"Rough 'round the edges"

Under my tiny, pink toes
A freckled crunch of pebble on pebble
Where, in any other part of the world,
I dreamt sand between my toes
But understood that despite lacking sand for castles
A sunny rock dune is a warm shelter
Against the cold breeze, blown in off the Atlantic

It has been ages since I have seen the sea
Or chewed vinegar-soaked cockles off a toothpick
And oh, how some day I dreamed
I would buy my very own cup full!

Wind-shocked by either chinook or snow
It is amazing how quickly the weather can change
In such a West-gazing land
Where you can always see shore on the horizon
I, too, am compelled to look to the sunset
As murky as such a view may be
Seen through the thick lense of black gold

It has been ages since I glanced at my toes
Whether burried deeply in pebbled beaches
Or tickled by the hoppers of prairie grass
But I'm careful as ever where I step

Iron and cogs and men from the rigs
Make poor metaphors for the fine arts
Bar fights are a kind of dance
But these days I'd rather the ballet
BBC 4 and the sounds of my aviatory
But a little Johnny Cash never goes amiss
Nor the zoo-wrangling life of working housewifery

I'd love to return to the pier some day
Wiggle my toes in the air, at the sea
Vision clear of that thick black sludge
And my very own cup of cockles

Baking...

Doesn't that just say it all?

Best wishes to all... that's right, it's xmas eve and I'm WORKING!

The unmentionable holiday *wink*

"I fucking hate xmas!"

Quite succinctly express a couple of weeks ago at my Andrew's mother's house, no we are not going to have a Christmas tree. She had offered him some small twinkle lights, probably would have set up the thing for us as well. Nope. No fucking xmas!

Noneoftheless, I spent the next couple of weeks shopping and wrapping and visiting/being visitied by countless relatives. A brief reappearance of an accent, before going back to a thank-god-Canadian one. Vicar, as you can see, was a huge help with all of this. Eating wrapping paper, standing on the presents to add a very personal touch of malformation to the boxes, and removing the rubbish afterwards. Those paper tubes are dangerous creatures.


Ah, but the best part was yet to come. Visits by Amilee all the way from Japan, relatives from England, a multinational event topped off by a burning xmas pudding. Jimmy received a friend for Xmas, an albino budgie (his eyes are red but the doesn't show in this picture for whatever reason) named "Hitchcock". He is the happiest budgie I have ever seen since he got his new friend. He plays mother to Hitchcock, cleaning, feeding, yelling at, and cuddling with. It's so very adorable.

What did Vicar get? Among many things, one of the most puzzling toys on the planet. It is made of rubber instead of soft fuzz, it makes irritating squeeling noises, and has odd little spikes. He carries the toy around, and talks back to it, and I'm not sure if he is more annoyed or amused by the whole thing.

...who is enjoying the unmentionable holiday the most? Let me put it this way: Does this face say "I fucking hate xmas"?


HAPPY WHATEVER-THE-FUCK YOU ENJOY MOST ABOUT THIS TIME OF YEAR!!!

What IS your problem, anyway?

Dorks and Drums

Bobert is a "g33k". Please tell me THIS is for a school project.

Censored... STILL?

Notes:
* e. e. cummings is god
** I have recently discovered that in Andrew's poetry textbook for a UNIVERSITY LEVEL CLASS, this poem is censored such that "fuck" reads "f." and "shit" reads "s." Correct me if I am wrong, but such a subtle change in an e. e. cummings work, makes a fucking-huge-difference.

In a university level class a poem should feel free to shit and fuck all it wants to!

i sing of Olaf glad and big

whose warmest heart recoiled at war:

a conscientious object-or



his wellbelovéd colonel(trig

westpointer most succinctly bred)

took erring Olaf soon in hand;

but--though an host of overjoyed

noncoms(first knocking on the head

him)do through icy waters roll

that helplessness which others stroke

with brushes recently employed

anent this muddy toiletbowl,

while kindred intellects evoke

allegiance per blunt instruments--

Olaf(being to all intents

a corpse and wanting any rag

upon what God unto him gave)

responds,without getting annoyed

"I will not kiss your fucking flag"



straightway the silver bird looked grave

(departing hurriedly to shave)



but--though all kinds of officers

(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)

their passive prey did kick and curse

until for wear their clarion

voices and boots were much the worse,

and egged the firstclassprivates on

his rectum wickedly to tease

by means of skilfully applied

bayonets roasted hot with heat--

Olaf(upon what were once knees)

does almost ceaselessly repeat

"there is some shit I will not eat"



our president,being of which

assertions duly notified

threw the yellowsonofabitch

into a dungeon,where he died



Christ(of His mercy infinite)

i pray to see;and Olaf,too



preponderatingly because

unless statistics lie he was

more brave than me:more blond than you.