle of mothering me, Littering my post with silly compliments about my writing That Were Eventually deleted, as per rules. It Took Them awhile to loosen up and indulge her journal capricious, and it looks as if she WAS gonna make a daring come-back, But She Was cut short on the straight-away, and got the boot, just like I did. Sarah's Magic Green-Scale Picture journal isn't doing too well with the reviewers, Presently, Because I suppose, the reviewers Would prefer reading and grading journals showcasing soRevealing me writing, INSTEAD of say, Being mystically drawn Into a verdant world of faeries and sylphs and What Not. Where Were These READERS while WAS MY application up and running, I have not the foggiest! Callie's userpic and the creepy pictures of aliens in historical userinfo He Keeps seem frightened off successfully To Have A Few members, Including an African king . Callie, it is imperative Them That You get to listen to your Mandywon't song, tune asap That Any Should tide turn. Gone Are the marquees subject entry, thanks to Mike ( obelized ), Who Said They Looked retarded as fuck and Reminded him of mastering basic HTML in the sixth grade.