Sonnets

Musik: Ode to Divorce - Regina Spektor
Klieden: Red sun dress with yellow and green flowers
Buchen: Manhattan Transfer by Jon Dos Passos
Filme: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Alfredson)

I got inspired by this weeks English Literature lecture about sonnets, so decided to write a few of my own. Sonnet II is missing, it was for someone specific.

Sonnet I
Little crunches
Underneath each step
The skyline punctures
Night and its depth
The stars I see belong
To dreams of faraway
They sing a wistful song
And long to see the day
For abyss is all they know
Kind rays never shone
Never gave their radiant glow
All clarity is gone
Yet travelling through space and time
Their wan light shall keep the sky as mine

Sonnet III
The carpet of autumn leaves
Is the one of my home
Upon these beds of foliage, I grieve
For I am all alone
It is cold and it is bitter
Inside and outside
Kick away the battered litter
I must find somewhere to hide
Ugly stares,
Faces full of resentment,
Angry glares
Them, going home to contentment
One kind soul, he stops, gives it a shot
Helps me out, though he hasn’t got a lot

Paper Thoughts

Musik: Parasite - Nick Drake
Klieden: Red vest top, black jeans
Filme: (500) Days of Summer (Webb)
Buchen: Evelina by Frances Burney

So, I haven't written in a long time. Or else, I haven't posted much here. No, I think it's the first one actually! This poem is about how it feels to experience paranoia, it's called Paper Thoughts.

The door isn’t pine, mahogany, oak,
I don’t know what it is;
Some other wood made from other wood.
It opens with a
Shlick.
The ground is shiny laminate,
More fake wood;
A whole fake forest of chairs, desks-
I count the preserved lives of trees,
Then realise the sheer amount of paper…
Paper appointment slips, prescription slips,
Any kind of slip for anything you need.
I picture a thousand spirits, screaming as they are ripped
From their woodland counter-parts.
When I’m handed my very own slip,
There is a screaming mouth bursting from it;
For one tenth of a second-
Before it is flat, lifeless
Dead.
But I see it sneak a glance,
At the glossy brothers that surround it-
Smothered in chemicals, colours,
So that they are unrecognisable.
It’s a very pregnant pause, this waiting;
Particularly as I am acutely aware
Of the rustling;
Louder than an automatic drill.
Papered walls as well!
Every inch plastered in it,
Completely consumed by deadness.
How unbearable.
Is it time yet?
I want to be outside, among the living.
I place my slip surreptitiously away from me,
Move my chair forwards;
Not touching the walls anymore.
God, stop crinkling it!
You’d think he knew it bothered me-
Fat brute.
Wind disturbs the thin leaves-
But there is no breeze today.
Was that rip in the wall…always there?
Don’t panic.
But the shredding rip is moving ever closer…
It shall soon be upon me.
Rustling, rustling, rustling,
Like a hoard of angry bees approaching.
And I placed my slip at least three inches further away.
To leave is to touch a hostile surface-
I’m trapped.
The souls are screaming in my ear, rip grows, rustles louder, slip nearer,
I am helpless.
This vengeance is cold, calculated and ancient;
I cry out-
But even as they run to me,
I know that it is already becoming too late.
Not understanding, she picks up the slip-
A mistake.
Such piercing screams I cover my ears in alarm;
People stumble about, astounded.
The rips in the wall gape at them sinisterly,
How can they be so ignorant?
My paper world is consumed by paper screams,
And paper life is maintained by paper death.

Canal-Walker Rorster

Musik: Surgery - Jack Off Jill
Kleiden: KISS t-shirt, denim shorts, lacy tights and odd socks
Filme: It's a Wonderful Life (Capra)
Buchen: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

So, this poem was inspired by a friend of mine. I say inspired in the loosest sense of the word - I came up with the title in conversation with him. The poem has not all to do with him, really. It's about artifice, I think. It's called Canal-Walker Rorster and this is the second draft; it may yet be improved. I'm thinking about re-posting poems if I do further drafts, actually because a few of the poems on here are from early drafts and have improved since. I'll see how that goes.

