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czwartek, sierpnia 27, 2009
o smoku - wiersz
o smoku
O smoku !
miałem coś napisac ku czci Twojej
ale brakło mi polotu nagle
i nie wiem , co gorzej
czy ten temat aktualny
O smoku !
miałem coś napisac ku czci Twojej
ale brakło mi polotu nagle
i nie wiem , co gorzej
czy ten temat aktualny
niedziela, sierpnia 23, 2009
czwartek, sierpnia 20, 2009
la passion a la drow
How did I find you? Why ask?
May it be the the gorgeous crimson,
may it be at whim or else;
Why then ask? I never cared to know -
never did you claim this knowledge to possess.
Under the sky of rock and basalt,
the darkest toys of the Underdark,
through your bulging blood,
boiling hot, jutting mad,
will I get, my dearest, what I crave best -
place I fear or not even dare to name,
caressing demons may be just a play,
no match for passion we are about to share.
Just leave your spells aside,
throw your robes and rings away;
spreading love is a risky game
and squandering precious moments now
gives me creeps all way down.
Like streams of no hope and no return,
will desire be in high tide and come,
with blood – the deadliest foe of all,
will I thump like wild against your chest,
stealing lovliest breath, looting lips for kiss,
in eternal orgy of defensless flesh,
groping skin for more, hushing fire with fire,
gushing more and more, till sweat and speed,
have no place to hide, and nowhere to fleet;
feel the lava burning stormy in your veins -
seeing sparkling sight, and arms as black as night
of the world above, unconscious, lost for life,
breathless breath, sunk like trapped within mine.
There is no pleasure that compares to passion,
quite as fast as that squeeze and rush,
bursting out cries and pleas,
as momentum gathers, and suddenly strikes.
Whenever my senses stirr
and my motions blurr,
await thunder like jugement which comes,
and must fade away along with yours.
Guess my precious wizard then?-
Are there spells of stronger power?
May you like to play once more?
Or maybe reharse, just for joy?
Why did I do that? How to know, dearest?
There are things one makes for gain
and other just just for lust;
never try to find it out,
either answer might by fine enough,
or even not...
May it be the the gorgeous crimson,
may it be at whim or else;
Why then ask? I never cared to know -
never did you claim this knowledge to possess.
Under the sky of rock and basalt,
the darkest toys of the Underdark,
through your bulging blood,
boiling hot, jutting mad,
will I get, my dearest, what I crave best -
place I fear or not even dare to name,
caressing demons may be just a play,
no match for passion we are about to share.
Just leave your spells aside,
throw your robes and rings away;
spreading love is a risky game
and squandering precious moments now
gives me creeps all way down.
Like streams of no hope and no return,
will desire be in high tide and come,
with blood – the deadliest foe of all,
will I thump like wild against your chest,
stealing lovliest breath, looting lips for kiss,
in eternal orgy of defensless flesh,
groping skin for more, hushing fire with fire,
gushing more and more, till sweat and speed,
have no place to hide, and nowhere to fleet;
feel the lava burning stormy in your veins -
seeing sparkling sight, and arms as black as night
of the world above, unconscious, lost for life,
breathless breath, sunk like trapped within mine.
There is no pleasure that compares to passion,
quite as fast as that squeeze and rush,
bursting out cries and pleas,
as momentum gathers, and suddenly strikes.
Whenever my senses stirr
and my motions blurr,
await thunder like jugement which comes,
and must fade away along with yours.
Guess my precious wizard then?-
Are there spells of stronger power?
May you like to play once more?
Or maybe reharse, just for joy?
Why did I do that? How to know, dearest?
There are things one makes for gain
and other just just for lust;
never try to find it out,
either answer might by fine enough,
or even not...
poniedziałek, sierpnia 10, 2009
Tallulah Bankhead Quote Quotation citation about Diaries
It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time. ~ Tallulah Bankhead
sobota, sierpnia 08, 2009
Bette Davis Joan Crawford Quotation
The best time I ever had with Joan Crawford was when I pushed her down the stairs in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? ~ Bette Davis
czwartek, sierpnia 06, 2009
Bombing of Hiroshima Bomb Iroshima Hiroszima Nagasaki bomba atomowa
We do it all to ourselves ....we create pain ...we invent tears....we do death ...we are infernal gods.... ATTENTION ! These videos are shockocking and not suitable for sensitive persons.
