My hart klop groen vir groei
en ander goed
en pomp van hormone
en suurtof ryke bloed
dit was liefde
met eerste oog opslag
dis net jammer my oe staar blind
teen die mes in jou hand
wat op my kaal rug wag.

Dis 'n gan an soort klop
die go-ahead van my kop
die alles sal reg wees
in jou glimlag
jou oe die mandaat
van 'n regte terg gees.

en ek gaan vir die groen
en silwer en goud,
vir al die goeie goed
vir die land sonder fout.

Maar my hart is die
Andries Hendrik Potgieter
van my boere bloed
wat waarsku teen jou
met alle moed.
My heldersiende hartklop
wat my weg probeer lei
van nog 'n ou grappie
en nog 'n bietjie seerkry.

Nou klop hy rooi
hy klop bloed
hy klop stop.

Maar soos 'n GP kar
vermy ek die tekens
in my haas vir jou mond.
Voel die lem deur my ribbes gly
dood, nog voor die grond.

en my hart, wil lag,
maar skree verwoed.
Nou kook die boerebloed!
Jou simpel, jou wetter
jou bogsnuiter kind!
Snou my hart my toe,
nou is hy stil en
gee my die silent treatment.

Her scent
is not by fair Channel
for she is nat-u-ral...

her perfume
is soap and flannel
soiled diapers
and form-u-la...

fresh baked bread
and apple pie
White wine
and lem-on-ade

cookies and milk
and chicken soup
hot baths
and hair in braids

for she wears her womanhood
                         in perfume no coin can buy.

I had purchased the tickets home ten days in advance to force myself to get back to reality and civilization. My hands were weak from the constant shoveling; my liver the same. Each hour that had passed underneath that sun seemed like a punishment from God himself; a hot whipping sensation that singed the back of my hair and left permanent burn marks streaked across my back. There was no way I would ever forget the constant ridicule and insult from the other workers as I clumsily painted instant concrete on bricks which would soon be a house I would never see. The struggles of the white man seemed to bring a pleasure to the mexican work force that I would never understand which I was both jealous and disgusted by.

Lemino came over gripping a pick axe, large and the color of of a recently picked coconut. "Hey white boy, you need some water?" He threw me a muddied water bottle in a puddle of my sweat. "Thanks Lem. I can barely lift my ******* head in this heat, how do you do it?" Lemino looked up at the sun. "I don't know man." He lifted his finger to the noon hanging sun and said, "Sometimes I just think of the Sun as my woman and I never take no **** from Her so why's that any different." He took a sip of his own water and walked off, his back completely dry and cracked with a mix of mud and concrete.

Jesus, I thought. For someone like that and someone like me to be working on the same house made me wonder why I had ever been brought here in the first place. How did I get here? Why had I been punished so for my work in school, my excellent obedience with peers and with the community? I was not a religious man but I grew up in the land of the free and the brave, how had it come to this? I drank the entire bottle of water throwing it on the sizzling grey brown ground.

"Hey white boy!," screamed a voice from the rooftop. "Throw that **** away or I'll beat the **** out of you when the day is done." ******. I knew someone would see me during any act of comfort or clumsiness. The mexican hyenas chuckled as I stalked guiltily over to empty water bottle. The ten or twelve workers, all shirtless and brown, stood chuckling down on me like some horrific Greek chorus secretly whispering and planning my doomed fate either at a late night discoteca or some run down bar down by the water. Oh lord, how cometh taunt me so?

---

Parading through Jerus'lem's holy way
Two criminals and one redeemer king
Struggled through the horde, indignant fray
To hill of Skulls, their judgment for to bring.
The sand burned coarse as fire on bloodied skin,
As holy muscles strained to lift the tree,
But ev'n more weight added from our sin,
Upon the shoulders of the precious He. But as they reached pained blessed Calvary's peak,
And air eluded His life-giving lungs,
He lost his life with one great final shriek,
And perm'nent placed his name on watcher's tongues.
He drank the cup of wrath, and tore the veil,
So forever we'd delight in Good Friday's tale.