Why
Do you wander so?
What
Drew you to this path?
Where
Will your journey take you?
When
Can you stop this fruitless plight?
How
Does the still water gratify you?
Like a straight and narrow abyss…
The homes of the lost
Flounder up and down their steady way,
Soulless glass eyes,
Gaudy attire,
Rotten at the base.
But you’re peripheral ;
Along the stony path, you watch,
Listen to the filthy black ditch
Slopping up the banks,
Behind the soft hum of traffic.
This urban nature,
This man-made pasture-
Is it all that you can bear?
Our domain is concrete, plastic, polyester
We do not belong to earth, wood, grass…
But this controlled allowance
Of artificial supply meets artificial demand-
If we control the uncontrollable
How may we be stopped?
Great destroyers; wildfire
We spread and spread and spread
We spread until we’re dead
And then we sink like lead
And will not dissolve.
We’re more permanent than ever,
A finger on the choke hold-
She’s choking, gasping, gulping
Vomiting, decaying, deteriorating
And you’re laughing, laughing , laughing…
This perfectly hideous artifice;
Grotesque synthetic beauty-
It is enough for you,
Canal walker.

Acapella Singers

Musik: Werewolf - CocoRosie
Klieden: Tie-dye top, jeans and odd socks
Filme: Hot Fuzz (Wright)
Buchen: None :/

I haven't written anything...no, I've written certainly but everything is like the following. Namely I am unsure of how sensical it seems to others. It's nice, though. Well, no...if you read it a certain way it is nice. If you read it another way it is horrific. I don't know?

Acapella singers
Harmonies drifting like so many rays of dust
She dances carefully
She doesn’t want to fall
Doesn’t want to be there at all
Speeding away on the wings of dawn
He will not care, till he has the call
Ambience consumes us
Nature’s frolicking, green and lush
I dwell beyond the ocean
Softly rocking me, like the waves and wind
The moon smiles with a mouth
Too small to see
But it’s my lips too, it’s within me
Let the darkness cover me
As it drops from the sky
An excess of awe
The heaviness of the pure
If she had the thoughts to dream such wonders
She should wholly break with the weight
She watches how it happened to me
And hopes, with spite,
That the tide will stop before it reaches her toes
And she’ll never feel the cold touch
Of fingers from that ancient world
His heart is made from crystal
So ineffably hard to break
It sparkles like rainbows
It whispers to the raindrops
Shouts to the sun
He does not comprehend it
Things whoosh and whizz
Grassy purple hills in the distance
He does not know their names
But they know his
And he’s seen with a chilling gaze
He’s heard with a frosty indifference
He’s touched but was numb
Tasted and smelt yet never known
My heart is a star and it will die
It burns so fast
Lit with lighter fluid
Burning out, burning out so fast
Clocks and tick tock tick tock
Hands and faces
Fast flowing ruby red and absolutely, one hundred per cent
Dead
Those acapella singers
He doesn’t hear them, nor she
It is only me
Sweet, sanctified, purity
I am clean, I am clean
Because that thing there?
It means nothing to me
She hates how I reject it
But it is no part of me
I danced one time, I remember it
It was long ago and the stars were the music
The star was the song
And we danced all night long
We’re a storm
Oh, turbulent and uncontrolled
Free and clouds, clouds, clouds
Blue not green
Yahweh, anymore beauty?
I’ve felt them move inside of me
Eyes rolling, mouth sighing
Hands grasping desperately
Skin against more skin
Like sheets or covers
On top of one another
Yahweh, anymore beauty?
We are all forsaken
Look, great waterfall
Great water falling
But it’s not clear, it’s contaminated
It’s red
Thick and red
Everywhere I look, everywhere, everywhere
Acapella singers
And rotten, putrid, repulsive
Vomit, decay, mould
Horrific burns and gashes
And no eyes to even see this
No eyes to see it
What can I be?
She doesn’t know me
He’s known me and still he doesn’t
Words, words, words
Tumbling like weeds
Fuck all to me
Yahweh, anymore beauty?
Acapella singers
You’re all or nothing to me
You’re all or not at all, you see

(more) Words

Musik: Hello Hurricane - Switchfoot
Klieden: Pink, flowery dress
Filme: A Single Man (Ford)
Buchen: Again, mostly crit...

I just want to mention how amazing the movie is. I guess I have a fixation with words right now. I don't have too much else to say about this...

