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“So you want to know all about me, Who
I am
What chance meeting of brush and canvas painted
the face
you see? what made me despise the girl
in the mirror
enough to transform her, turn her into a stranger,
only not.”
― Ellen Hopkins, Crank

“Not to waste the spring
I threw down everything,
And ran into the open world
To sing what I could sing...
To dance what I could dance!
And join with everyone!
I wandered with a reckless heart
beneath the newborn sun.

First stepping through the blushing dawn,
I crossed beneath a garden bower,
counting every hermit thrush,
counting every hour.

When morning's light was ripe at last,
I stumbled on with reckless feet;
and found two nymphs engaged in play,
approaching them stirred no retreat.
With naked skin, their weaving hands,
in form akin to Calliope's maids,
shook winter currents from their hair
to weave within them vernal braids.

I grabbed the first, who seemed the stronger
by her soft and dewy leg,
and swore blind eyes,
Lest I find I,
before Diana, a hunted stag.

But the nymphs they laughed,
and shook their heads.
and begged I drop beseeching hands.
For one was no goddess, the other no huntress,
merely two girls at play in the early day.

"Please come to us, with unblinded eyes,
and raise your ready lips.
We will wash your mouth with watery sighs,
weave you springtime with our fingertips."

So the nymphs they spoke,
we kissed and laid,
by noontime's hour,
our love was made,
Like braided chains of crocus stems,
We lay entwined, I laid with them,
Our breath, one glassy, tideless sea,
Our bodies draping wearily.
We slept, I slept so lucidly,
with hopes to stay this memory.

I woke in dusty afternoon,
Alone, the nymphs had left too soon,
I searched where perched upon my knees
Heard only larks' songs in the trees.

"Be you, the larks, my far-flung maids?
With lilac feet and branchlike braids...
Who sing sweet odes to my elation,
in your larking exaltation!"

With these, my clumsy, carefree words,
The birds they stirred and flew away,
"Be I, poor Actaeon," I cried, "Be dead�
Before they, like Hippodamia, be gone astray!"
Yet these words, too late, remained unheard,
By lark, that parting, morning bird.
I looked upon its parting flight,
and smelled the coming of the night;
desirous, I gazed upon its jaunt,
as Leander gazes Hellespont.

Now the hour was ripe and dark,
sensuous memories of sunlight past,
I stood alone in garden bowers
and asked the value of my hours.
Time was spent or time was tossed,
Life was loved and life was lost.
I kissed the flesh of tender girls,
I heard the songs of vernal birds.
I gazed upon the blushing light,
aware of day before the night.

So let me ask and hear a thought:
Did I live the spring I’d sought?
It's true in joy, I walked along,
took part in dance,
and sang the song.
and never tried to bind an hour
to my borrowed garden bower;
nor did I once entreat
a day to slumber at my feet.
Yet days aren't lulled by lyric song,
like morning birds they pass along,
o'er crests of trees, to none belong;
o'er crests of trees of drying dew,
their larking flight, my hands, eschew
Thus I'll say it once and true�

From all that I saw,
and everywhere I wandered,
I learned that time cannot be spent,
It only can be squandered.”
― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

“The hour of spring was dark at last,
sensuous memories of sunlight past,
I stood alone in garden bowers
and asked the value of my hours.
Time was spent or time was tossed,
Life was loved and life was lost.
I kissed the flesh of tender girls,
I heard the songs of vernal birds.
I gazed upon the blushing light,
aware of day before the night.

So let me ask and hear a thought:
Did I live the spring I’d sought?
It's true in joy, I walked along,
took part in dance,
and sang the song.
and never tried to bind an hour
to my borrowed garden bower;
nor did I once entreat
a day to slumber at my feet.

Yet days aren't lulled by lyric song,
like morning birds they pass along,
o'er crests of trees, to none belong;
o'er crests of trees of drying dew,
their larking flight, my hands, eschew
Thus I’ll say it once and true...

From all that I saw,
and everywhere I wandered,
I learned that time cannot be spent,
It only can be squandered.”
― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

“And if you don't live, you have nothing to write about.”
― Maynard James Keenan

“When the lyrical muse sings the creative pen dances.”
― Aberjhani, Splendid Literarium: A Treasury of Stories, Aphorisms, Poems, and Essays

“But faith betrays sometimes. Faith has fluidity.
Faith evolves like her machine-learning-models, self-correcting from previous experiences.”
― Misba, The High Auction

“Drink up my honey eyes,
Kiss them shut every night,
And be my 'one' all my life.”
― Crystal Woods, Write like no one is reading