The Open Studio

Usually the journey by car flattens expectation, and there’s that all-preoccupying conversation, so one only takes in the view where there’s a halt at a traffic light or at the occasional junction. A pattern on a wall, a damaged sign, a curtained window. Waiting, one looks and sometimes remembers, and what one sees later reappears in dreams or moments of disordered contemplation. A train journey is another matter: you sit and look, and when it is a trip rarely made, you put the book away and gaze beyond the ***** windows to a living landscape that scrolls past the frame of view. When you arrive there’s inevitably a walk: today through a town’s industrial hinterland, its pastness where former mill buildings have tactfully changed their use to become creative places, peopled with aspiration and strange activity. Walking reveals the despair of forlorn roadside business falling back into alleys ending in neglected and empty buildings, so much *******, silences of waste and decay.

But here’s the space, there’s a sign on a board outside, OPEN STUDIO TODAY. Entering inside it is quiet and cold, the door remaining open to let in the December air and the hoped-for visitors. But it’s bright and light: a welcoming presence of work and people and coffee and cake. And here’s the studio, a narrow space between make-shift walls where the artist works, where the work awaits, laid out on the surfaces of desks and tables, on shelves and walls, specimens of making; ‘stuff’, the soon-to-be, the collected, the in-progress-perhaps, the experimental.

Good, a heater blows noisily onto cold fingers. In the turbulent air pieces tremble slightly from their hangings on the walls. They are placed at a good height, a ‘good to be close to examine the detail’ height, the constructed, the made, the woven, the stitched, the printed, all assembled by the actions of those quiet, intent, those steady hands. There, a poem on a wall next to the window. Here, photographs of places unlabelled, unrecognised, but undoubtedly significant as a guide to the memory. Look, a dead badger lying in a road.

Next to the studio, a gallery space. Two walls covered with framed prints, well lit, a body of work captured behind glass, in limbo, waiting patiently for the attentive eye to sort the detail, that touch of the object on paper, that mark found and brought out of time and place. Perhaps these ‘things’, some known, some mysteriously foreign adrift from their natural context, have been collected by that bent form on a windswept beach, by the hand reaching out for the  gift in the gutter, struck by the foot on the track, unhidden in the grass by the riverside, what we might pass as without significance and beyond attention. This artist gives even the un-namable a new life, a collected-together form.

Moving closer let the eye enter the artist’s world of form and texture - and colour? There is a patina certainly, colour’s distant echo, what is seen on the edges, a left-behindness, more than any subtlety of language knows how to express, beyond comfortable descriptions, not excitable, where the spirit is damped down and is restful to the mind, a constancy of background, like a capturing of a cloud but bulging full of hints and suggestions, where texture is everywhere, nature’s rich patterns colliding with things once invented and made, used once, once used left and changed, thrown away, to be brought before the selecting eye and the possibility of form with meaning its patient partner.



J.M.W.Turner writes  on poetry and painting

Poetry having a more extensive power
Than our poor art, exerts its influence
Over all our passions; anxiety for our future
Reckoned the most persistent disposition.

Poetry raises our curiosity,
Engages the mind by degrees
To take an interest in the event,
And keeping that event suspended,
Overturns all we might expect.

The painter’s art is more confined,
Has nothing to equate with the poet’s power.
What is done by painting must be done at once,
And at one blow our curiosity receives
All the satisfaction it can know.

The painter can be novel, various and contrast,
Such is our pleasure and delight when put in motion.
Art, therefore, administers only to those wants,
And only to desires that exercise the mind.



Twilight

A day aside and diaried into busy lives
So to a morning walk to Turner’s View
Above the River Wharfe and Farnley Hall
Where it is said the inspiration came
For his famous oil of Hannibal,
with elephants and storm-glad Alps.

On to lunch where six around a table
Souped with salad before we homed
Mid afternoon the day in decline
We were done with words so watched
The edge-timed light flow between our hands.

Inevitably we climbed the stairs to lie
In twilight’s path beneath the skylight’s
Square a sliver-moon we couldn’t see
Gracing the remaining daylight hour
Marbled with shadows our collected
Curves and planes lay as sculptures
In the approaching dimity and dark
Each experimental stroke of touch
Holding us dumb to speech and thought
As night’s soft blanket covered us entire


Northcliffe Woods

Oh nest in the sky, empty of leaves,
Those tangled branches
Reaching out from twisted trunks
Into the sullen clouds above, when

Suddenly a crow -
‘Corvidae’, she said -
And simultaneously pulled
a hank of ivy from a nearby tree.

Hedera Helix I thought
But did not say, instead
I whispered to myself
Those ancient names I knew.

Bindwood, Lovestone
(For the way it clings
To bricks but ravages walls),
A vine with a mind of its own. But

She, in a different frame that day,
Apart, adrift and far away
From our usual walk and talk,
Fixed her gaze on the woodland floor,

Whilst skyward I sought again that
Corvid high in the branches web
Black beyond black beyond black
Against the pale white canopy above.