Take comfort in words,
For they are empty.
Mere sounds the voice creates,
Which we are supposed to understand.
Well, I understand nothing of this…
The syllables echo, resound, bounce
Off the walls building up all around me.
The walls of sound complete me,
They claim to ease my aloneness,
Their whispers snarl, connive, goad,
They are not my friends;
We are bitter enemies.
When committed, resigned to, given fully
To the page;
That billowing expanse of pure white landscape,
Words diminish its purity,
Subside the wilderness; tame it.
There is nothing safer than to write,
It is not speech, it may not be overheard.
You can tear it, burn it, erase it…
Yet, once heard, audible words
Cannot be destroyed.
Carry they weight?
It is yet to be determined…
In prayer, need we words?
Or overwhelming emotion;
Love, passion, commitment,
Are these man-made conventions,
Ever enough?
Semantic gaps like chasms,
Separate the known, from the unknown.
I long to go…
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
Your words are like barbed wire,
Choking me.
My thoughts belong to far more than this;
This stagnant mundane, everyday drilling banal,
Crush, crush, crush.
Imagine that I should express through image,
What my ever boundless mind should see?
But there is no definition;
No detail, no precision,
No clarity of meaning.
Nor through the emotional, yet meaningless
Music of the soul.
Ah, to be bound by this;
The human condition
Of such intensity
That it creates impossibility of expression.
Longing without end,
Frustration without relief,
Sorrow without mercy.
Pray, give me a medium;
A method to my maddening struggle;
A new-fashioned instrument of the arts,
Some new poetic form,
That necessitates no words, no image, no sound…
That is not physical; let it be wholly metaphysical;
Let it be Love, Sorrow, Anger,
Let it be this and so much more…
Do not charge me so, with this suffering;
For I know there is relief!
Pray, bestow me with knowledge
Let me know no bounds.

The Word

Musik: Lacrymosa - Evanescence
Klieden: NY Tennis shirt and PJ bottoms
Filme: Cry Baby (Walters)
Buchen: Whatever crit I'm supposed to be reading...

I guess I wrote this poem about God, Jesus, the holy spirit. All and each of them. I got the idea from a very enlightening seminar I went to about God's role in our lives.

The Word

You are infinite,
You are the word…
The word, word, word;
The word is everything.
Vastness, unquantifiable distance, ineffable peace-
You are within me, without me, all that I am.
You are all that matters,
Your love is strong as death…
And such love!
Such burning, fiery, scalding the very skin
Such love!
One cannot comprehend its savage intensity.
Oh, it is more, more, more,
Than I could possibly ask for.
Your grace, your goodness;
You are the very meaning of these words;
The actual meaning, the literal, the perfectly logical
Yet defying all of these things,
Beyond, above them.
You are passion, excitement, joy
You are my lover;
And you fill me with such zealousness,
I feel that it boils beneath my skin,
Can scarcely be contained within my fragile body.
And yet, you are my brother;
We are part of the same kin,
We belong together; know every quirk, every childish laugh,
We are innocence together,
And I look at you with astonishment, wonder…
You are my best friend,
Even as I reject you, still you remain,
By my side, a constant, never faltering,
And you know me better than anyone ever could.
But you are my Father;
You conceived of me, brought me here,
Cared for me every step of the way,
Heard my sins; forgave
Let me rest upon you, guided me;
Were there to protect me;
Just as you were my shepherd,
Carried me, did not let me stray;
At least, not beyond salvation –
I was never beyond that,
Such was your glory, the amazement with which you absolved me.
And I long for you…
My entire essence aches for you,
Though I did not know that it was you I ached for –
You knew it, were patient,
Let me come to you.
If I could only command such patience!
I wish to know you, all of you
As you know me.
I wondered…how long you would forget me;
How long you would hide your face from me-
Me having such sorrow in my heart,
Such disarming, consuming disparity
Had you forsaken me? Were you far from helping me?
But no, of course, of course not!
And if only I would listen,
I would be filled with your grace;
Your grace could salvage me, heal me,
If only I could be patient, peaceful,
Then joyfulness would come.
I know now that you are the word;
You are all and everything,
The word, the word, the word…

New

Musik: Funeral Song - The Rasmus
Klieden: Jeans, vest top and hoodie with odd socks
Filme: The Devil Rides Out (Fisher)
Buchen: To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

I figured I'd post a couple of things, since I haven't in a while.

