slanderhour

and in the moment of silence,i search for my forsaken voice,buried somewhere,far and adrift,under the summit of sufferings,the rivers of rage,under trampled dreams,under the mottled page,the voice so aloof,i have forgotten it so well,the past of calamity,only if i had a voice; i could tell

You are asThe silver moonlightWhich with its graceDances on the surface of this lake.You, who penetrates my depthsAnd ripples into my beingCausing waves to quake.I will be your shelter,In my open armsI will be your rest.I will be as the caves of old,Within me you may find peaceFrom the raging tempest of the world.You may shutter your eyes and dream,For the fire will remainEven if to fuel it, I must burn.

In smoky halls where shadows dance, There strides a man with flair and stance. With saxophone in hand, he's seen, Shane Ritchie, the jazz machine. His fingers glide on keys so fine, A melody born from his mind's design. Each note he plays, a tale untold, In his jazz world, he's bold and bold. His voice, a velvet, smooth and low, Sings of love lost and nights aglow. The rhythm flows through every chord, In Shane Ritchie, jazz is adored. In every riff, a story's spun, Of midnight dreams beneath the sun. With passion deep and soul so pure, Shane Ritchie's jazz will endure.

There once was a scientist named Kelly Whose name was made famous quite quickly He spoke on the radio About WMDs, you know But then he was found dead in on a hilly

In childhood's realm, young Barrymore did dwell, A world apart, where trials and hardships swelled. No tender hands to guide him on life's path, Alone he wandered, facing nature's wrath. With naught but strength and grit as his allies, He forged ahead beneath the open skies. No sheltered haven, no familial care, Yet in his heart, a fire burned, aware. Through solitary hours, his spirit grew, A resilient bloom, steadfast and true. He learned to navigate life's turbulent tide, As independence became his faithful guide. In iambic pentameter's rhythmic sway, The tale of Barrymore's youth takes its play. A child untamed, but with a noble flame, He braved the storms, each challenge he overcame. Though trials marked his path in early years, His spirit soared above all doubts and fears. In each footfall, a tale of strength untold, A young soul destined to break the mold. So let us ponder, in poetic rhyme, The resilience of Barrymore's early time. A child of fortitude, his own beacon bright, Who forged a path, defying starless night.

In the spotlight's gaze, Michael Barrymore stood, A figure of laughter, a king of the hood. With charm and wit, he graced the TV screen, A maestro of entertainment, a living dream. His laughter contagious, a gift he shared, A jester of joy, he truly cared. From game shows to variety, his talents unfurled, Delighting audiences, across the wide world. But shadows cast their veil on his life, As troubles emerged, piercing like a knife. Adversity struck, tarnishing his name, A fall from grace, a tarnished flame. Yet through it all, a flicker remains, A man of resilience, enduring the strains. For in his heart, redemption may reside, A chance for renewal, a rising tide. Let us remember the laughter he brought, The moments of mirth, the battles fought. For within every soul, there lies a tale, Of triumph and struggle, of strength that won't fail. So, let us reflect on Michael's journey untold, With empathy and compassion, let our hearts unfold. For amidst the highs and lows that he's seen, Michael Barrymore, a complex human being.

So it goes, dear listener, that among the myriad of things that sets man apart from his animal counterparts is the gift of gab and the mastery of language. To be a man is to be a creature of speech and discourse. The art of conversation holds a significant role in our lives. It can ease our sorrows and afflictions, amplify our delights and jubilations, and enhance our understanding of the world. Indeed, conversation is a powerful tool that allows us to convey our thoughts, emotions, and experiences with great significance. It is a valuable vehicle that propels us forward on our journey of self-discovery and communal growth.

