HarryHill
Hairy fucker
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2012
- Posts
- 15,054
No Title
He opened his eyes and lo,
outside the window a world spun ,
somewhere under the sun and the constant clouds below and so,
shuffling a deck of chores, he dealt, drew the Ku of hearts first that means:
a promise made and kept,
set aside the deck 'n pulled a paper from the shelf,
titled inapropriately, to wit:
Love as a Mathematical Formula
Empirical evidence aside,
rapid breath, contented sighs
a pulse wild at the jugular
beating treble thunder,
irregular, a flush,
*sigh*
those eyes;
how do you quantify
the value of a love like this?
The world turned outside and inside as well
while he sought to solve the mystery of this
over zealous hell and found,
his definition faulty 'n
the title was'n sound.
Peering out the dusty window at the white beast without,
saved for one more summer in the shade beneath the plum,
felt the heart within him swell and he began to write,
first deleting, formula, then revising thus:
The Mathematics of Love
Love knows not gender,
nor race,
nor species or vocation, nor craft,
or anything else under the heavens
or above and between
A hundred songs now sappy played in his beleaguered brain...
'Love, love, love... doopy doo...'
...as he sought to cease the sudden sounds playing in refrain,
returning to his musing on the vagaries of love
while still chaffing at the title of the poem above,
searching for a number to assign to love,
now deemed a variable, yet,
immeasurable, intangible, etherial, re:
This soft touch within that brings a man down to his knees,
or a woman striding purposely across uncharted seas,
surely makes it some magnetic force, like gravity,
that pulls and floats a heart so effort'sly.
Does a bug love, or a bird, both happy enough
in their life upon this world, burrowing in the earth
or swooping down from perch, to eat the tiny insect
busy in the dirt, that has no love for the bird,
who loves the taste of bug.
From the heights to the depths,
each creatures born on a journey,
irregardless after that first breath
to go down to their demise, no more, and he,
indifferent, being mortal, sitting at his dusty desk
with a well used deck of chores, staring into the dark outside,
deal.
The Mister, similarly suited, that means:
Honor above all, duty; a possible flush.
By now his paper was occupied with ink,
marching 'cross the borders to pacify the white,
the mourning doves long bedded in the cedars by the creek,
night had stopped the world a'turning, inside t'was slowing down,
one more glance up to the title, another displeased frown,
drew one more sheet t'ward 'im and scribed in dying light with:
The Magnetics of Love
no wonder, the attraction,
you're the positive in my life,
and my negative
is at an all time high.
Smiling in abject pleasure for a job that's finaly done
with an economy of effort and modicum of words,
folded up his missive, put it in the box to post and then,
He closed his eyes, and slow
outside the window a word spun.
He opened his eyes and lo,
outside the window a world spun ,
somewhere under the sun and the constant clouds below and so,
shuffling a deck of chores, he dealt, drew the Ku of hearts first that means:
a promise made and kept,
set aside the deck 'n pulled a paper from the shelf,
titled inapropriately, to wit:
Love as a Mathematical Formula
Empirical evidence aside,
rapid breath, contented sighs
a pulse wild at the jugular
beating treble thunder,
irregular, a flush,
*sigh*
those eyes;
how do you quantify
the value of a love like this?
The world turned outside and inside as well
while he sought to solve the mystery of this
over zealous hell and found,
his definition faulty 'n
the title was'n sound.
Peering out the dusty window at the white beast without,
saved for one more summer in the shade beneath the plum,
felt the heart within him swell and he began to write,
first deleting, formula, then revising thus:
The Mathematics of Love
Love knows not gender,
nor race,
nor species or vocation, nor craft,
or anything else under the heavens
or above and between
A hundred songs now sappy played in his beleaguered brain...
'Love, love, love... doopy doo...'
...as he sought to cease the sudden sounds playing in refrain,
returning to his musing on the vagaries of love
while still chaffing at the title of the poem above,
searching for a number to assign to love,
now deemed a variable, yet,
immeasurable, intangible, etherial, re:
This soft touch within that brings a man down to his knees,
or a woman striding purposely across uncharted seas,
surely makes it some magnetic force, like gravity,
that pulls and floats a heart so effort'sly.
Does a bug love, or a bird, both happy enough
in their life upon this world, burrowing in the earth
or swooping down from perch, to eat the tiny insect
busy in the dirt, that has no love for the bird,
who loves the taste of bug.
From the heights to the depths,
each creatures born on a journey,
irregardless after that first breath
to go down to their demise, no more, and he,
indifferent, being mortal, sitting at his dusty desk
with a well used deck of chores, staring into the dark outside,
deal.
The Mister, similarly suited, that means:
Honor above all, duty; a possible flush.
By now his paper was occupied with ink,
marching 'cross the borders to pacify the white,
the mourning doves long bedded in the cedars by the creek,
night had stopped the world a'turning, inside t'was slowing down,
one more glance up to the title, another displeased frown,
drew one more sheet t'ward 'im and scribed in dying light with:
The Magnetics of Love
no wonder, the attraction,
you're the positive in my life,
and my negative
is at an all time high.
Smiling in abject pleasure for a job that's finaly done
with an economy of effort and modicum of words,
folded up his missive, put it in the box to post and then,
He closed his eyes, and slow
outside the window a word spun.
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