It starts out when it gets to around two or three in the morning. You realise that you’re not all that tired, for some reason. Theoretically, on a normal night, this is a fairly acceptable time to be going to sleep. In fact, probably around one in the morning is standard if you’re not one of those strange, stuffy people who go to bed at eleven. Or I guess, if you don’t have to get up terribly early in the morning. Anyway, one in the morning will come and go. That’s okay; just an hour or so later than normal. But it’s when it starts to get much past three that you know it’s going to happen.

By about four you start to sort of wish you could sleep. But your eyes won’t close. Things from weeks, months, years ago start to flood your consciousness. These memories of unbearably happy, ineffably sad times. They will swirl around and around , making you dizzy, stopping any hope of rest. God, and they open up this enormous wound you were unaware of – it resides within your chest, right where your heart is.

When it gets to five you are desperate. Everything weighs more than it possibly ever could. Your body is not responding normally. Things are happening as though underwater. Sleep is all that you want and all that you cannot have. You watch the clock ticking, praying, begging for morning and that first light which will tell you that this night is over. But it is far from over. Even the few short hours you have left shall stretch into eternity.

It’s six in the morning and you decide to have a shower. Afterwards you have never felt so pure. It is as though you were purged of your sins by the hot stream of water. You are cleansed. You are no longer tired, or weary. There is something like a light appearing, though not from any external source. Overwhelming peacefulness envelopes you and you can forget. Forgetfulness is bliss. Forget yourself, forget this life, forget all that you own, all of those whom you love. Just forget. Let the nothingness consume you, fill you up. But it is not nothingness, of course. It is God.

Half past six and you are down on your knees praying vehemently. O Lord, you pray as though it were the last thing you did. It is completeness and desperation combined. There is passion unparalleled in your frantically whispered words. Yes, you are kneeling and offering yourself to Him completely yet begging him to absolve you, to love you, to guide you. You plead in ignorance, longing to know more. Your entire essence is filled by an ache so deep and intrinsic as to be unutterable. You pray not to be alone in this world.

And then you sleep. You dream. And it is more beautiful than the world itself.

***

I’d say I woke up…
Only, I didn’t sleep
Just lay there with you next to me,
Painfully aware of your presence.
How can you be so restful?
I watch you;
How your breathing is deep and heavy,
How still you are; one arm placed around me.
My head aches, my stomach is sick to the pit,
If my mouth were any drier, it’d shrivel up.
I half-wish you’d open your eyes;
Half-wish you never would.
I have nothing to say to you;
Can’t even remember your name…
I replay your body against mine,
Play by play in my mind.
My insides are hollowed out.
When you touched me I didn’t feel a thing;
I was numb, icy cold, desensitised.
But God, I gave it my all – I really did;
I fucked you hard as I could,
So hard, so hard –
But nothing, nothing, nothing;
A resounding echo of nothingness.
Could I have expected more?
I notice how your eyelashes fall on your cheek,
That you are my type.
I never noticed that before.
But, yes, you look like him…
You look like her,
You look like them all.
I resent you in my bed, my sheets, my body,
You do not belong there
You have no business here.
We are strangers, you and I.
And I cannot sleep next to you,
I’m afraid that you’ll wake and watch me.
My sleep is private, intimate.
It’s like the way we won’t touch hands,
Or one another’s faces.
And when you do wake up,
I’ll smoke to relieve the awkwardness;
Pray that you’ll leave soon,
Whilst you try to think of a polite exit strategy.
There’ll be that dead time between the two,
With me wishing you’d go
And you desperate to leave
But neither one of us making the move.
We’ll say meaningless things,
Just sounds instead of silence.
When we part, you’ll say;
‘See you around’
Praying that you never will.
But I’ll be praying harder,
Because I’ll be praying to God.
I’ll pray for the forgiveness I don’t deserve…
I’d say I woke up;
Only, I never went to sleep.

***

It’s a bitter realisation;
Like black, hot coffee on the tip of my tongue,
Like dissolving pills in the back of my throat,
Like the sting of a fresh cut on my shin,
Like the after-taste of a hastily downed shot.
Every little thing;
The way you take a drag and the smoke lingers around your lips,
How your long, slender fingers tap the desk,
The curls of your hair, angelic and unruly,
Stubble shadowing your chin,
Eyes so deep they cause a falling sensation in the pit of my stomach.
Oh, your kiss;
Being so close to you it makes me ache, it makes me shake,
The softness of your lips against mine,
How nothing else exists but that brief point of contact,
The world dissolves and is only you.
I burn;
Even the slightest brush, the tiniest touch,
Skin on skin,
Sends me reeling.
If I could capture your beauty, it would be the stars;
So distant, so unknowable,
Seen only thousands of years after impact.
Don’t speak, don’t vocalise, don’t excuse…
I know you cannot be mine;
Just stare at me, let me pretend
You have this bitter realisation, too.