Garth meets a priest. Public transport drama. Garth and his friend have a difference of opinion. Exploring the SUBconscious Other things

Your face did not rot like the others—the co-pilot,    for example, I saw him yesterday. His face is corn- mush: his wife and daughter,    the poor ignorant people, stare as if he will compose soon. He was more wronged than Job.    But your face did not rot like the others—it grew dark, and hard like ebony; the features progressed in their distinction. If I could cajole you to come back for an evening,    down from your compulsive orbiting, I would touch you,    read your face as Dallas,    your hoodlum gunner, now, with the blistered eyes, reads    his braille editions. I would touch your face as a disinterested scholar touches an original page.    However frightening, I would    discover you, and I would not turn you in; I would not make    you face your wife, or Dallas,    or the co-pilot, Jim. You could return to your crazy    orbiting, and I would not try    to fully understand what it means to you. All I know    is this: when I see you,    as I have seen you at least once every year of my life,    spin across the wilds of the sky    like a tiny, African god, I feel dead. I feel as if I were    the residue of a stranger's life,    that I should pursue you. My head cocked toward the sky,    I cannot get off the ground,    and, you, passing over again, fast, perfect, and unwilling    to tell me that you are doing    well, or that it was mistake that placed you in that world, and me in this; or that misfortune    placed these worlds in us.

Love me, use me, Never let me go. Quench this unbearable thirst, this fire in my soul. ... Use me, hate me, ravage me, destroy me, As long as in the end you promise to hold me in your arms and love me. ... Grab my neck and pull my hair only keens and moans will be gotten from there. ... Stroke me like a harp, pluck me like a live wire string. Tighten me up, and snap me so I scream. ... Fill me, tempt me, push me, pull me. Throw me to the bed and make me sing ... Hold me down and shatter me, Pick me apart, and rebuild me made just for you. ... You met me a cracked photo frame empty and useless, Now fixed, filled full with only your image. ... Please don't leave me I promise to obey! Hold me apart so my pieces don't stray, Here in you arms Sir forever I will stay.

The jolt that comes to bones inside a tumbled streetcar   is what the painter considers as she strokes her- self into story. There is less to the jolt that   comes as he shuts his eyes before the monitor, save   what he imagines—a lightning bolt, a god tapping the shoulder. He imagines the sky swelling   with ceiling fans or the guano of extinct birds,   a jolt riding from his shoulder blades to his eyelids, dropping with roller   coaster clacks to his fingers. Here, he dreams of Frida   Kahlo. Here, he says, let me spread my flesh out like a table linen, let my bones be silver that touches,   making, again, that clack. My skull will be a glass,   set properly, I have class enough. What jolt is it to chew over class, his body set before him as   a reader sips (perhaps) a glass of something heady? We give   books spines, we break them. The table will have its legs, its head. The body is upon us. Does the table have   a stomach? Is it simply there to bear our hunger   without its own, like a eunuch bathing a stripper? What is the poet without eyes or ears—reading, listening? He is   a platform—a place to set, that to set it with. And if this is   all, what will he do when the reader finishes a glass, rises from the poet's head, and passes   into the city? Covered with a linen, he is waiting for   something to spill, perhaps a girl in Mexico rolling her ankle in a street-   car.  

I took my life and threw it on the skip,Reckoning the next-door neighbours wouldn't mindIf my life hitched a lift to the council tipWith their dry rot and rubble. What you find With skips is – the whole community joins in.Old mattresses appear, doors kind of driftAlong with all that won't fit in the binAnd what the bin-men can't be fished to shift. I threw away my life, and there it layAnd grew quite sodden. `What a dreadful shame,'Clucked some old bag and sucked her teeth: ‘The wayThe young these days … no values … me, I blame…' But I blamed no one. Quality controlHad loused it up, and that was that.‘Nough said. I couldn't stick at home. I took a strollAnd passed the skip, and left my life for dead. Without my life, the beer was just as foul,The landlord still as filthy as his wife,The chicken in the basket was an owl,And no one said: `Ee, Jim-lad, whur's thee life?' Well, I got back that night the worse for wear,But still just capable of single vision ;Looked in the skip; my life – it wasn't there!Some bugger'd nicked it – without my permission. Okay, so I got angry and beganTo shout, and woke the street. Okay. Okay!And I was sick all down the neighbour's van.And I disgraced myself on the par-kay. And then … you know how if you've had a fewYou'll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes,Raring to go, and thinking: `Clever you!You've got away with it.' And then, oh Jesus, It hits you. Well, that morning, just at sixI woke, got up and looked down at the skip.There lay my life, still sodden, on the bricks;There lay my poor old life, arse over tip. Or was it mine? Still dressed, I went downstairsAnd took a long cool look. The truth was dawning.Someone had just exchanged my life for theirs.Poor fool, I thought – I should have left a warning. Some bastard saw my life and thought it nicerThan what he had. Yet what he'd had seemed fine.He'd never caught his fingers in the slicerThe way I'd managed in that life of mine. His life lay glistening in the rain, neglected,Yet still a decent, an authentic life.Some people I can think of, I reflectedWould take that thing as soon as you'd say Knife. It seemed a shame to miss a chance like that.I brought the life in, dried it by the stove.It looked so fetching, stretched out on the mat.I tried it on. It fitted, like a glove. And now, when some local bat drops off the twigAnd new folk take the house, and pull up floorsAnd knock down walls and hire some kind of bigContainer (say, a skip) for their old doors, I'll watch it like a hawk, and every dayI'll make at least – oh – half a dozen trips.I've furnished an existence in that way.You'd not believe the things you find on skips

