How Make A Mini Moto Quiet

SAD POETRY

... and it's summer: I'm bag poetry event!

Please (please ) , despite the cultural desert (full of plays made for those who see television soap opera with the aggravation of these pieces are fried by actors who do not know if the novels are the characters or real people, flesh, bone and a minimum of shame), not invite me over to go to these meetings of poetry as if they were offering me a trip to Las Vegas! Walking
this medium since 2000, I made new friends that if it were possible, would return in time, leave one by one and where I found, though it seems stupid, I know I would never miss them.

From boring, when we are free, we do not need to celebrate, but who feels a great relief ... ah! this one feels right!

not know where I was thinking when I made this mess, but not I needed to have mingled with this crowd that, frankly, when I bring disappointment (all, without exception, derived from ethical deficiencies), went beyond the imaginable. A few
(fit in a hand of fingers equal to Lula's) until they were worth, but these fell outside these soirees postmodern hyper-alienating long ago ... or are, bit by bit, fading and looking for other beaches, because the nuisance became tremendous.
this Noah's Ark, should just drown that sticks to this gang that rapes and intimacies that you think respect is something that has only the self and self-interest ... what a waste!

Not to mention the rampant geekiness, true pandemic arising from aesthetic ultraliberalism Hipster , sympathetic ideology as propagated among those who go to certain churches receive pardons and cultural event for inclusion where they are distributed survival kits for mediocre art in general.

is intolerable to see and live with news so weird and fake as those who are saved from the critical events of poetry: all free, of course!

Due to an exceptional release of reports on the intranet and columns as reliable as the column GOOD PEOPLE (Celebrities or Boba), signed by physically ugliest man in the world, it is noted, For example, the existence of a certain unfortunate trio, formed by an old paquita (employee of the office of a vice), a brunette who seems out of puberty yesterday still menstruating and did not understand why a nice zen-rock that has been adhered to and mockery, yielding discuss your ; level last name to use and abuse of clever well-intentioned ... This gang is the image of the square attitude, lack of desconfiômetro from anything that is more oriented charlatanism. The portrait anticipated decline that come with such environments (infested with haters, opportunistic, and other ridiculous less sensitive) in there should be poetry if not critical stance to impose their dialectical tool and continue ignoring and accepting the current overwhelming cult of image and the image that spreads around.
What is what, folks?
Do not they have friends who are sincere to them and tell them that what they are doing is depressing ... That is a sad and laughing hyena laughing in the face of that allow you to display ... with this camabada on the scene, it hurts to realize that stupidity is trying to disguise ... someone needs to tell them that, while it's true that in the copy pop Muindi make more successful than the original, not worth anything if you copy the copy as it is being, low ; ike level.
... That's the end!

Being both cruel and absolutely honest, know very well who walks in the shadows, behind screens, monitoring these decadent nonsense. The capricious masters geekiness like this are that act the same (always in the rearguard, manipulating the narcissism of egoists without atitute) for 30 years.
30 years doing the same job bizarre. redundancy upon redundancy ... more and more of the same ... a diarrhea that has no end or diapers to conceal the smell of shit (Akli, who has a theater, and theater at the base of private-joke, shit is a hit.)
not know how to do: they are poems from 30 years ago - the same.

will they think those poems, recited as one who farts after eating sauerkraut are good? (hehehe)
What is certain is that around them, from time to time change the people, ie the clans that give them the leash and, in many cases, even pay for it !

Okay, after the success of subliterário TWILIGHT , vampires are on the crest of the wave and the number of blood donors has increased dramatically cool!
It's sad, but square attitude took account environment dedicated to spoken poetry (international trend of broad-spectrum). Until recently, go to the events was still funny and exciting. For many people, a refreshing novelty. There, the artists (artists?) Began to feel amazing (did not understand that free does not exist against the proposal) and the thing went awry, turning a clash of egos ... in fact, a desperate attempt to contain the individual unbearable pressure of the super-ego, the real virus program ...

Slogan Neo-Nazi is going on between the Europeans invaded by immigrants says: 'm not ME, I am MINE! (I am not I, I AM MY!). In
poetry events frequented by these sensitive, such barbarity turned epiphanic: I JUST ME MORE IF I AM ME!

Given this extraordinary stupidity, I lost the will to keep playing, writing and reciting poetry out there ... events taking hallucinogens and the perverse Mice di Verses (even if they do not escape this trio tacky and are besieged by troops of estrupícios who gets into everything that is opportunity, where basically everything that comes on stage is free and often free , believing it to be, even in absentia, an act of citizenship - whoever he is, is the event that is, one should allow everyone to have open mic for all ... ... it is forbidden to restrain ... is required let people like that occupy the stage to talk rubbish - sometimes true poets recite the names of the What's worse ... is where is, with a democratic poetry event, there are monsters on stage and talking shit about morons, doing therapy in platpeia ...