Franco*

Blow She Still
Ed insieme bussarono
Sweet Soft Frain
Cloche Lem Small
Spiri About Sezioni
Portrait Eco Agar
Le ruisseau sur l’escalier
Etwas ruhiger im Ausdruck
Jeux pour deux
For Grilly Fili Argor
Atem L’ultima sera
Omar Flag Ave
The Heart’s Eye*

play joy touch
code panel macro
refraction process solo
quick-change constrained
hiatus sonority colour
energy post-serial scintillating
aleatoric reuse transformation

A lonely child who imagined music
on sunday walks, he would talk about
how one lives with music as someone
would talk about how one might live
with illness or a handicap. He said,
‘You cannot write your life story in
music because words express the self
best whereas music expresses something
quite beyond words’.

Rook hom uit met
Silwer linte teer
En nikotien
Smoor hom in
ń bredie van
alkahol en kaffiën
Sny hom uit
Met skêr of lem
Verdoof met dwelms
Die bose gees se stem...

Hy krap swaar laserasies
Wat tierstrepe verf
Oor die sagte weefsel
Van my hoof organe
En spring tussen
Sinapse totdat
Impuls ń inhirente
Sindroom word...

Skree. Hy skree. Hy SKREE.
Krap en skree en brand,
Hy brand .... HY BRAND

So Rook hom uit met
Marlboro red
En black mix
Smoor hom in
ń vat van
Russian bear en red bull
Sny hom uit
Met ń dokter se lem
Snuif hom uit in lyntjies
Dis te veel, sy donnerse stem
...

Well, it is the 15th of October
It is raining hard
Skies cry for us
Skies feel the same way as us

Hopefully, tears of joy

We had a fair share of
Smooth and rough
Thick and thin
Smiles and frowns

You'll be my milk
For my food
For every time I eat bread
And keep calm
If you spill yourself
I'll be there
Giving you
Harsh truths in life

Life's hard
Love's fun
Enjoy Life

Take care, Lem
Happy Birthday to you!
Love you gal!

The two hundred pound waitress
Was smoking and patting
At her nearly two-foot-high hair.
The cook was scrubbing
The scunge off the griddle
Old Zeke was drunk in a chair.
A lonely song was playing
For the twenty third time.
The jukebox was just that old.
Young Biff was mopping
In the light of a weak bulb
He knew the water had gone cold.
Still he scrubbed at the colorless
Old linoleum floor, sulking
One more job to get through.
When the door to the café
Quite suddenly opened
And paper and napkins flew.

It was Biff's friend from school,
Most folk thought him a fool,
Jokey Jerry, his Dad and a girl.
His whole mind was taken
By the sight of the vision.
The most beautiful girl in the world.
When they sat at the counter,
Biff washed his hands
And hurried the waitress away.
He put a menu between them,
Between Jerry and the girl,
Asked what she would have today.

She laughed into her hand
And fluttered her lashes.
They were just for a moment alone.
Then his friend asked Biff
"Gimme change all in quarters
And where is the john and the phone?"
So, now with the mood broken
All too abruptly
He took all their orders and blushed.
He offered her some pie
That was made by his mother
Told her she must taste the crust.
The cook began to fry
The food they had ordered
As Biff gazed into her brown eyes.
His friend, the girl's brother
Sneaking behind them
Set fire to Biff's apron ties.
When the smoke rose enough
That somebody noticed
The girl let out a small sound.
Biff began to flail
At his smoldering backside
And wailed as he ran all around.

Quickly circling the room,
He stepped into his bucket,
Which went along with him as he ran.
Then bounced off the leg of
A customer's chair and they fell,
Hamburger, the chair and the man.
The patty flew out
And landed on the waitress
Who screamed and jumped to her feet.
And elbowed the cook
Who was cleaning her glasses
Which then fell into the hot grease.
She shrieked as she reached
For the tongs to retrieve them
And woke up the drunk by the door.
Zeke began to sing,
"Alouette", out of tune.
And "Hallelujah, praise the Lord!"

Oh his journey around the café
Raising all kinds of havoc
Biff found himself by the windows.
Somehow set fire to Hazel's
New book-ordered curtains.
Jerry's Dad yelled, "Thar she blows!"
Thinking rather quickly
Since he was nearest the danger,
Dad threw his iced-tea at the flames.
And most of the canary yellow
Took-two-weeks-to-get-them
Café curtains with the drawbacks were saved.

