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Opis bloga
Glavni sudionici:
Poppy: Dobrica, pomalo naivan. (Engleski)
Mak: Pametan, ali pokvaren do srži. (Hrvatski)
Epizodno pojavljivanje:
Pavot: Paranoični shizofrenik. (Francuski)
Mohn: Glup, graniči s retardacijom, drži se svoje riječi. (Njemački)
Vallmo: Starac, bahati snob. (Švedski)
Papoila: Ezoterična raomantičarka. (Portugalski)
Abu an-num: Trogodišnje dijete, Otac Sna. (Arapski)
Gastarbajter:
Kefir: Zalutali mliječni proizvod, ne dirajte ju dok se kiseli. (Bosanski)
msn: ivan_popovic24@hotmail.com
kefir66@hotmail.com
mail:
ivan_popovic24@yahoo.com
animanera24@gmail.com
katja66@net.hr
yahoo messenger i irc ne prihvaćamo
Skretnice
Conoscienti:
- Jasen.
- Beđer
- ???
- Blu(d)
- Tukenca dva
- Kiki
- Brick
- Ayz
- Pola, R.I.P.
- Crash
- Nije Dva
- Dopodne
- Mars i botanika
- Boško Buha
Udder Pee-pull:
- Marisi
- Zvizda, R.I.P.
- Vlatka
- Krčma L'Étranger
- Ceh Pisaca
- Jezik
- Ladybug, R.I.P.
Što
Slušam?
Jok.
Ha?
Ja (K.) operne arije. Ili Therion. Ili neku veselu komercijalu.
Čitam?
Yock.
Gledam?
Ioq.
(K.) Filmove. Francuske.
Već stihosklepano
DARE I HOPE?
Dare I hope to hope?
Is it safe? Is it right?
Am I hoping for nothing
But a black and empty night?
Hope should make me happy.
I should laugh, sing, and dance
Because I am hoping. Right?
Ha! Not a chance.
How is it that hope can leave me
Trembling in the darkness?
How is it that something so “good”
Should leave me feeling helpless?
Dare I hope to hope?
What difference does it make?
Fate will be fate in the end,
It will either “make or break.”
Does Fate regard my hope?
Does She listen? Or care?
Am I shooting for a star that
Simply isn’t there?
I cannot know! Oh, God
Why must I struggle with
This doubt that pulls at me
Rends me, limb from limb?
What sort of hope leaves pain
Where it should instead leave joy?
Is this hope at all? Or perhaps
Some wicked demon’s ploy?
I cannot know! Dear heaven!
How can I even begin to dare
To hope for something – anything?
Is no assurance there?
No promise? No guarantee?
I cannot stand it! I cannot!
The doubt is a plague
In my every thought.
Dare I hope to hope
In a hope that leaves me dry
And lost? How can I dare
To hope in hope? How can I?
WHERE THE WILD ROSES GROW
They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it i do not know
For my name was Elisa Day
From the first day i saw her i knew she was the one
As she stared in my eyes and smiled
For her lips were the colour of the roses
They grew down the river, all bloody and wild
When he knocked on my door and entered the room
My trembling subsided in his sure embrace
He would be my first man, and with a careful hand
He wiped the tears that ran down my face
On the second day i brought her a flower
She was more beautiful than any woman i'd seen
I said, "Do you know where the wild roses grow
So sweet and scarlet and free?"
On the second day he came with a single red rose
Said: "Will you give me your loss and your sorrow?"
I nodded my hand, as i lay on the bed
He said, "If i show you the roses, will you follow?"
On the third day he took me to the river
He showed me the roses and we kissed
And the last thing i heard was a muttered word
As he stood smiling above me with a rock in his fist
On the last day i took her where the wild roses grow
And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief
As i kissed her goodbye, i said, "All beauty must die"
And i lent down and planted a rose between her teeth
They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it i do not know
For my name was Elisa Day
For my name was Elisa Day
For my name was Elisa Day
SPACE DEMENTIA
H8 is the one for me
It gives me all I need
And helps me co-exist with the chill
You make me sick because I adore you so
I love all the dirty tricks
And twisted games you play on me
Space dementia in your eyes
Peace will arise and tear us apart
And make us meaningless again
You’ll make us want to die
I'd cut your name in my heart
We’ll destroy this world for you
I know you want me to feel your pain
Space dementia in your eyes
And Peace will arise and tear us apart
And make us meaningless again
Power to the peepull of Me
ponedjeljak, 26.05.2008.
Feeding Habits
Whenever I peel an orange, I save the stem end for last. There's something about pulling out the spine that is very satisfying. Texture-wise, visually, the little plucky squirty sensation, it's a fun little operation to cap the peeling process. That's sorta my modus operandi when it comes to food. I leave the best for last. When I have a chicken pot pie, for example, I eat all the carrots and peas first, and leave a stash of chicken for the big finish. When I have a sandwich I work my way around the crust to the middle. I have this shit down to a science. Sometimes, though, it's not so smooth. Things can get complicated. Like, when I'm eating a pancake breakfast with hash browns, bacon, and eggs, I can't decide what my favorite thing is. I panic a little in my heart because I don't know how it's gonna end. But that's what life is all about. Thrills, man. Thrills. I start out all confident that I'll end with a bite of bacon but then, the sweet syrupy pancakes start to win me over. Then the hash browns, that unassuming dark horse, makes a comeback. And then the eggs are like, "Hey, we're the pure unblemished souls of chicken! Recognize!" At that point, all bets are off. It's anybody's game. I might go with bacon. I might not. Nothing's set in stone. Anything can happen. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Poppy, You crazy fool! You HAVE to have the last bite planned out AT ALL TIMES!" But I like to live on the edge, Jack. I take chances. I flirt with danger. That's how I roll. |
četvrtak, 22.05.2008.
Da ne bude ono
Molim vas, gdje je nestala boca majoneze?! |
