fugazi - waiting room

I am a patient boy 
I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait 
My time is like water down a drain 
Everybody’s moving, 
Everybody’s moving,
Everybody’s moving, moving, moving, moving
Please don’t leave me to remain 
In the waiting room 
I don’t want the news 
I cannot use it 
I don’t want the news 
I won’t live by it
Sitting outside of town 
Everybody’s always down 
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up 
Ahhh… Come on and get up
Come on and get up
But I don’t sit idly by 
Ahhh…
I’m planning a big surprise 
I’m gonna fight for what I want to be 
I won’t make the same mistakes 
Because I know
Because I know how much time that wastes 
And Function
Function is the key 
To the the waiting room
I don’t want the news 
I cannot use it 
I don’t want the news 
I won’t live by it
Sitting outside of town 
Everybody’s always down 
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up
Ahhh… Come on and get up
Up for the waiting room
Sitting in the waiting room
Ahhh…
Sitting in the waiting room
Ahhh…
Sitting in the waiting room
Ahhh…
Sitting in the waiting room
Ahhh…
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up

lewis carroll - how doth the little crocodile

How doth the little crocodile

improve his shining tail

and pour the waters of the Nile

on every golden scale.

How cheerfully he seems to grin

how neatly he spreads his claws

and welcomes little fishes in

with gently smiling jaws.

tonstartssbandht - 5ft7

see no pee no hot outside 4x 

im 5 ft. 7 
you know im a little buttercup x4 

if we flew to LA we could all go 
we could live in a little bungalow 

i could still keep my job in washington 
and set world records on the phone 

in a little ride 
in a little ride roll 
(if you flew to LA we could all go, we could live in a little bungalow) 

im 5 ft. 7 
you know im a little buttercup 

Dear Anh, 
wish that i was tan 
how are things in LA? 

Orlando’s oak trees groan 
from the daily gulf breeze sway 
if im right we’ll power through the day 
and play outside in the night 

time of the night same as the day 
we could stay in the pool 
you got such a nice pool 
we could stay in the pool 
you got such a nice pool 
you got all the best movies 
it’s the best downstairs (x4) 

5 ft. 7 
you know im a little buttercup 
(we could stay in the pool) 
(tonstartssbandht) 
(its the best downstairs)

uffie - difficult

don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
it’s difficult

opening my book of facts
dreaming on a cadillac
i wonder why you push me on the front
while you stayed on the back
they jump all around me
they’re screaming when they’re next to me
it’s difficult

sorry i don’t know what to say
i’m ruining everything you make
maybe i don’t feel comfortable
when all the lights are set on me
i tried, it’s too hard
i just wanna leave and hide
that’s why i’m difficult

okay, i don’t wanna set a trend
if my choruses are not catchy enough
don’t listen to them
i just wanna be fine
with no troubles on my mind
so i’m difficult
bring the bass here
swallow and dry up the tears
the life is too good
i don’t wanna live in fear
that’s why i scream at the world
i’m not trying to be the best
so don’t worry if i write rhymes, ‘cause i write checks

don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
it’s difficult

i’m using my voice
i’m singing the song
i’m using anything i can
to take what you own
at the end of the day
i will have done what i said
and if you chase me away
i will be back the next day
i’m the worst at this game
you don’t want to play me
if i lose, i go down
you’re going down with me
if i win, you know bitch
that it’s all about me
i’m difficult

you better not put all your eggs in the same basket
right now it’s all for uff
and i’m writing the checks
you know clothes come for free
and drugs come for free
it’s just on ghost writing rhymes
that’s i’m spending my fee

don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
don’t worry if i write rhymes, i write checks
it’s difficult

galaxie 500 - fourth of july

I wrote a poem on a dog biscuit
And your dog refused to look at it
So I got drunk and looked at the Empire State Building
It was no bigger than a nickel

And if it don’t improve
Then I have to move
I never thought that I would end up here
Maybe I should just change my style
But I feel alright when you smile

I stayed at home on the Fourth of July
And I pulled the shades so I didn’t have to see the sky
And I decided to have a Bed In
But I forgot to invite anybody

And when I fell asleep
The neighbors had a peep
I never thought that I would end up here
Maybe I should just change my style
But I feel alright when you smile 

neil gaiman - american gods

Later he was never able to recollect the sequence and details of that dream: attempts to remember it produced nothing more than a tangle of dark images. There was a girl. He had met her somewhere, and now they were walking across a bridge. It spanned a small lake, in the middle of a town. The wind was ruffling the surface of the lake, making waves tipped with whitecaps, which seemed to Shadow to be tiny hands reaching for him.

—Down there, said the woman. She was wearing a leopard-print skirt, which flapped and tossed in the wind, and the flesh between the top of her stockings and her skirt was creamy and soft and in his dream, on the bridge, before God and the world, Shadow went down to his knees in front of her, burying his head in her crotch, drinking in the intoxicating jungle female scent of her. He became aware, in his dream, of his erection in real life, a rigid, pounding, monstrous thing as painful in its hardness as the erections he’d had as a boy, when he was crashing into puberty.