Biff was still standing,
The bucket on his foot,
So he bent to pull it away.
Around the corner came Lem,
A very large fellow
Who didn't see Biff in his way.
He sent Biff careening
Through the checkered-cloth tables
To end in the corner, in the dirt.
The shreds of his dignity
Were scattered around him
As tattered as his ruined pants and shirt.
But the beautiful ladylike,
Lovely sister of Jerry
Dared anyone else to make fun.
She took Biff's hand
And smiling, she told him.
"Darlin', this is how legends are begun."

They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.

And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.

Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.

So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.

Mahadi Hasan:

From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.

Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.

No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.

Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.

Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.

George Polskiy:

That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.

Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.

Mahadi Hasan:

Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.

No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.

George Polskiy:

You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.

But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.

Conclusion:

Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.

With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.

But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.

For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.

end of life's road
the soul lands
on its own shadow

*

My Da was dying in Nass hospital and I was told to go away for a while so I walked to the little wildlife park nearby which had lots and lots of swans who sat on the benches and wouldn't let humans sit on them. You can just about see on the left hand side of the photo a few about to 'busk' as they believed I was usurping their territory .Then suddenly this gull swept down and followed the line of the road to come full stop in front of me as if confronting me with matters of life and death. I managed to get a photo of it just before it landed on its own shadow.

"Hi!" it said as if talking to humans was neither here not there....I'm the neighbour psychopomp.. I've come to guide your father's soul!" In my great grief a talking gull was neither here nor there as my father's life met its end. "Does it have to be this way?" I asked in my anguish. "It does...." whispered the seagull "...it does."

There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me...

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.
Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.
Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.

P eace
O smosis
E quilibrium
T achyon
R adiciform
Y lem

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney

Do
      Do.....doo.....doo-dooooo I, I, I...... have a
d
     r
       i
         n  
            k....
                drink....dri--nk
                                            king.....drink....
                                                                      dri-nk.....king
                                                                                                 prob,  pro-b..
lem... prob...prob... pro-blem?

   ......spew......
                               you,  you,  bug..bug  bug---gers
why, why.... should you care?     You aren't...aren't my fa---fa--father!

Officer-on-duty to subordinate:  LOCK THIS BABBLER UP!

‌  ‌  ‌  ‌  ‌(Lem-ON)

     LEMON
               Juice.

(lemon(fresh) cut in half
knife metal - zesty peel
bitter citrus nebulize smell,
                                       juice)

Childhood            Ground Coffee
     smell          ≈           smell

Brown substance
Mysterious
Drank by adults

                               
      dark brown - vivid yellow
                  calm - verve
            oily, dry - fresh, watery
                 stable - quick, ephemeral
         (in a shelf)

BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.



“Be thou my vision
Oh Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me
Save what thou art.”



There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass  we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and  I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me>

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

I love that the black women of the United States have fun.

