Completely Inappropriate

Kinkature.

Mood: Finger-tips hurting.
Listening To: 'The Regret' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Tiger in the Smoke, Margery Allingham
Eating: roast beef and potatoes
Drinking: Smart Water!
I ain't ready, I ain't ready,
Don't put me in that pine box yet.
Hah. This song is totally rockin. I wanna rip out its spine and move in.
Things are a little crazy. I've been working out like a pony, and I made a silly little promise to a green-eyed boy that I wouldn't cut my hair till he does. Considering both of us look like haystacks, and he's well chuffed with my state of disarray, I think that may have been a bit unwise.
I've also developed a very unhealthy desire to watch High School Musical.

Man Candy

I am sick to DEATH of people telling me I look like Halle Berry.
If I looked like Halle Berry, I would have a gorgeous man-piece like Gabriel Aubry.
So there.
Been grooving to Radiohead...actually, just two of their tracks, Karma Police and No Surprises, both from OK Computer. I've got the most depressing playlist on my mp3 player right now...it even has Blue Eyed Soul by Wilco on it, but then suddenly starts spritzing up with Delivery by Babyshambles, which, incidentally, is the catchiest fucking tune in the history of catchy tunes. Long live Shotter's Nation, mah lovelies!
Urb. I'm going to go to bed and dream about blond Adonislike gods.
Observe.
Though, to be perfectly honest, I've been less and less about perfectly chiselled good looks lately, and more about scruffylooking men with killer smiles. Weird, huh?
I accosted some poor, random bloke in the mall the other day just cause he had the most glorious beard...and he was a blond. Obviously, fair men usually have kind of patchy facial hair..but he had this fabulous full on golden beard, all vikingly, and a great smile and all dimply through it.
Oh. I'm experimenting with watercolour canvas.

Killing in the Name Of

I faced off with a twelve kilo sack of half-rotten turnips the other day.
You bet your bottom I won.
I'm hungry, and I feel like having some red meat.
Grr.

Seamus Heaney

I love him.
Lots.
And I really, really want to read his Beowulf, but I can't seem to find the time.
And Neil Gaiman has done his best to ruin the legend.
The tosser.
But here, have some Seamus.

Death of a Naturalist

All the year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampots full of the jellied
Specks to range on the window-sills at home,
On shalves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hadges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like snails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.