Ginger cat.. must be Celtic.

English style my way:make it coloured if you can.Wear a hat if bald.Wash your trousers as often as is sensible.Wash your own!It’s easy

Wash your clothes a lot but don’t iron them
Go out in only  a  T shirt and jeans in winter.
Old grey anoraks  look good on most  people,or so they  seem to think
Wear skirts that show your thighs off  or leggings that show everything else off or both or nothing
Do wear crop tops and low rise jeans especially when  suffering  from underactive thyroid disorder
Jeans with rips are perfect for old ladies.Rip it youself
Wear thick padded  down coats in the summer.
Never wear a summer dress especially if you are a man
Never wear petticoats and other lingerie.Just pants  and top or vest
Wear a T shirt  saying:Anti-Semitic, moi?  while touring Oxford looking for pubs
Wear a T shirt saying :Belgians, go back to Congo.
Wear a T shirt saying :I feel Rubbish
Wear a T shirt that says :I luv money
Wear a T shirt that says: Educated in Burton, can’t spell
Make sure  your hair is exposed— both head and pubic.
I don’t understand either but they keep saying,where are you from?
I say,here,But somehow they don’t believe me.
Actually, I am mixed race.So I am only British.
Even with  ethnicity  we  have a class system with English at the top and  mixed race somewhere further down.Ancient Briton? Sorry,dear

https://www.thesaurus.com/browse/adamant

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2024/oct/18/improve-focus-concentration-span-expert-tips?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Preoccupation is a dangerous thing

We see not what is there but what we bring.

Put aside your thoughts and busy care,

When you are so occupied you are not here

Being here is living with our friends

Not wandering lonely down the streets’ dead ends

Do not let your worries make you blind

Do not let them make you too unkind

The weak will hurt the vulnerable nearby

Don’t let that beam live too long in your eye

When the windows shattered
And the splinters flew in
He just made for the back door
And left me
not knowing where to begin.
When the shards of glass hit me
And pierced my vulnerable skin
He was already going
Leaving me
feeling he was an inhuman being.
When I fell down covered in glass and bleeding,
And the storm raged on,
I didn’t look round because
I knew,I knew,I knew,
I knew he would be gone.
Suddenly peace came, the storm had quite
disappeared..
It was all over so quickly
Not as murderous as I feared.
My wounds were bad,I have to confess.
I had no bandage
Nothing with which to dress.
With an old towel I cleaned my blood
Then I lay me down to pray.
Since that day,no storms come this way.
My wounds are healing
I have just one thing to say.
When the storm was so bad
He left me all alone…
but strangely since then
all is peace and calm.
His absence has become
almost a balm.
But I hear stories of fierce storms rising up
In towns and villages
Not too far from here, where a wandering man appears.
Seems like he’s running to get away
From some storm
But he takes it with him
He gives it form.
So when the windows crashed in
glass flew at my face
he left me all alone
In what he thought
was a very dangerous place.
Did he not pick me up
and carry me outside?
No,my daughter,he left me alone;.
But since then
I lost a great burden…
And I lost a great feeling of shame.
Rise up,you women,bleeding and torn.
For on days like this,a new resolve is born.
While you live don’t accept all the blame.
Don’t live so long as I did,in fear and in shame.
Rise up and find that calm
In the eye of the storm…
On days like this
a new woman is born

They’re hunting snails
In New South Wales
They’re hunting bees,
And shooting trees.
They’re hanging worms
For lengthy terms
They’re on a diet
And don’t we know it.

The diet of worms shall be our fare
And on the bible. we shall swear.
We’ll swear our oath
We are not loth
We’ll strangle frogs
They’ll die in bogs.

We’ll always use four letter words
And they shall be our hunting swords.
We’ll kill the good
We’ll burn the wood.
We’ll shout out,fuck.
We’ll burn the book

We’ll let no thin skinned people live.
We’ll always take and never give
We’ll use our charms
To quell alarms.
We’ll molest girls
Cut off their curls.

As we’re human,  we are mad.
We kill the good ,seems love  is dead
We saw the babe in Bethlehem
We saw him die between two men.
We did not run to cut him down
We said,Oh,fuck,another clown.
For he spoke love
And said to give.
For he spoke peace;
Let joy increase

Like most human,we are crazed
We see it and we’re not amazed.
No sunset red
No welcome bed
No golden dawn
No welcome morn
No loving arms
No sacred charms
No newborn king
No tune to sing

Oh,we are damned
We are broke
We built Auschwitz
Saw the smoke.
And now it’s built again,again
While   drop the bombs
In Bethlehem.

And on our knees, we women crawl
To bury babies born too small.
To take the swords from these mens’ hands
And bury them in desert sands.
To pick up scraps of humanness
To hold their hands for God to bless.
We did it wrong,we did it bad
We never thought  or we’ve been had

https://openjournals.library.sydney.edu.au/index.php/SSE/article/viewFile/325/298

About  The Thought Fox

” The poem itself is beautifully modulated in its use of assonance and
off-rhyme. It has the delicate, brilliant and perhaps cold qualities
given to the fox, though it also has its boldness and concentration.
Thus the poem itself enacts the metaphor of the title: it is the
thought-fox.
This sort of wit and concentration is Hughes at his best. His
humour certainly gets blacker, and Crow (1972) is very like an
obscene version of the Road-Runner, but it is a very important
part of his general attitude and poetic manner. In “Pike”, for
example, the changes in tone from the neutral description of the
opening through the off-hand humour of stanza six:
With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
73
SYDNEY STUDIES
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long,
High and dry and dead in the willow-herbto
the terrified apprehension of the last stanza:
Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly towards me, watching.
(Selected Poems, pp. 55-56)
form a dramatic and emotional pattern that makes this perhaps
Hughes’s most disturbing poem. The humour is an integral part
of that dark world which so fascinates him. Perhaps it is one of
several things he learnt from Nietzsche.
In an interesting interview with Egbert Faas published in
London Magazine in January 1971, Hughes spoke a good deal
about his concern with “the primeval world”.l He felt that modern
man had turned away from the dark forces and “settled for the
minimum practical energy and illumination”. He attacked “the
psychological stupidity, the ineptitude, of the rigidly rationalist
outlook”, though he did not underestimate the dangerousness of
the non-rational world:
“If you refuse the energy, you are living a kind of death. If you
accept the energy, it destroys you. What is the alternative? To accept
the energy, and find methods of turning it to good, of keeping it
under control-rituals, the machinery of religion. The old method is
the only one.”
This does not mean that Hughes is a Christian, or even sympathetic
to Christianity with its ideals of self-sacrifice (his equation
of the Virgin Mary with the Great Goddess of the primitive world
is highly questionable, whatever cults survived in early Christianity).
I am not sure that it even means that his imagination is
“theological”, as Peter Porter has suggested. But it does mean that
it is religious and that it is concerned with language as magic and
with poems as rituals. “Jaguar” does contain evocations of animal
power and freedom and “The Bull Moses”, one of his greatest
poems, is an apotheosis of primitive sexual strength. This is one
of the reasons, I think, why the poems are so elaborately structured,
why the language is so forceful and compacted. They are
not attempts to express violence or to titillate us with violent
thrills, in the way that you might say Thom Gunn’s poems are,
though we are often conscious of the element of fascination that
Hughes feels. These poems have a real respect for violence and try to treat it as a religious force”