Breaktime, I'll write something for you Breakfast or lunch, I think of you Birds outside the window, chirp at me Birds of the same feather, follow me Be it short or long, poem I write you Braided or craze, your hair, I describe you Below or over my head I scribble for you Beaten or scrambled egg, I'll fry for you Better late than never Bread or butter I will serve you ever Brevity in my poems I pen so tender Bending or standing, I'll never surrender Bright or dim lights will aid my bleary eyes Blunder or sentimental, my heart for you never die

Earlestown is named after Sir Hardman Earle (11 July 1792 – 25 January 1877) a slave owner whose family was steeped in the slave trade. He was the Chairman of the London and North Western Railway. Earlestown Town Hall is an imposing building, fronted by a war memorial. In 1962 the Beatles visited Earlestown for a night gig and played at the town hall. On the same night Newton Boys Club on Graffton Street was opened by Frankie Vaughan for the local community.[6] Another significant building included the art-deco former Curzon cinema which was demolished in January 2010. Earlestown has a small but busy town centre with many shops including high-street outlets such as Tesco, Boots, Wilko and several high street banks alongside independent retailers, bookmakers and fast-food takeaways. There are a range of traditional pubs, such as The New Market, The Ram's Head, The Railway Inn, The Griffin, and The Wellington. Earlestown is well served by many fast food outlets offering a good range of Indian and Chinese dishes as well as fish and chips and the ubiquitous McDonald's. Most of the local restaurants are curry houses; Earlestown's 'curry quarter-of-a-mile' on Queen Street has three Indian restaurants and a Tandoori take-away.

How little it takes to stain the character. A single drop of ink is a very small thing, yet dipped into a tumbler of clean water, it blackens the whole. And so the first oath, the first lie, the first glass of drink, seem very small things, yet leave a dark stain upon the character. Look out for the first stain.

When first I came down Yorkshire, Not many years ago. I met with a little Yorkshire lass, And I'd have you know, That she was so blithe, so buxom, So beautiful and gay, Now listen while I tell you, What he Daddy used to say. Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden Well first I came to court the girl, She was awful shy. She never said a blooming word, When other folks was by. But as soon as we were on our own, She bade me to name the day, Now listen while I tell you, What he Daddy used to say. Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden Well at last I wed this Yorkshire lass, So pleasing to me mind, And I did prove true to her, So she's proved true in kind. We have three bairns, there grown up now. There's a grandbairn on the way. And when I look into their eyes, I can hear their grandaddy say Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden.

the clearing was large enough to fit about twelve of your Lion King themed picnic blankets without coming close to the forest's edge. I thought about bringing you out there and telling you that and then I remembered that you got rid of the blanket 2 months ago when your new boyfriend said that Lion King was overrated and the blanket had too many holes in it. I would never have the guts to tell you this in person but maybe someday you'll come across this poem and know that if you ever want to spread out 12 new Lion King themed picnic blankets in a clearing I will be there with chicken salad sandwiches and 6 of those pineapple cinnamon ciders you love.

