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[27 Jun 2008|12:25am] |
I'm well happy for Spain.
They haven't reached a major final in twenty four years. Only England can beat that, of teams that are often weighted with expectation. Okay, my boy Fernando Torres didn't score, but his haranguing of the Russian defence you could say tired them considerably, facilitating the Spanish onslaught in the second half.
I can do nothing but vicariously support the Spanish. I won't have that true heart thumping feeling that i'll get from supporting England or Liverpool, but I still love a good story, and Spain are providing that.
All they have to do now is beat Germany. Let's hope their swashbuckling style overcomes the stoical German resistance.
Good luck, Spain! We'll see you on Sunday.
It's been an alright night. I think I like having Thursday night off, it lets me re-group before the weekend. I would rather do Friday night every week.
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Every night your lips are pressing upon me, biting me awake, your teeth nibble and suggest desires, yet I never awaken. All is pure suggestion, fireworks threaten to spark in my loins, yet always just dream remains. With all worship, with all wildly pleasures, still nothing I fear could tempt you away from mere outline. You daub upon me with such elegant paintbrush, dipped in colours and flecked stardust upon me. I want to reach up and make you physical, and I cannot.
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[27 Jun 2008|04:12pm] |
Sunglight and cloud flirt with each other, rain sprinkles occasionally through the day and humidity hugs the clothes, sweats the skin. It's too hot, but incredibly, work isn't as bad as the heat. For once. I'm sure that'll all change at the weekend.
And it's been well busy. Another fifty one, if you're interested. I wouldn't think so, I mean it's just numbers to you, isn't it? I could tell you it was nine hundered and forty eight and it wouldn't mean a Christing thing to you.
I'm waiting for you to inspire me, dear. Carve my name into a tree, sew me into a dress, lie me under your night sky, I want to write about you, to you, and with you. We are rare, let me show you just how uncommon we are.
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[27 Jun 2008|04:52pm] |
By the by
leaves bow and shimmy
down to the earth,
despositing seeds
and blooming,
my love bends upward
and ever upward
searching for summer
acheing for life,
tranquil are the bushes
and steady
are the breezes,
for I can stand no
tumult to hit her course.
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[27 Jun 2008|04:59pm] |
In that dark heaving mass, no sweat was individual. Stretched foreheads and gloomy crack toothed grins were everywhere, and it stunk of stale oxygen. My words turned sour on my lips when they were meant sweet. Her gaze was one of sombriety, her fingers lovelessly grazed the wooden table. Background clacking plates and coughing syllables did nothing to help. My shirt stuck to my back, I felt glued to my chair. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, I knew nothing I could say could keep up with what was writhing and drowning in her gut.
I asked her what I could do, she said there was nothing. Always the worst words for a man to hear. Nothing. It renders all reconcilliation impotent, strangles solace as it stands, shoots hope dead, my feet sadly joined together and embraced in mutual sympathy, and my hands, once trying to cover hers on the sticky shining table merely shrank back like wolves into the night, folding uncomfortable around my elbows. Neither of us then said another thing for a while. The waitress slid past apparently on hoverboots, making so little sound it was almost a shock as she petulantly let the plates clatter down on the table, shaking me out of my stunned reverie. And she, she just kept staring into the chipboard.
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