The Ant Hill

Musik: Juliet - Emilie Autumn
Klieden: Protest top, PJ bottoms
Filme: Primary Colors (Nichols)
Buchen: Twelfth Night by Shakespeare

I wrote this poem today, sitting alone at university like the saddo I am. However, I did feel it was of good enough quality to post here.

The Ant Hill
It’s so busy!
Can you see the ants swarming?
Picking up bits of food,
Hoarding it sociably, in togetherness.
The food consists of paper, ink;
It’s made of words and abstraction.
It fills bellies:
They glut themselves on it,
Till they cannot move,
Cannot do anything useful anymore.
They follow one another in thin little lines,
Congregating to a central point:
The Ant Hill.
They’re told that it is glorious there,
But that is a lie.
The lie is cold, calculated.
The lie costs over a thousand pounds,
More than that, even,
If you wish to reach the centre of the Ant Hill.
Inside there is a hollow, dark space,
A stretching abyss of emptiness.
Of course, the food is stored there
And you can eat your fill,
Eat until you’re sick
Because it’s sickly sweet.
And soon you’ll find you can eat no more.
Yet, you’re almost starving
Your belly expands, ugly and round,
Like a full moon.
Inside The Ant Hill you cease to be
That youthful dream of a fat, full life.
All you can do now is to drink your own tears;
The salt dries you up.
The Ant Hill is just dirt, stuck with glue.
Soon you’ll be that very dirt, too.

Emotional Fruits

Musik: 100 percent - Angelspit
Klieden: Checked dress, blazer, jeans
Filme: Doctor Strangelove: Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb (Kubrick)
Buchen: The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

I wrote this series of stories a while ago. They're very simple to write, so I write them when I'm not in a very intellectually challenging mood or when I'm sad. I thought I'd share them, as they're at times amusing, though at others heart-breaking. Judge for yourselves.

The Sad Banana

The banana was very sad. Most other bananas were yellow and bright coloured whereas he was an odd green shade, like a leaf. In fact, that was the insult the other bananas had jeered at him in the jungle.

“You’re not a fruit at all! You’re just a silly little leaf!” laughed his brothers and sisters.

The sad banana was therefore alienated from the rest of his family and wanted very much to leave them. All they ever did was laugh at him; it wasn’t fair. They all used to be green, too! But as his brothers and sister had begun to turn a rich shade of golden yellow with brown dots he remained stubbornly green.

One day, though, everything began to change. The sad banana and his family were struck down from their tree and separated from one another into smaller bunches. They were driven through many wonderful places, but the sad bananas sister’s were frightened.

“We want to go home!” they cried.
“Don’t worry, sisters. We’re going to a better place than home,” he comforted them.

His sisters crowded towards him and did not make fun of him anymore. The sad banana felt strong and protected his sisters for the entire journey. Eventually they found themselves on a large wooden market stall with lots of people shouting and some singing. The sad banana began to notice that the bananas around him came in all shapes and sizes. Some were as green as him, others slightly more bent whilst some were completely straight. But the people seemed not to care about any of this; they were merely happy to see the bananas. And this made the sad banana very happy indeed.

The Happy Apple

Mrs Apple had seen her fair share of this world. She’d seen orchards, back gardens, fruits bowls and corner shop stalls. She’d been fitfully transported all over the place, never settled in one for very long. She was a very old apple, getting on for five months away from her tree. Therefore, she was beginning to become rotten but Mrs Apple would not allow this to happen to her. She was determined to keep her chin up and spread cheer among her fellow fruity friends.

“Oh, yes I’m sure a cheery disposition is bound to stop the forces of nature,” jeered an unhelpful mandarin.
“Yes, dear. I’m quite sure it will,” grinned Mrs Apple, pleased that the mandarin seemed to share her optimism.

Mrs Apple currently resided in a very busy fruit bowl and had lots of friends to keep her company. There were bananas, pears, grapes, one enormous melon and, of course, the mandarins. But Mrs Apple best friend in the whole entire fruit bowl was Mr Pear.

