{ less papers, more demos }

i'm so happy i could fart unicorns.

{random poetry #53}

“Are you anybody else’s missing piece?
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, maybe you want to be your own piece?
I can be someone’s and still my own.
from The Missing Piece


“Underneath my outside face
There’s a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole more like me.”

“There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part, 
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.”
from Every Thing on It


“Poor, poor fool why can’t you see
She can love others and still love thee.”
from Where the Sidewalk Ends


“The baby bat
Screamed out in fright,
‘Turn on the dark,
I’m afraid of the light.”


“How many slams in an old screen door? 
Depends how loud you shut it. 
How many slices in a bread? 
Depends how thin you cut it. 
How much good inside a day? 
Depends how good you live ‘em. 
How much love inside a friend
Depends how much you give ‘em.”


“And all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet”

Silverstein, S. (1932-1999) 

{ dubstep mornings }

it was really, really grey

{random poetry #52}

[ Meditatio ]

when i carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
i am compelled to conclude
that man is the superior animal.

when i consider the curious habits of man
i confess, my friend, i am puzzled.

Pound, E. (1885-1972)

take a deep breath, try again.


"france: ten
france: twenty
france: thirty
france: forty
france: fifty
france: sixty
france: sixty ten
world: france what are you doing?
france: four twenties
world: france stop it
france: four twenties ten
world: france that doesn't even make any sense
france: hundred."

wisdom . will . wit . grit  

{random poetry #51}

[ for a mouthy woman ]

god and the devil still are wrangling
which should have her, which repel;
god wants no discord in his heaven;
satan has enough in hell.

Cullen, C. (1903-1946)

“she quietly expected great things to happen to her, 
and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.” 
Fitzgerald, Z.

panados com pão....


os xiquinhos por lá aparecem, os xiquinhos por lá ficam.

if you let yourself be eaten by your ego,
you will end up seeing the world through your belly button.

{random poetry #50}

[ it’s Ours ]

there is always that space there
just before they get to us.
gentle pure

it’s worth

centuries of


just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
before they get to us
when they do
they won’t
get it all


Bukowski, C.,  from You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

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