i wonder where he got his scars

I never say how lovely tea is.
I've actually managed to have a nap (o noes! the evil nap!), and I'm perking myself up with a cuppa...and o, dear God it is one of the most fabulous things.
I just listened to your single, Nicky, and I think it's...very you. You little fruitsation, you. I had this sudden, awful, wonderful memory of you playing me those sad little punk songs you used to write about me (which were never terribly complimentary, but hey, we were sixteen). I still don't like your nasal, whingey, Blink 182 voice, but awh...you're all growed up and making music!
So, there's this graphic novel. It was written by a bloke called Gibson Twist, and the art is done (I think) by Ben Steeves, and, as it was Gibson's birthday just a bit ago, I'm going to go ahead and tell everyone I know (via blog) that he's a pretty brilliant bloke, and his work is probably the most realism you're ever going to get from a webcomic. Go look at it.
Erm. Yes. I've been trying to write poetry.
I'm not getting away with it.
I mean, it's good stuff.
But it's pointless.
If you can find a point in it, please tell me.
This one's called L'Enfant Trouvé, une femme. (pretentious? moi?)

O, Hadasseh,
daughter of the
morning, did you fall
to earth like lightning?
Did you make a
storm of absinthe in your
sugar-jewelled tea-cup?

The fairest broken
nightingale sings tinny
lullabies, harmonised
to delicate, edible
suede-soft whispers
in the dread of
summer nights.

I am the child of
promise, leaked,
by aneurysm, onto your
shoulder, haemhorraged
grey matter, composing,
composing, the ode
to joy, deafly.

This is your volatile
tenderness; a vacuous
seduction, a holocaust;
the tanned-tissue lamps
are given to Diogenes,
with my heart thrown
wide open, just for you.
(fin)
and scales.
Also, TERRY PRATCHETT!