In the Library
by Charles Simic
There’s a book called
“A Dictionary of Angels.”
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered
The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.
She’s very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.
All of these are in good condition, and some are good as new. They'll all be going on ebay within the next few days, but I thought I'd just my f-list first dibs. Postage isn't included in the prices, but depending on size/weight, will be about £1 - £2.
First come, first served.
( DRAMA )
( POETRY )
( CRITICAL )
( FICTION )
( NON-FICTION )
( An interesting article from Echidne Of The Snakes on attitudes towards female writers, followed by my ranting response: )
Bonus grossout material:
My University wants more female graduates with strong portfolios to be involved with the faculty as role-models. This can only be a good thing, in light of an incident during my first year when a male lecturer - one of the old guard, red-nosed in a tweed blazer - told the entire class that he liked to fantasise about the younger female students when he got bored. Oh, and he was tipsy at the time. Fabulous. We weren't academics - we were sexy laydees hanging cutely on his learned words, and oh-ho we thought we were being educated when in fact we were being eyefucked.
And he had the temerity to let us know.
Go to graze.com and enter this code - NR2ZTN8 - and you'll get your own free box delivered to your door. Free free free.
(Also, even if you choose not to order a box, just going there and putting in the code gets me £1 off. So...y'know. If you love me...)
The Devil would eat this cake after giving faux-birth to a wooden doll in a Whitechapel molly house full of petticoated sphyilitic sailors.
'Tis, to my knowledge, the only dessert officially endorsed by a genuine tattooed gothic fag hag: "I like the subtle taste of cake around this rum" - sistermorticia
( Without further ado... )
Serve with a glass of rum in a safe, secure environment free of pointy objects or bright lights.
I. won. so. hard.
The judge had already come to his decision before proceedings even began. The contempt oozed from his oozy pores of mighty judgement as Mrs Radish squeaked and squealed impotently from the dock like a wrinkly, meth-addicted chinchilla.
He pwned them, to use that awful word. He pwned them right up the fundament with a rolled up copy of The Housing Act 2004.
I am now £700 better off. Mr Radish will probably be chained to a radiator in Israel by his wife and never seen again. Next week, G has his hearing, but the judge basically told them they're doomed in every possible direction. If they're sensible, they'll just write another cheque.
This, my friends, is karma in action.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to overindulge in gin and whores on the common.
It's probably because the Moxie boy looks like a 1920s twink.
Admittedly, I have no idea what Moxie is. Please, enlighten me - is it a bodily fluid? Is Moxie secreted from the mox glands of buck deer in spring, perhaps?
(I'm having such fun finishing this essay, can you tell?)
Scoliosis runs in my family, but I dodged that particular bullet. Still, this looks like a more enjoyable treatment than the horrifyingly invasive metal-rods-inserted-into-the-spine job my aunt had to go through in the seventies.
More of the same gorgeous Victorian quackery over on darkvictoria.
"I partially undressed and seated myself on a couch by the side of Madame B, who passed her arm round my neck and held me steadily..."