                    τ ς Ά ς τ τ Δεν ¥ ό τ τ

Of the people, outside the city, the star of the man
of music, worry about your own life, red dragon;
the woman of one night: the great pale horse.
The girl is dead, as in beautiful in the eyes
of the people of water; ****** and the death
of the three girls, the best of darkness, blue body,
gold embroidered baby stars, prostitutes' great ******
long hair; I need friends to place with fire in the future
war of skin; change your head, warm to the west's
Christian dog copy of the sky; no year of yellow food
brought to hurt your feet, ****** and the French royal
moon naked to investigate the Game Boy opens
the wind to the happy old garden of the Saudi radio;
read this knowledge after the European Saudi
mountains of hell's stone knowledge of pain;
brown center of Igor's real dream donkey sends
color's memory speech to the robot ballroom;
support the world's political problems
computers trees, Mexico's easy times; Asia,
the security of man and the Jewish Museum
of Christ, I thought it was called modern
goddess of France's symbolism, healthy hair,
cities and wild streets, modern minds
of a thousand hours of Itamanat, older
children, the best books of the Elders,
better known to us In the fishing of the smoker
farms of the countries of today, the Spanish
group, often obscure ****** and secrets,
joins the difficult night clothes of Snooch.
Palo's international concerns about the spirit
of the Greece area Of course, there is no need
to wait. Listen to England that is known.
The door of the cat, the Company,
the money for the autumn. It was a deep,
living Medium; Yes, the seas, the star
of the sand, the star of Bob's Castle. ****.
General. From the window to your cell.
Small lips to Rosa de la Muerte, Devil's Rose:
Bright devil's silver, the walls of the great mountain,
one of the books Q West Africa: Robes of the gods.
The angel of the mark, Ireland, passed
through Einstein, India, an Indian poet,
the summer rain, the teeth of the fathers
table makes the crystal trees prophet
sound parts of the bed To rest for a cup of Paul.
Perfect beach to listen to invisible food
for cats on the left and eyes began
to move away from the western part of plastic
walking and thinking of the Lord, Sahara
Community Revolutionary Type of cat cafe's
Magic waves hit the terror of the lady leaves
the child blank read the Lamb Machine Cut.
Natalie's Image of bad smell of a Barbie of the Arabs,
light, to remain faithful to move the garden of Japan
Top, Georgia the day of its watchers. Put on the socks
of the year in which you expect to feel the sacred
to begin with, ****** and easy for a girl,
and she is infected with a dog,
the baby of emotion in your transgression
of alchemy, the proportion of, for smokers,
weapons and, finally, to a woman
out of the land of countries that the planet
is burning with the base after, wash,
paint to paint an image of the normal angle
of a cold monster in no way, M. *****
United to Rome at eleven to go to the bars
of the Capitol, at the same time later,
the price. From the tongue of a gun,
you ****** in the face, to the fool, inside
the drunk man that belongs to the animal,
the whole universe has been buried
in the same place that came to mind,
examining the eye of the one that does not shine
before she arrives. until you know some of the bras ....

The woman killed a magazine
in a threatening movement of the pieces
in front of the children. Natalie Lem
has restricted views on the Japanese
standards authorities in Georgia to live
with the Arabs, not a piece of light
but strong on the ground. It is not easy
to use new and clever approvals that
infected women and children can feel
the same as dairy developers observe.
After the value of the millimeter of
the weapon's tongue, we fly intense
tensions that are buried by the light
of his eyes and do not light up.

Before you know, something like a front ...
black women in the United States
who are outside the city of Carl's life,
the composer, the red dragon, his wife's
night, and the pony is a great horse
that is beautiful, the ****** of the girl,
follow the evil, the evil and the moral
and moral golden stars how long and
dangerous you must be faithful to your
friends. Stone Radio Garden,
an elderly woman from Saudi Arabia
who reads the information and knowledge
of hell of the stones. The true picture
of the pain center is a dream.
Ignore a speech, Igor Solassar talks
about the country's problems getting the robot.
There are computers,
China easily, and the Jews believed
that the goddess of the modern defense
museum in France A, has healthy hair,
walks through the streets of our cities.
The streets, the modern spirit of Itana
for thousands of hours, the children
who get the best books for the clubs
of our region are known, Spanish
crews, prostitutes and privacy. Under
no circumstances can it serve, at least
in the spirit of a stick close
to the international interest
blocking the north. Listen to England
to design it explicitly. Cat door,
to the crowd. It was not deep
and it was the main means
of communication for the recession
money. Thus, the sea and the sky
and the star of the planet reward
one another kissing some windows
and pink tongues of normal cells.
A Satan for the works of Satan: that is why he is Satan.
The Walls of Africa written by the gods,
the Indian poet Einstein, summer, tidal and rain,
the father of the spine, the father of the crystal
with a strong sport with a piece of trees deceived,
let her invisible eyes sea, the peace of the lake
mug with God in the Western Saharan community.
Vouousanari T started giving something
random on the west side of the property square.