... just between us: crazy, until we put up with, but annoying crazy goes a little beyond the quota of tolerance ... and there is no bag to hold pride, bullshit, dissimulaçã , the, square attitude ...

Generator Usa Driving Lincense

Interim

Do not take any more time wasting. Do not take it anymore regret the lost time. I can not stand the annoying myself mourning for lost time.

can not stand to envy others' lives. I can not stand being stuck in the most everyday choices that happen for my inability to make decisions.

again like I need what I do. Or do something else.

need to lose the fear.

need to stop lamenting the lost time before I no longer have time at all.

Fatal Dose Of Temazepam

(I) as always got
Home
Hands empty and the head in readiness
I wanted to be much more than that
But it's empty
That sets the tone for my whole claim

(II)
I know it's always late to remember
it is true that there is more to do
The rest all do not stop no matter

If I were stretched a desire to go

I do not sound quite good if
I may not sound at all
The rest goes and gets the impression
In anguish, sleep and only

(III)
No matter how much time will pass I'm still the same
be lost as
Words are only words But

are the same words that I save at the end

I do not sound quite good
If I can not sound at all
The rest goes and gets the impression
From anxiety, sleep and only

Brent Everett & Brent Corrigan Free Movie

Considering ...

considering what to do with this blog so far from providential character and unjustly forgotten:

1. Take shame, courage, and type all my stories still threatened by the degradation of paper shelved or "fleshy", posting in this space.
2. Post all reviews and critiques that I did since the beginning of optional Pedagogy.
3. Post private confidences and memes, among other summer squashes, just here, restricting my main blog, the Desk of Psychotic , but only those posts literary, cinematic and "serious."

Man Sits On Woman Stomach

time more than it should

In little more than a me I will cause 40 years of age. I am stuck financially, I have no reservations or walk-a-half, squandered from 3 years Subsequent waves of various extraordinary expenses - such as changes of address advised at the last minute or health care for eight months - and bad investment choices. In these three years, each time some extra budgetary survival could be achieved, then came an unanticipated cost that was taking away: the end of a debt was accompanied by a court of Shelah river, was a freelance followed by an unexpected car repair due to some external factor to maintenance. Besides fighting to be breathe financially, I have an extra pension, and my horizon is always a maximum of 6 months. Doing things right was not enough, even do much more than my duty to never give me any kind of advantage or guarantee, and is perennial feeling of always being so exposed as is not doing anything. And there is no space to process this, because the world's eyes are also the eyes of my destiny. 50% of the responsibility is entirely mine, me for not having planned to have abused at times when they could have made a reservation, or for failing to take more control of my own life and "made it happen." The other 50% I give to a counting sequence of events that seem shady, but it's not - it happened. Things like finished out of the hospital and be told by the tenant that he decided he needed the apartment in 30 days or less, the worst time to rent real estate speculation.

But get this: life is mine. A person living it well is me, and nobody else. Nobody can be responsible for everything that goes with life itself, but all are responsible for * deal * with what happens with their lives. Therefore, having 50% of the responsibility is to have 100% responsibility.

And then? And then, shut up, hang your head, tap forward and that's it.

Toddler Hungry All The Time

unfollowingmyself

months without posting here because I lack purpose, and left me for laziness larger text. In this sense, Twitter sucked for me, I download my verbiage 140 characters at a time at the expense of others' patience. Then I realized that last post before my raid tonight (ie, penultimate) was in September 2009, and thought of all that has changed since then, and how much.

was still chaotic in the middle of the semester, had not blown my overdraft health, had not received the money from the action of Linknet - or disappointed in me as the wait was empty, by money that came and went just as quickly, drained by the leak of accumulated loans. Had not lost 16 achievements that would miss the following months. Had not been hospitalized, had not amputated four fingers, had not yet had to change me in haste, had not spent pounds of money on medicine. Although the company was dying slowly stressful cubicle for weeks at work. Still had not stopped to think about things a motherfuckin then I thought, and more then un-thought with the same speed.

The following months were ruled by small steps that were chained off my hands too long, and now, when they returned, they seem to be out of touch again. Because there seems to be lasting peace in these small shifts. it seems that every little head up is accompanied by a stumbling, just as every small disaster is imminent rescued at the last second by a blast of compressed air at the last minute, a survival that (without wanting to sound ungrateful) just seems to hold the game for three more minutes. is tired, it's a bit tiring, expensive drugues. Now I've heard

there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

(...) Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

(...) I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

(Edição minha.)

