Day: February 27, 2017

Want to eat out?

Eat at your own riskdsc00018

First course

Ginger shampoo and boiled onions  on a bed  of  buttered snails
Lemon, barley   and pepper jelly with a dash of bustard.
Cat food on toast [wholemeal] with  yellowish salad

Main course

Dead blackbird pie and gravy with one  fresh spinach leaf per portion
Baked potatos and chilli beans with fresh chicken wings.
Soup frozen over a lake of lamb chops and sprouts

Puddings

Eve’s own  apple pie and Carnation milk right from the tin
Adam’s apple baked in pastry and flustered
Tomato jam tart with caramel rocks and treble cream
Desert delight and sand to toss on to it  from an oasis of  peas
Bethlehem cheese   plus slice of  border Wall  and crackers.
Rocket junket and cheesecake with barbed wire kebabs of needed.

Kindness

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by Sylvia Plath

Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
In the windows, the mirrors
Are filling with smiles.
What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit’s cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says.
Sugar is a necessary fluid,
Its crystals a little poultice
O kindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
May be pinned any minute, anesthetized.
And here you come, with a cup of tea
Wreathed in steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
You hand me two children, two roses.

Ariel

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BY SYLVIA PLATH
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.

One bird could be the owl of moral perception

In a memoir about  her lusty twins, she exclaims,
that her husband  sought  cruelty  as a   Christian
and  willed masochism  for  people who  disdained to be happy
or  who desired happiness  in love or other  irritations of life .
which made  many men sadistic
His  gross interference  was the undesirable rendition
of the untried prisoners in the Bay windows of the suburbs
It is easy to  forsake  all   presumptions ;
Why a person would not  sell you happy sentences is now history
Why we   misread   when it is  seriously important to get it right
Flight must  be seen as a genuine alternative to happiness;
For must we think that it was seriousness
that made human  brains chilling  ?
Or rolling stones to wither more moss?
One of the replays in which happiness
is  paid to seem like an inclusive misrule
–she says,
In a  word to the bland,
is  our asserting that by  cooperation
the flings that shatter most  of us
must make us more  unhappy,
That is how we show  we got laid
Too many looks……
It’s as though one person   dreams
They are the owl of the moral perception.