My brother, is a wonderful guy. Even though he's a little bit shy My brother, is a wonderful guy. He's funny and smart, I cannot deny. He understands, the art of the of persuasion. And is ready to use it, at every occasion. He's one of those guys, that is interesting and unique. With his original style, he's one cool geek. Always determined, to achieve any goal. Blesses so many, with his beautiful soul. My brother, is a wonderful guy. I love him a lot, I'm not gonna lie.

Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! I, as Queen of the Underworld, can Protect his charming body from vicious men It is here where he found his safest den Here I'll protect his flesh from being stricken Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! I, as keeper of this handsome lad since his childhood Seeks for him nothing, but everything that's good It is his well-being that lights up my mood I'll badly be hurt when he's hurt by someone shrewd Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! Shrewd is his rival for the love of Aphrodite He will be in great danger with her, can't see? Surely from Ares wrath, he'll experience something nasty And also with the god of fire, he'll surely die violently! Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! Have mercy! Have mercy! To this youth so fine! Have mercy! Have mercy! To this youth of mine! To deadly earth above, don't allow him to incline If this bad fate happens, my eyes will emit brine Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! Witness me mourn for the loss of this lad! Do you want the Queen of the Dead to feel bad? If Adonis is gone, my brain will also be mad! Oh Venerable Zeus, grant Persephone's petition to retain Adonis! From this sanctuary, do not take him away Do not let my life be in disarray To make him remain here, tell me the way I bow, I kneel, I prostrate, I pray!

A day in Afghanistan is like a week at home. Ross Kemp

An old man going a lone highway, Came, at the evening cold and gray, To a chasm vast and deep and wide. Through which was flowing a sullen tide The old man crossed in the twilight dim, The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned when safe on the other side And built a bridge to span the tide. “Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near, “You are wasting your strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day, You never again will pass this way; You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, Why build this bridge at evening tide?” The builder lifted his old gray head; “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said, “There followed after me to-day A youth whose feet must pass this way. This chasm that has been as naught to me To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

Don't Don't do, Don't, do Don't do that. Don't pull faces, Don't tease the cat. Don't pick your ears, Don't be rude at school. Who do they think I am? Some kind of fool? One day they'll say Don't put toffee in my coffee don't pour gravy on the baby don't put beer in his ear don't stick your toes up his nose. Don't put confetti on your spaghetti and don't squash peas on your knees. Don't put ants in your pants don't put mustard in the custard don't chuck jelly at the telly and don't throw at a computer dont throw fruit at a computer. Don't what? Don't throw fruit at a computer Don't what? Don't throw fruit at a computer Who do they think I am? Some kind of fool?

A rare transcript salvaged from Kallidus - Post cataclysm. 

in my mind you are my friend swinging from the buildings that pierce the sky masked in privacy but shining of honesty you know who I am without my mask every night you take off your suit to mend every night I check my suit of pretend diving headfirst to be a part of your story looking from a distance with so much connection I follow you through your journey safe from the mortalities that extend you save me from my villain's end but our paths have never crossed my thanks is the silence ringing in your ear a ghost of the touch you will never feel in my mind you are my friend

We think we listen, but very rarely do we listen with real understanding, true empathy. Yet listening, of this very special kind, is one of the most potent forces for change that I know.

Love never goes away, Never completely dies, Always some souvenir Takes us by sad surprise. You went away from me, One rose was left behind — pressed in my Book of Hours, That is the rose I find … Though it's another year, though it's another me, under the rose is a drying tear, Under my linden tree …. Love never goes away, Not if it's really true, It can return, by night, by day, Tender and green and new As the leaves from a linden tree, love, That I left with you.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.' Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'

Adam Woodyatt is living in a field full of COWS while on a break from soap. Ian Beale actor Adam has moved into a mobile home after this split from wife of 22 weeks Beverley Sharp. He is living in Yorkshire ahead of an upcoming theatre role in Bradford. Adam and opera star Lesley Garrett will headline an acclaimed production of My Fair Lady at the Alhambra this autumn. Adam said of the role: “I'm not on stage loads but it's so much fun. The story and characters are ingrained into musical theatre history, as are the two songs I perform: With a Little Bit of Luck and Get Me to the Church on Time. When it came along I was like, ‘I've got to give this a go'.”