“They’ll throw you out soon, I expect,” Mr Pear chortled.
“Oh you’re always so very amusing, Mr Pear,” giggled Mrs Apple. Mr Pear had a wonderful sense of humour.
“I can see you turning brown already, and your skins gone all soft,” Mr Pear pointed out.
“Now, Mr Pear!” said Mrs Apple, alarmed.

She tried to ignore Mr Pear’s observations but that night she could not sleep for thinking about them. The next day Mrs Apple was somewhat subdued.

“What’s wrong, Little Miss Sunshine?” asked the mandarin, with a nasty grin.

Mrs Apple shook her head. She didn’t feel like speaking to anyone. Her skin began to soften and a terrible pain was enveloping her from the inside. Soon hair and mould began to grow upon her. The other fruits avoided her as her melancholy overtook her cheerful disposition. Soon there was nothing left of Mrs Apple at all; and Mr Pear cried out with regret. If only he hadn’t destroyed Mrs Apple’s optimism – she might have survived!

The Bitter Tomato

Throughout his short life the bitter tomato had always been discriminated against. The fruits were suspicious of him:
“How do we know you’re really one of us?” the mandarins would sneer, whilst the others hissed their agreement.

However, the bitter tomato knew that he was a fruit… if only he could prove it! The vegetables were not particularly friendly to him either; the carrots giggled whenever he came near and the broccoli asked him if had gone red from the embarrassment of being neither a fruit nor a vegetable.
Being constantly chastised had caused the bitter tomato to hate pretty much everyone he came across and when he met Mr Pear this was no different. Mr Pear was known for being very amusing and this made the bitter tomato hate him all the more. Mr Pear was liked and accepted and would probably be even more unkind to bitter tomato as a result. However, on that particular day Mr Pear was not in a very amusing mood. In fact, he seemed rather sad.

“What’s eating you?” snapped the bitter tomato.
“Mrs Apple has rotted away,” he cried, “And it’s all my fault!”
Bitter tomato snorted. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, coldly.

Mr Pear looked up at bitter tomato angrily and before the bitter tomato realised what was happening Mr Pear had given him such a blow that the bitter tomato began to leak all over the place!

“You…you…,” the bitter tomato had no words to describe his astonishment.
“Hey,” said Mr Pear, distracted, “You have seeds. That means you must be a fruit!”
Mr Pear laughed in surprise. “Hey everyone, the tomato really is one of us!”

The fruits gathered around the bitter tomato, shouting and cheering. Mr Pear smiled. The bitter tomato was finally one of the fruits.

The Angry Pineapple

The somewhat angry pineapple had not always been that way. In fact, at one point in his life when he had still been upon the great pineapple tree, he had been rather happy. He’d been popular among the other fruits and had even made friends with the usually hostile mandarins. But one day tragedy had struck. He had been plucked from the enormous tree by eager human hands and thrown into a barrel along with a load of other pineapples he didn’t know. They’d been crushed together rather inappropriately and been most uncomfortable. They had therefore argued for almost the entire journey across the terrifying, raged sea for they were all frightened and away from their friends and family. Some fell into a mere melancholy but the angry pineapple became what he became; an extremely angry pineapple. His eyes bulged menacingly and all the other pineapples were very wary of him. Even the humans avoided him when he reached his final destination on a supermarket shelf. He snapped and screamed at anyone who went near him, making his eyes saucer wide and full of the madness that was slowly over-taking him. He continued until he found himself to be the only pineapple left on the shelf. Then he realised that he was no longer angry he was just…lonely.

Cellar Door

Musik: Glosoli - Sigur Ros
Kleiden: Birmingham protest shirt and PJ bottoms
Filme: Mean Girls (Waters)
Buchen: A Season In The Life Of Emmanuel by Marie-Claire Blais

Tolkien discovered that linguistically the words 'cellar door' were the most beautiful in the English language. Say them to yourself; let the syllables slide from your lips like a smooth-flowing current in a river; feel the softness of them, like the folds of morning bedsheets. You understand?

O cellar door, cellar door
You'll be there forevermore,
For I am standing on the brink;
Staring, abyss - black as ink;
Falling, crawling - drunk despised,
Met with stares of wandering eyes.
I'm nothing but a Stella whore,
Standing at the cellar door.