“Zwei Seiten

Eines läßt sich nicht bestreiten:
Jede Sache hat zwei Seiten.
� Die der andern, das ist eine,
Und die richtige Seite, deine.”
― Mascha Kaléko, Hat alles seine zwei Schattenseiten

“Kusha doesn’t have High-Grades or voice or killing gazes. But she has a gift. Her prophetic-alarms. Most people name it the sixth-sense. Those occasional sensations that come without warning. And then, she finds herself knowing things she isn’t supposed to know.
Like now�
It happens again. A prophetic-alarm comes to her. And it comes with a scream in her head, as if hundreds of frozen needles have pierced her eyes and reached her brain, injecting information she’s never known before. Kusha calls it alarms. Not sixth-sense. Not even intuition. Intuition sounds High-Grade, something those evolved people may have. The book God-Particle-Or-Thought-Particle says: Intuition is the passing thoughts downloaded from the universe. Kusha isn’t confident enough to believe it can happen to her. No way could she download anything as an unevolved, untouchable, Low-Grade human.”
― Misba, The High Auction

“We tangle and merge. Love and let go. No one will ever know her like I do. I’ve touched every inch of skin. I’ve explored every part of her being. I love her shy when I pull her to my hips, my lap. I love her present uncertainty for things she knows how to do so fucking good. I love her pink flushed skin all over.”
― Pella Grace, Knock Love Out

“Knock the bullshit off. Love her like crazy, endlessly, stripped of reserve and preservation. Be out of our fucking minds with love, lust and longing. Belonging. Knock on the door of uncertainty and bounce in anticipation of not knowing what resides behind it. Love whatever comes our way because it’s part of us. Love every ugly word and beautiful sigh.”
― Pella Grace, Knock Love Out

“Mit machen Leuten

Mit machen Leuten lohnt es sich zu leben.
Mit andern wieder macht es keinen Spaß.
Auslauter Angst, sich etwas zu vergeben,
Vergibt sich dieser Sorte immer was.”
― Mascha Kaléko, Hat alles seine zwei Schattenseiten

“We sing lyrical excess, exacerbated expressionism, imponed objectivity,
inventiveness, meta-baroque, extravaganza, super metaphor, sublimity, strident, exposure, super-pone, noise, super-objectivity, zillionism, fragmentation and aesthetics of facts, suractivism.”
― Lepota L. Cosmo

“Tensurrealism creates actual and non-compromised reality, jamboree, fervor, fascination, poetics of an active enthusiasm, interludium, lyrical practice, active happiness.”
― Lepota L. Cosmo

“Whatever fear he’d instilled in people on the streets was of no consequence inside the market, packed with ramshackle stalls and vendors and food stands, smoke drifting throughout, the tang of blood and spark of magic acrid in his nostrils. And above it all, against the far wall of the enormous space, was a towering mosaic, the tiles taken from an ancient temple in Pangera, restored and re-created here in loving detail, despite its gruesome depiction: cloaked and hooded death, the skeleton’s face grinning out from the cowl, a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Above its head, words had been crafted in the Republic’s most ancient language:
Memento Mori.”
― Sarah J. Maas, House of Earth and Blood

“Laßt uns das klar uns sauber definieren:
Die einen - lieben
Die andern - »investieren«”
― Sascha Kaléko

“Altes Rezept

Nimm das Dasein als Bewährungsfrist ohne Klagen, ohne Fragen.
Schweigend steig hinauf die dunklen Treppen,
Weil es immerhin noch leichter ist,
sein Kreuz zu tragen, als es zu schleppen.”
― Mascha Kaléko, Hat alles seine zwei Schattenseiten

“Here it was, high and clear, still far off but unmistakable, the mocking hail which plucked the strings of a long silence; and pricking his ears he caught the sounds of that sly familiar progress, the rustle in the bushes, twigs snapping, hop skip and jump in the clearing, the reeds parting for an instance and the glimpse—sideways, never face to satyr face—of a horn’s tip, a furry ear, an eyeball gleaming, a derisive flick of the tail—vanished and the reeds resumed their shape. It was Luck. High time, too. Something had turned up.”
― Mary McMinnies, The flying fox: A novel set during the twilight of British rule in Malaya

“There she goes, an elderly, well-dressed woman in a tailor-made suit and a, what was it, “wornâ€� fur coat—a lady dressed, armoured for the day, vanishing now down the long ugly avenue, the black branches scratching her out of sight. There she goes, all day to impress others with her small linen handkerchiefs, the pearls in her ears, her hesitant manner, her tremulous smile,--while to him was left the imprint of her head, it was already cold where she had lain, and knowing what they would never know, that she wore a blue slip beneath the suitâ€�”
― Mary McMinnies, The flying fox: A novel set during the twilight of British rule in Malaya