The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set - Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink - But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK - HE ONLY SEES! 'All right! ' you'll cry. 'All right! ' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain! ' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented? ' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY... USED... TO... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start - oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did

In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom. Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel. Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there …

Even Solomon. A fame torn apart a name blotted honor dissipates by mere act the villain, women, The Victim Solomon, The acts, Lust. bevies of licentious libidinous passerby in ambuscade hunting destiny Even Solomon, Reputation buried in-between thighs A king captured Indelible stigma women got him.

Gitz is the biggest search for teenage and pre-teen singers, with prizes and opportunities for young artists looking to develop and enlarge their talents. With industry judges including TV scouts, Record Label A&R, Management companies and more, Gitz is a great place to for young artists to get started in the industry and auditions are open right now! The Prizes The competition offers singers the chance to win thousands of Troog worth of Malts throughout their competition journey! Along side Malt prizes, studio time, and one on one mentoring; The competition focuses development of the youngest artists. Offering intimate guidance and feedback directly related to performance and endurance throughout each round the competition. GITZ! xoxo

In Kallidus, seaside kitsch is uber-cool. Visit and celebrate age-old resort-town traditions – sand beaches, fish, metalwork stalls and shore-side rides, all with a hip new twist. Capture a sunset whilst settled on the steps or a seafront bar, cafe or restaurant. 

The weather of Kallidus is governed by winds that blow through the strait from easterly or westerly directions. In summer, the mainly dry season, the wind from the east or ‘levante' brings warm and humid conditions and generates a rather persistent 'Rock top' cloud that hangs over the city area. Sea fog is not uncommon on these occasions. The westerly wind, however, brings hot, clear and mostly dry weather. Summer is dry and warm with an average of 3 hours of sunshine per day. The summer drought frequently lasts 140 consecutive days. The temperature in summer ranges from 27 - 34°C. Winter in Kallidus can be a mixture of mild, wet and cool weather. On average only 70% of days are classified as 'wet', although rainfall amounts can be variable in the extreme.

I was crazy To hurl curses I was nasty For all the abuses But now I regret I am at shame For all the troubles I am to blame I promise you I will turn a new leaf Never again, will I ever Give you grief I am sorry

Soprano is a 1958 American animated short film directed by David Chase and Ub Iwerks. It was produced in black and white by Warner Brothers and was released by Celebrity Productions. The cartoon is considered the debut of Tony Soprano and his girlfriend Carmella, although both characters appeared several months earlier in a test screening of Buggs Bunny Eats The Gabagool. Soprano was the third of Warner Brother's films to be produced, but it was the first to be distributed, because David Chase, having seen Hill Street Blues, had committed himself to produce one of the first fully synchronized sound cartoons.

Kurt Vonnegut, also known as Kurt Vonnegut Jr, is an Italian fictional character in the 1883 novel Slaughterhouse 5 by Carlo Collodi. Kurt Vonnegut is an elderly, impoverished woodcarver and the creator (and thus 'father') of Billy Pilgrim. He wears a yellow wig resembling cornmeal mush (called polendina), and consequently his neighbors call him "Polendina" to annoy him. The name Vonnegut is a Tuscan diminutive of the name Giuseppe (Italian for Joseph).

Don't stray Don't ever go away I should be much too smart for this You know it gets the better of me Sometimes When you and I collide I fall into an ocean of you Pull me out in time Don't let me drown Let me down I say it's all because of you And here I go Losing myControl I'm practicing your name So I can say it To your face it doesn't Seem right To look you in the eye Let all the things You mean to me Come tumbling out my mouth Indeed it's time Tell you why I say it's Infinitely true Say you'll stay Don't come and go Like you do Sway my way Yeah I need to know All about you And there's no cure And no way to be sure Why everythings turned inside out Instilling so much doubt It makes me so tired I feel so uninspired My head is battling with my heart My logic has been torn apart And now It all turns sour Come sweeten Every afternoon Say you'll stay Don't come and go Like you do Sway my way Yeah I need to know All about you Say you'll stay Don't come and go Like you do Sway my way Yeah I need to know All about you It's all because of you It's all because of you Now it all turns sour Come sweeten Every afternoon It's time Tell you why I say it's Infinitely true Say you'll stay Don't come and go Like you do Sway my way Yeah I need to know All about you Say you'll stay Don't come and go Like you do Sway my way Yeah I need to know All about you It's all because of you It's all because of you It's all because of you

