Read the rest here:
http://jessfink.com/Chester5000XYV/





( ...UNDER THE CUT for naughtiness... )

Fic: Whatever Helps You Sleep
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: This one some slight Sam/John
Notes: Part four of my Whatever series. Previous parts found here.
Warnings: Nongraphic violence, incest themes.

Considering I haven't written any on this today, I feel guilty posting, but I've been meaning to post for like three days, so.

Chapter seven of Valet of Anize is up! You can find it here.

Conspiracies, wank, and meteor showers!

All ye who live gluten free, I have a book for you: Eat Well Live Well With Gluten Intolerance. iamshadow scanned it for me to pass on to my mum, and I thought I'd share it with all of you while I'm at it, because I know we have at least a few who must Avoid The Wheat in the Cafe.

Today was the usual hectic Monday, with the added complication of BossBoss being insane. But he did invite me to a weekend party to watch the Festival of Lights, which is this Saturday, so that's nice. Don't know if I'm going to go yet, but it's very informal, we're just having pizza at work and watching from the conference room.

And now I'm home making dinner and hiding from the world.

...what are the nonsexual things that give you the most pleasure? For me it would have to be able to drink the perfect cup of tea in a leisurely manner, finally being able to take an itchy bra off and scratch after wearing it all day, and the feeling of waking up slowly at the end of a long and overdue sleep in.

⌈ Secret Post #1046 ⌋

Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe and may contain SPOILERS.

101.

( More! )

Notes:

THIS goes into effect starting with Submissions Post 151, as secrets were posted before the poll went up last week.

Secrets Left to Post: 15 pages, 353 secrets from Secret Submission Post #150.
Secrets Not Posted: [ 1 - broken links ], [ 1 2- not!secrets ], [ 0 - not!fandom ], [
1 2 3 4 5 6 - too big ], [ 0 - repeat ].
Current Secret Submissions Post: here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.

John Burnside
III Prayer

Give me a little less
with every dawn:
colour, a breath of wind,
the perfection of shadows,

till what I find, I find
because it's there,
gold in the seams of my hands
and the night light, burning.

(From: John Burnside, Gift Songs, London: Cape, 2007.)

College Drinking Days

Of all the college pastimes
I discovered and indulged in,
Gossip, study, romance,
I most loved drinking gin.

I found that when I cut it
With just a smidgen of vermouth
It made others more appealing,
My wit that much more couth.

Then early in my sophomore year
I happened to discover
That Bloody Marys in the morning
Helped me to recover.

It was then I stopped because
I saw where things were leading.
The deeper that you cut, you know,
The harder stops the bleeding.

- Dorothy Parker

if i believe
by: e.e. cummings

if i believe
in death be sure
of this
it is

because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold creshendo and silver muting

of seatides
i trusted not,
one night
when in my fingers

drooped your shining body
when my heart
sang between your perfect
breasts

darkness and beauty of stars
was on my mouth petals danced
against my eyes
and down

the singing reaches of
my soul
spoke
the green--

greeting pale
departing irrevocable
sea
i knew thee death.

and when
i have offered up each fragrant
night,when all my days
shall have before a certain

face become
white
perfume
only,

from the ashes
then
thou wilt rise and thou
wilt come to her and brush

the mischief from her eyes and fold
her
mouth the new
flower with

thy unimaginable
wings,where dwells the breath
of all persisting stars

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Firesong
by: Sylvia Plath

Born green we were
to this flawed garden,
but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad,
spitefully skulks our warden,
fixing his snare
which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair
is tricked to faulter in split blood.

Now our whole task's to hack
some angel-shape worth wearing
from his crabbed midden where all's wrought so awry
that no straight inquiring
could unlock
shrewd catch silting our each bright act back
to unmade mud cloaked by sour sky.

Sweet salts warped stem
of weeds we tackle towards way's rank ending;
scorched by red sun
we heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings;
brave love, dream
not of staunching such strict flame, but come,
lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

On the blog: Fantastic Mr. Fox, Drag me to Hell

http://feeds.reference.com/click.phdo?i=e0aa67fa1ec0a1f3ebf94ca8fde0c383

http://www.dictionary.com/wordoftheday/archive/2009/11/16.html

hoi polloi: the common people; the masses.

Stony Town
John Shaw Neilson

If ever I go to Stony Town, I'll go as to a fair,
With bells and men and a dance-girl with the heat-wave in her hair:
I'll ask the birds that live in the road; for I dream (though it may not be)
That the eldest song was a forest thought, and the singer was a tree.

Oh, Stony Town is a hard town! It buys and sells and buys:
It will not pity the plights of youth or any love in the eyes:
No curve they follow in Stony Town; but the straight line and the square:
- And the girl shall dance them a royal dance, like a blue wren at his prayer.

Oh, Stony Town is a hard town! It sells and buys and sells:
- Merry men I will take with me, and seven and twenty bells:
The bells will laugh and the men will laugh, and the girl shall shine so fair
With the scent of love and cinnamon shaken out of her hair.

Her skirts shall be of the gossamer, full thirty inches high;
And her lips shall move as the flowers move to see the winds go by:
The men will laugh, and the bells will laugh, to find the world so young;
And the girl shall go as a velvet bird, with a quick step on her tongue.

She shall cry aloud that a million moons for a lover is not long,
And her mouth shall be as the green honey of the honey-eater's song:
- If ever I go to Stony Town, I'll go as to a fair,
And the girl shall shake with the cinnamon and the heat-wave in her hair.

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?

Title: Undone
Author: cleo (cleo2584)
Fandom: Law and Order SVU
Pairing(s): Alex Cabot/Patrice LaRue
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,587
Summar: Patrice doesn't like losing, and Alex knows precisely how to deal with guilt.
Spoilers: Possibly minor spoilers for 11.5 "Hardwired."
Disclaimer: SVU belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC.

I see you started without me.

The Philosopher

I saw him sitting in his door,
Trembling as old men do;
His house was old; his barn was old,
And yet his eyes seemed new.

His eyes had seen three times my years
And kept a twinkle still,
Though they had looked at birth and death
And three graves on a hill.

"I will sit down with you," I said,
"And you will make me wise;
Tell me how you have kept the joy
Still burning in your eyes."

Then like an old-time orator
Impressively he rose;
"I make the most of all that comes,
The least of all that goes."

The jingling rhythm of his words
Echoes as old songs do,
Yet this had kept his eyes alight
Till he was ninety-two.

- Sara Teasdale

  
  Two people loving each other make a rebellion of two.
  It is a thundering whisper breaking abuses through.
  
  Two lovers in hay, or woodbine, make God Almighty's light,
  it is like a waltzing ball of innumerous threads of life.
  
  Two people adoring each other resemble two orphan kids
  that cling to the skirt of beauty like puppies reaching for feeds.
  
  They are a sort of skin-readers and linguists of human eyes.
  To understand the tremors they don't need any advice.
  
  The bed-sheets they've crumbled they value more than anything else.
  The names that they whisper are greater than any of greatest names.
  
  It is a serious menace, conspiracy, biggest of all. It is a rebellion of body
  against separation from soul. It is uncontrollable, and it's
  
  like two kingdoms, or two nations merged voluntarily
  without declaring a war. Staring like freaks and sneering,
  
  the crowd have got a good mind to wait for severe punishment
  for love is said to be blind. But would it be worth getting married
  
  if we were to decide to cure ourselves from happiness,
  the pleasure of being blind? If blindness is laughed at squeamishly,
  
  then, I imagine, the world can perish from an explosion,
  and rise from a whispered word.




(Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov)