If you the owner of the dog, really showing not just food but real affection, then dog very much appreciate. Isn't it?
Today God gives milk and I have the pail.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
The Thames is a wretched river after the Mersey and the ships are not like Liverpool ships and the docks are barren of beauty. . . it is a beastly hole after Liverpool; for Liverpool is the town of my heart and I would rather sail a mudflat there than command a clipper out of London
If Tao Lin had been born to Gary Shteyngart's parents and spent his early twenties slaving for pageviews at NewYorker. com, he would have written something like this, the Bright Lights, Big City of the click-here-now generation.
I like a man who has a great curiosity and sense of adventure because that's the way I am. He has to have a willingness to be vulnerable and a willingness to see where the road takes us. And I want a man who is romantic.
No man saw the building of the New Jerusalem, the workmen crowded together, the unfinished walls and unpaved streets; no man heard the clink of trowel and pickaxe; it descended out of heaven from God.