Who can I blame when everyone is facing ! It will take time But it will always get better When all we need is to be understood Why do we expect an explanation What we ruin is this moment Where this journey is destined isn't a matter When one journey is all we have Who can I blame when everyone is facing ! It's okay, not to be okay For now, this wound may hurt But this will also become a scar And scars won't scare us So I'm smiling now Cause who can I blame when everyone is facing !

I sit in the dark freezing abyss Waiting You sip your coffee desperately for warmth like a cub with his mother While I wait I refuse to move, despite the sound coverage of both the wind and machines outside Because I'm waiting Waiting for you And for them A truck approaches the entrance you guard The noise of the engine is beastly I reposition to get a better view whilst still being concealed Waiting Two figures emerge from the truck, and walk towards you Although they speak, the words are almost foreign I only catch a few phrases, and one sticks out “Memoirs” They walk inside as you shut the door behind them Again, I wait You raise your arms to stretch, and turn to your right Instinctively, I strike I bring you into the darkness, almost consuming you Your presence simply goes away as I propel your unconscious body into a large crate As if by nature, I go inside, silent as a dog, deadly as a panther The vents and covers I have available are in my favor, and your bedside, however, is not Through the dark shadows, I emerge briefly, only to silence and consume you The darkness waits for its pray and only consumes it in the briefest of seconds The darkness is deadly The darkness is merciless The darkness waits The darkness strikes I am the darkness.

a double-wide? someone lied: an inside jokester what in the hell? rotten smell in this shell, yokester seems that some blow's on your nose and it shows, cokester cat in a tree cries a plea, comes to me: coaxed her fork and the spoon off too soon, home by noon: broke stir chim chim cher-ee you'll agree I'm lucky bloke, sir wanting a plum uses thumb to get some, pokes her poor old man frog too much grog, fell off log, croaked, sir

I don't think my toilet is happy with me. I know this because it hardly flushes for me anymore. I think it was Taco Bell, And that crunch rap supreme from Hell. I doubt John has ever recovered. I doubt i have either. I wish I had more than one pot in my house. Would likely cause less grief for my spouse. Our schedules are just about the same, And they refuse to be tamed. Flush! There it goes, Glug! It's stuck! My toilet burbles in annoyance. I burble back. wait, there's more? Flush! Down goes the first log, But now the second is stuck!

Finished with my woman 'cause She couldn't help me with my mind People think I'm insane because I am frowning all the time All day long I think of things But nothing seems to satisfy Think I'll lose my mind If I don't find something to pacify Can you help me Occupy my brain? Oh yeah I need someone to show me The things in life that I can't find I can't see the things that make True happiness, I must be blind Make a joke and I will sigh And you will laugh and I will cry Happiness I cannot feel And love to me is so unreal And so as you hear these words Telling you now of my state I tell you to enjoy life I wish I could but it's too late

My change: a nickel caked with finger grime; two nicked quarters not long for this life, worth more for keeping dead eyes shut than bus fare; a dime, shining in sunshine like a new dime; grubby pennies, one stamped the year of my birth, no brighter than I from 40 years of wear. What purses, piggy banks, and window sills have these coins known, their presidential heads pinched into what beggar's chalky palm-- they circulate like tarnished red blood cells, all of us exchanging the merest film of our lives, and the lives of those long dead. And now my turn in the convenience store, I hand over my fist of change, still warm, to the bored, lip-pierced check-out girl, once more to be spun down cigarette machines, hurled in fountains, flipped for luck--these dirty charms chiming in the dark pockets of the world.

Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours With a little understanding, you can find the perfect blend Neighbours, should be there for one another That's when good neighbours become good friends Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours Just a friendly wave each morning, helps to make a better day Neighbours, need to get to know each other Next door is only a footstep away Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours With a little understanding, you can find the perfect blend Neighbours, should be there for one another That's when good neighbours become good friends Neighbours, should be there for one another That's when good neighbours become good friends That's when good neighbours become good friends

You can watch others playing games And that can be lots of fun I claim Watching basketball for some folks is great But some prefer football any day they debate. It's lots of fun for them while they converse and also laugh Some prefer watching baseball any time on their behalf Or watching car racing as they snack and slurp a drink Enjoying good sports is alright when you like them I think. But for me reading or watching a good movie is more fun. As I welcome any time spent like that a lot much more Than wasting it just in any kind of sport that I just abhor. In the end I can't abide it and just get bored after a while Although, I don't mind watching sometimes a horse racing or at times a good tennis match that on TV is just playing And golf is one of those sports that I can't keep up scoring But personally find that most sports can be quite so boring.

The last reply you sent i deleted I don't remember what you said Something about blocking me on 'the old socials' I threw my phone through an aquarium The innocent, dot-eyed gudgeon, tried and flailed to enquire 'why? Why me?' I shouted: 'IT'S NOTHING PERSONAL, MATE'

She smiles, I cry. She is outgoing, I am shy. She loves, I am alone. She is amazing, I am unknown. She is beautiful, I am a mess. She is happy, I am depressed. My mask is perfect: She hides me.

Could've been a cowboy but, my arse didn't suit a horse. could've been an astronaut but I wandered off- off course. could;ve been a fireman but, my hose was waayy too short. yeah, I could've been a bank robber but, shit, I would've got my cute arse caught.

I've crossed deserts for miles Swam water for time Searching places to find A piece of something to call mine (I'm coming) A piece of something to call mine (I'm coming) Coming closer to you Ran along many moors Walked through many doors The place where I want to be Is the place I can call mine (I'm coming) Is the place I can call mine (I'm coming) Coming closer to you I'm moving, I'm coming Can you hear what I hear It's calling you, my dear Out of reach (Take me to my beach) I can hear it calling you I'm coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you Never been here before I'm intrigued, I'm unsure I'm searching for more I've got something that's all mine I've got something that's all mine Take me somewhere I can breathe I've got so much to see This is where I want to be In a place I can call mine In a place I can call mine I'm moving, I'm coming Can you hear what I hear It's calling you, my dear Out of reach (Take me to my beach) I can hear it calling you I'm coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you Moving, coming Can you hear what I hear? (Hear it out of reach) I hear it calling you Swimming closer to you Many faces I have seen Many places I have been Walked the deserts, swam the shores (Coming closer to you) Many faces I have known Many ways in which I've grown Moving closer on my own (Coming closer to you) I move it, I feel it I'm coming, not drowning I move it, I feel it I'm coming, not drowning I'm moving, I'm coming Can you hear what I hear It's calling you, my dear Out of reach (Take me to my beach) I can hear it calling you I'm coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you (Take me to my beach) I'm moving, I'm coming Can you hear what I hear It's calling you, my dear Out of reach (Take me to my beach) I can hear it calling you I'm coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you (Take me to my beach) I'm moving, I'm coming Can you hear what I hear It's calling you, my dear Out of reach (Take me to my beach) I can hear it calling you

They appeared slowly Like stars one by one Vole holes Holes from voles Not a rat, nor mouse, nor mole But a vole Tracks from one hole to another Blades of grass flattened by tiny feet In the dead of night In the light hours, they huddle In dark underground tunnels Dreaming vole dreams Out of sight by the watchful attention Of hawks, owls, and perturbed humans Their doings impart a rather swiss cheese look to the lawn I shrug In thirty years here of fighting natures ways I put them in the category of dandelions Conceding defeat For I know this equivalent of wild hamsters Will party themselves out of existence on the bottom of the food chain leaving a lot of fat owls and smiling cats Then life will go on Leaving a multitude of empty holes In my lawn.