Peliculas Monica Roccaforte

mr_numbersix @ 2010-07-22T02: 59:00

 Há a whiff of idiocy inherent inations for my dawn. Staying alone talking to a bunch of people (or not so well, to be more realistic) is very, very, very stupid. And to publicly dedicate my idiocy, I must confess that I succumbed to curiosity to access the site whounflollowedme. First discovered unfollows some gains recently. And - of course - stupidity has no limit, and I had to go further, discovering who is not "Following back." I found several people disappointed. Assuming that the site tracks the "unfollows" I think it is people who have followed me and stopped - which is right were more painful than if they had not followed me, because sometimes people just do not stop to check it. I looked at those names and I thought of the reasons. Seemed obvious - I'm floodista bohemian, but never thought it really impacts, further pq timelime Twitter pulls a few at a time so many twits. He hit a bad feeling. You know when you inadvertently discovers a bad comment to someone like that did you? No, do not know, because only someone with the combo / paranoia mental laziness too would worry about that. but imagine you know. We make these comments, lightly several times, without this meaning that dislikes of others. But the jerk does not work here as well: he needs everyone to like him, he is a true eye catcher. Give it. Think and learn.

Coleslaw With Angel Hair Pasta

Two poems of mine

quite inspired by a fact that occurred to me yesterday, two poems came out of that nut (semi) artistic / (pseudo) artistic and mental previous two texts (to be written and posted very soon). Here are my poems, hope you like (one of them has a bit of concrete poem): Poem 1

:

Was she sad?

Was she distressed?

Was she bitter?

Is she bitter?

Does she wanted to escape a nightmare?

Does she wanted to escape the nightmare that is your life?

that is your life?

Or

Or

will

your emotion

that its representation

your vision

vision

your image

does not pass the fruit of my imaginary será?

                                                                                   ação?                           acordei

                                                                                                                       woke up?

Poem 2:

Today do not care about psychoanalysis and socialism.

Today not want to know Marx and revolution.

Today not want to know the intelligentsia and academia.

Today do not care about left, right or double hands.

Today no wonder the intelligentsia drought sensitivity.

Today I just want to vent

only vent

A rant

The world is cruel and unfair.

The world is cruel.

And it's unfair.

The world is cruel and is unfair.

The world

cruel and unfair.

Online Bingo With Old Man Calling

Tale: Untitled

This is the second tale I post my own on LJ (the first was this, although not configured as a story itself, although the literary text). From now on, I'll post all my stories and literary production in general, both stored - no wonder they changed the title to "The Drawer (...)" - as the writings hereafter, this LJ, and there will also be space for some of my academic texts.

This story was born of an imaginative flight, nothing cute, my sister ten years: the story of a girl who loses her finger during a ballet class, whose teacher is an insensitive which is not moved even before the blood squirts of the severed limb extension . I chose to leave the text means that even in its raw state, without much cutting, but trying to reproduce as faithfully as possible to speak with authenticity. And as I understood the argument, the tale is of a slightly surreal tone.

Tale:

- Here is the hand of my daughter. The finger that she lost here! And senhora simplesmente não fez nada, nenhum curativo, não chamou o médico, nada. NA-DA!

- Não tenho culpa se sua filha é uma idiota. Ela errou o passo do pingüim e deu nisso.

- Minha filha perde um dedo e é essa a explicação que tenho de sua boca?! Isso lá é justificativa para não cuidar de uma criança, da MINHA FILHA! E eu pago essa droga de aulas de balé, portanto exijo respeito e zelo pela minha filha. Coitadinha, tão novinha e perdeu um dedo! E se atrever a chamá-la a fool in front of me, is a good reason for me to jump out right now, right?

- So what? I'm paid to teach ballet classes to my students, not to the wound healing them, nor try to stick your toes to your feet back home.

- His callous!

- I'm not paid to be sensitive, I get paid to be a teacher.

- Bela teacher you are! What a rotten, so inhuman concept of pedagogy is that you have a north to their classes?

- Pedagogy?! Who spoke of pedagogy here? I'm talking about teaching, do my job competently, and be paid for it. And hopeless cases, untalented or problematic, they are not my specialty. Call a psychologist or therapist for your daughter, and be happy.

- Ever heard of second chance? She dreams of becoming a ballerina ... And well they might have tried to paste the thumb of my daughter would not leave such an expensive repair, and I would pay.

- We do not have appropriate glues for such repairs doctors here. And at this point in the championship, not even sure I could tie that finger back.

- My God! My daughter is only ten years and no longer a finger! And it is still dripping blood, look!

- will stain the carpet of my room, which sucks! Do not know how her daughter has not died hemoragia!

- It's the finger that's bleeding, not my daughter! Thank God, the blood of her wound has stopped. Wow, must have gushed about two liters of blood that finger only.

- Loss of fingers always get this whole mess.

- His monster, only cares about your carpet! Wow, is it possible to find a finger remaining for a transplant at the hospital?

- Who knows? Perhaps you luck; can run and get some left thumb. Where there are remains of corpses there.

- That's what I will do. But come back, I want to talk to the officer or director of that damn school, complain of indifferent and insensitive behavior before the accident my girl.

- Talking beautiful?! Ridiculous, this does not impress me. And I'm the director of the ballet school.

From: 07/05/2010