We do it all to ourselves ....we create pain ...we invent tears....we do death ...we are infernal gods....
We do it all to ourselves ....we create pain ...we invent tears....we do death ...we are infernal gods....
Hiroshima Hiroszima Bomb dropped on August 1945
I hate sad posts (if any such word could be used in that case) but having watched the tv programme once more, I just must commemorate that day somehow.
The Raven Edgar Allan Poe Poem - absolutely Great
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you", here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never - nevermore."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee,
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore,
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you", here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never - nevermore."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee,
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore,
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe
środa, sierpnia 05, 2009
Marlene Dietrich quote : I love Quotations
I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.
MARLENE DIETRICH
MARLENE DIETRICH
Gdy Cię kocha ktoś, kogo ty nie kochasz miłość nieodwzajemniona
Kochać, to jedno szczęście. Kochać i być kochanym to dwa szczęścia; być kochanym przez osobę, której się nie kocha to trzy nieszczęścia.
wtorek, sierpnia 04, 2009
Michael Jackson Good bye ! Memorial Postcard animals monkey singer pop
Just to commemorate some part in our history. I have never been a great fan of his but with his death one chapter was closed and I hate this feeling. I picked one postcard from my humble collection, that I belive should leave Michael remembered the way we would like to. Sleep soundly, Michael.
The Sexiest voice Najseksowniejszy męski głos Lion King Jeremy Irons
Jeremy Irons is nomber one when it comes to the voice matters. I could listen to his voice for hours. Every single movie is great, as long as he has the leading role. He is top of tops.
Gdzie jest ten raj? Poszukiwania raju.
Mieszkamy w raju; ale ponieważ na tej ziemi mieszkają także inni ludzie, nie zdajemy sobie z tego sprawy.
Silvio Berlusconi Sex Joke in the public Italian Prime Minister' gag
It is great and funny video. I love his gags ;)))). If I saw this on the street performed by some unknown lad, I would turn away thinking he was just stupid or insane. But Silvio can gat away with that; when it comes to me at least. His easy manners make Italians go bananas however.
poniedziałek, sierpnia 03, 2009
dlaczego TYLKO ON ? Alchemia duszy tajemnica miłości
Co sprawia, że tak bardzo pragniemy tej jednej jedynej osoby - by czuć ją wplecioną w nas samych, czuc jej skórę i oddech i głaskać jej skórę przyklejoną do naszej; czy ktoś inny by nie wystarczył ? - inne ciało, inna skóra, inny oddech - lecz równie gorące, z bijącym sercem i płynącą krwią - ciało być może piękniejsze, oczy bardziej błękitne; o nie!
Tylko te myśli, które podziwiam chcę czuć wciśnięte w siebie, tylko te uczucia, furie, uniesienia, które znam i są mi bliskie w sposób magiczny . Tak
bliskie, żę je czuję w sobie biologicznie i biologicznie pragnę dotykac, widziec, słyszec, przeżywać, doświadczać. Mieć przy sobie osobę,
nie znaczy stac obok ciała lecz wielbić to co nosi w sobie i tulic do siebie to czego dotknąć nie można, czego nie zastąpi inny oddech i nie powieli inny umysł. Tylko tamto serce i tamten oddech, te jedyne i żadne inne.
To jest alchemia duszy; wszystko inne się nie liczy.
Tylko te myśli, które podziwiam chcę czuć wciśnięte w siebie, tylko te uczucia, furie, uniesienia, które znam i są mi bliskie w sposób magiczny . Tak
bliskie, żę je czuję w sobie biologicznie i biologicznie pragnę dotykac, widziec, słyszec, przeżywać, doświadczać. Mieć przy sobie osobę,
nie znaczy stac obok ciała lecz wielbić to co nosi w sobie i tulic do siebie to czego dotknąć nie można, czego nie zastąpi inny oddech i nie powieli inny umysł. Tylko tamto serce i tamten oddech, te jedyne i żadne inne.
To jest alchemia duszy; wszystko inne się nie liczy.
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