He pulled away and looked upward, and still he could not see her face. But his mouth was seeking hers and her lips were soft against his, and his hands were cupping her breasts, and then they were running across the satin smoothness of her skin, pushing into and parting the furs that hid her waist, sliding into the wonderful cleft of her, which warmed and wetted and parted for him, opening to his hand like a flower.

The woman purred against him ecstatically, her hand moving down to the hardness of him and squeezing it. He pushed the bedsheets away and rolled on top of her, his hand parting her thighs, her hand guiding him between her legs, where one thrust, one magical push . . .

Now he was back in his old prison cell with her, and he was kissing her deeply. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, clamped her legs about his legs to hold him tight, so he could not pull out, not even if he wanted to.

Never had he kissed lips so soft. He had not known that there were lips so soft in the whole world. Her tongue, though, was sandpaper-rough as it slipped against his.

—Who are you? he asked.

She made no answer, just pushed him onto his back and, in one lithe movement, straddled him and began to ride him. No, not to ride him: to insinuate herself against him in series of silken-smooth waves, each more powerful than the one before, strokes and beats and rhythms that crashed against his mind and his body just as the wind-waves on the lake splashed against the shore. Her nails were needle-sharp and they pierced his sides, raking them, but he felt no pain, only pleasure, everything was transmuted by some alchemy into moments of utter pleasure.

He struggled to find himself, struggled to talk, his head now filled with sand dunes and desert winds.

—Who are you? he asked again, gasping for the words.

She stared at him with eyes the color of dark amber, then lowered her mouth to his and kissed him with a passion, kissed him so completely and so deeply that there, on the bridge over the lake, in his prison cell, in the bed in the Cairo funeral home, he almost came. He rode the sensation like a kite riding a hurricane, willing it not to crest, not to explode, wanting it never to end. He pulled it under control. He had to warn her.

—My wife, Laura. She will kill you.

—Not me, she said.

A fragment of nonsense bubbled up from somewhere in his mind: In medieval days it was said that a woman on top during coitus would conceive a bishop. That was what they called it: trying for a bishop. . . .

He wanted to know her name, but he dared not ask her a third time, and she pushed her chest against his, and he could feel the hard nubs of her nipples against his chest, and she was squeezing him, somehow squeezing himdown there deep inside her and this time he could not ride it or surf it, this time it picked him up and spun and tumbled him away, and he was arching up, pushing into her as deeply as he could imagine, as if they were, in some way, part of the same creature, tasting, drinking, holding, wanting . . .

—Let it happen, she said, her voice a throaty feline growl. Give it to me. Let it happen.

And he came, spasming and dissolving, the back of his mind itself liquefying then sublimating slowly from one state to the next.

Somewhere in there, at the end of it, he took a breath, a clear draught of air he felt all the way down to the depths of his lungs, and he knew that he had been holding his breath for a long time now. Three years, at least. Perhaps even longer.

—Now rest, she said, and she kissed his eyelids with her soft lips. Let it go. Let it all go.

The sleep he slept after that was deep and dreamless and comforting, and Shadow dived deep and embraced it.

pain - one-legged girl

Behind the counter stood on crutches made of wood 
A one-legged girl with blue-grey eyes, warm and wise. 
I fled from that place and from that lovely face 
That the one-legged girl stole my heart and I need help. 
Cold November morning, buried under trees. 
I would stay here all day long except I have to eat. 
Crack the woods, crack them open both with shovels and yells. 
Got to find little people, got to ask for their help. 
And I tell them 
If I could run fast, as fast as the Flash 
Or be as cool as Ash in Army of Darkness. 
If I were a Gai-King or maybe a Viking, 
Stronger than the Thing then I could win the one-legged girl. 
Getting close to nighttime, running out of steam. 
By now I know my family’s looking and they’ll know right where I’ll be. 
Spy the eyes in the twilight, small and bright, warm and wise. 
Little hats, little fingers, and a flask full of wine. 
And I’d tell them 
If my hand were wheels and if my feet were wheels 
Then I could roll over all of my rivals. 
If I could cast a spell or do something swell 
So that she could tell I was worth her attention. 
Arms drag me away. 
The little eyes wink out. 
Stuffed inside my pocket is a flask of wine. 
Now I can run as fast as the Flash 
Or be as cool as Ash in Army of Darkness. 
Now I’ll be a Gai-King or maybe a Viking, 
Stronger than the Thing. 
Now I can win the one-legged girl!

King Antef’s dogs had Berber names, astonishingly (and according to G. MASPERO) :
behte, “gazelle”
abaikur, “oryx”,
tekeru, “he of the cooking pot” (?)
and indeed, pehtes, “blackie”
(Guy RACHET, Dictionnaire de la civilisation égyptienne, Larousse, Paris, 1968, p. 71).