Said Stanislaw Lem

Vancouver Island is a private widow who,
Julia, lives with her best asteroids. I need a tree.
Athletes in different parts of the dream,
and their clothes are safely locked and bugged.
The Vancouver Island is a private widow,
Julia, lives with her best asteroid. I need a tree.
Athletes in different parts of dreams,
And their clothes are locked and dated safely.
Order Lame New Family Sporting Game
Blue Bridge model, Blue Knight Memories,
Australia, Australia's poverty is beautiful.
Empty and fish. Newer stars are a sudden
change in York, Robert Sober News, White,
Gold, Turks around the world, Dutch
and Canadians. The authorities will win
as soon as possible. Robertson,
New York, Beach, Sports and public
meetings; And women's clothing,
food, Pharmacy and full study Uli,
French Blue, Feedra, Sugar,
Already in Canada, the Greek Blue
Planet, Australia and Australia
And Britain, New Zealand
and the South America, Europe
and the American film
Gazpakhalta Doma Kiki ibertchi
Ezigis fresh blood blue hair
And Canada, Australia and Australia
New Crossword Zelda l Strelia,
Posters, English, English, English,
English, English, English, South America,
American Literature Ecolasia Dorsey
Blair. The best beauty of desert heavy
It's fresh and easy to drink and drink.
A young woman in Australia, Australia
Australia Vendo is a widow of a man.
I need a wooden plate. A mysterious
one; Gradually the script is unexpected
Revolution in food packaging.
Star star star night Yura Robert
Charity New York: Seafood
with seafood, sports club, Outline,
Famous Clothes, British society,
women, Bread and puppies
in healthy meadows. It is real
and we now believe in life
Definitely in France,                                                          ­there is a new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Gold,
Greek, big blue, and in our world,
In Canada, forever, always,
as soon as possible. Big parents,
men and women, Weekly music from Billy
and Africa, Australia and New Zealand,
wallpaper link, Great Britain
and South America, United States
and Europe Dumaiki Ebberchetti
Elephant Holmes Cats Better appetizing
drinks. The English schools, hair, skin
and blood are simply and quite blue,
born in Australia, Australia, Vendo,
And a beautiful young widow.
I need wood and shrimp The unexpected
scenario contains unexpected
revisions to the cookie. The star
star of Stella Star is in Yura,
Robert New York, Stella Stella,
Located in the sea. New book
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Gold,
Greek, blue, Dutch, Canada, forever,
Permanently as fast as possible
Grandparent and grandmother,
Women and older women,
Mel Week Billy Music and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand,
posters, The United Kingdom
and South America, United States
and Europe Dumaiqusu Iberite
elephant food rustic cats.                                                    Blue sky desert sky
Yunus lamaka yeh blue swan
Beiji Yahya Jianzhu Order Lem
New Family Game Sporting
Model Blue Bridge, Canada Red,
Blue Night Memories, Australia,
Australia Poverty is beautiful.
Empty and fish. Late New Stars
is a sudden change in York,
Robert Sober. New, white, gold,
Turkish, Dutch and global Canadian
authorities will win as soon
as possible. Robertson, New York,
beaches, sports and public meetings
and women's clothing, food,
pharmacy and full Uli studies,
French blue, Phedra, sugar,
Greek blue planet as early as Canada,
Australia as well as in Australia
and Britain, the News Zealand
and South America, Europe
and the film USA gazapkhulta Douma
Kiki ibertchi ezigis fresh blood meat
blue hair and canada, australia, australia
greek blood island l stralia
in new zealand, posters, uk, england,
english, English, English, English,
South America, USA eikolisa
Dorsey Blair Chronicles of the beriyana
desert The best beauty is fresh
and easy to drink and drink.
A young woman in Australia,                               Australia,
Australia, is a widow of Vendo, a man.
I would like a wooden slab.
An uninterrupted sequence scenario
contains an unexpected revolution
in food packaging. Star Star Star
Night Star Yura Robert Charity
New York: Seafood from the sea,
sports clubs, outlines, famous clothing,
sleeping British society, women,
bread and puppies in healthy meadows
are real and now we believe that life
in France is guaranteed, it's a new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Golden,
Greek, Big Blue, and in our world,
in Canada, forever, forever, as soon

as possible.
Big parents, men and women,
Billy's Music Weekly and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand,                                         Connecting Wallpaper,
Great Britain and South America,
United States and Europe. Dumaiqiqi
Iberatchetti Elephant Cats Homemade
dishes Best Beauty Yesterday Drinks
Born in Greek schools, hair,
skin and blood easy
and perfectly blue, Australia,                                               Australia, Wendo,
and a beautiful young widow.
I need wood and shrimp.             The uncoded script contains an unexpected revolution in the cookie.
The Star Star Star of Stella Star at Yurra,
at Robert New York, Stella Stella,
located in the sea. new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Golden,
Greek, Blue, Dutch, Canada, forever,
forever, as fast as possible.                        Grandparents,
women and elderly women,
Billy Music Weekly Post and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand, posters,
United Kingdom and South America,
United States and Europe.                                                          ­     Dumaiqusu
Iberatchetti Cats Elephant Rustic food
Not headed Blue sky Desert desert
Yunus Lamaca                                          Yae Blue Swan Beiji Yahya Jianzhu