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Have you seen the little piggies
Crawling in the dirt
And for all the little piggies
Life is getting worse
Always having dirt to play around in.Have you seen the bigger piggies
In their starched white shirts
You will find the bigger piggies
Stirring up the dirt
Always have clean shirts to play around in.In their styes with all their backing
They don’t care what goes on around
In their eyes there’s something lacking
What they need’s a damn good whacking.Everywhere there’s lots of piggies
Living piggy lives
You can see them out for dinner
With their piggy wives
Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon.Drip drip, the tap in my head leaks,
numerous thoughts that just wont cease.
If only it was a case of changing the washer
or tightening up a loose screw.Like any unattended leaky tap
it affects my sleep to the point
where night has replaced day,
and my windows to the soul
resemble bin liners.Each drip grows louder than the last
reverberating in my skull.
So much so that i find myself
singing “i’m going slightly mad”Should i call a number, a
24 hour psycological plumber,
or should i attempt a DIY
repair and risk a massive flood?:roll:
Tennyson was a liar
it is not ‘better to have
loved and lost
than never to have loved
at all’
For the greatest sorrow
is that which is
known…Happy Birthday Fayy, long may you thrust and shoot geese :) xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Platonic Love
We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.
She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.
I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.
On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.
I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.
After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.
Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.
Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.
I confess to her what’s in my Eckhart. We Locke.
By this point, we’re totally Blavatsky.
We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.
She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.
She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.
I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.
She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.
We Foucault.
She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.
I roll over and Derrida.Curt Anderson
8)
