nirix5: ((fantasia) naked)
In protest to the media's support of stick figures and the mostly unattainable size six, but more eloquent than the song "Baby Got Back."

...All this verbosity having been expended, you genteel ladies and distinguished gentlemen are now invited to read the poem inspired in Fernando Assis Pacheco by Adalgisa, Yansan of the Saddle, while the enchanted one possessed her at Jacira do Odô Oyá's caruru. More precisely, by Dadá's triumphant ass.

The Poem in Its
Original Form


A rump revealed, one August in Bahia,
Round to the eyes, a magnificent orb,
A bottom like a bison, your buttocks, Adalgisa
Beguiled my walk through the market stalls

Of all the rhymed asses of ancient memory
Only yours has the compass of true poetry
A tail bound for glory, oh unrivaled iyawô
Rolling your hips, you take our breath away
Our lips, fair Adalgisa, long there to stray

So plump, so cleft, so high, it rivals
The white and leavened dough, cooked in the far off Bahias
Where oh how Adalgisa sings! tropical bird, Homeric siren
And I, a lost Ulysses, bow my head in this tavern
Longing for your broad pelvic perfection
Foundering in my sleep but not in affection.

Bahia, stormy, on an August night

~ From the book The War of the Saints by Jorge Amado, which Rafa gave to me before he went back to Brazil, and which introduced me to Candomblé.

nirix5: (looking at you (cora))
It's so cold that the ink won't run
and the words are frail shadows and grooves
of blue on the page.
We watch the snowflakes plummet to the ground
while the pipes burst in the back room,
an icy metaphorical knife
ripping a wound in frozen metal.
There's an inch of water on the floor now
and nothing to say.
Drinking coffee and eating sandwiches
won't make time go faster,
won't rip away the veil of winter to see
the glimmer of summer on a spring drenched horizon.
For now all we can do
is buy extra insulation and a new section of pipe,
take the laundry to the laundromat,
wait for the planet to fly to the other side
of the sun
and scatter the cold.
... This is going to wreck the boxes in the basement.
nirix5: (looking at you (cora))
It's so cold that the ink won't run
and the words are frail shadows and grooves
of blue on the page.
We watch the snowflakes plummet to the ground
while the pipes burst in the back room,
an icy metaphorical knife
ripping a wound in frozen metal.
There's an inch of water on the floor now
and nothing to say.
Drinking coffee and eating sandwiches
won't make time go faster,
won't rip away the veil of winter to see
the glimmer of summer on a spring drenched horizon.
For now all we can do
is buy extra insulation and a new section of pipe,
take the laundry to the laundromat,
wait for the planet to fly to the other side
of the sun
and scatter the cold.
... This is going to wreck the boxes in the basement.


Mar. 17th, 2005 06:33 am
nirix5: (Default)
[ETA: I am watching VH1, hoping they'll play the Mr. Brightside video, because the lead singer of The Killers is pretty hot. I just want to see the little side-look thing he does when he sings "It was only a kiss."

I guess I should go study, though. Boo. Hiss.]

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name:nirix5
Your haiku:do not to mention
i look like a bright star my
beloved i do
Created by Grahame

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name:nirix5
Your haiku:like the ring you just
know that the thin tidal waves
wash in the shower
Created by Grahame

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name:nirix5
Your haiku:the group's here clear out
a table star treatment in
downtown syracuse
Created by Grahame
nirix5: (Default)
For instance, the other night Andy beat Kelsey at LOTR Trivial Pursuit.

I actually won (wow, big suprise.../sarcasm) but Kelsey and Andy decided to play it out all the way to the end. Poor Kelse. And she got all the stupid questions, too- "Who owns the magical mirror in Lothlorien? Where did Frodo wake up after the Ringwraith stabbed him?" and Andy still beat her. After he won she just sat there, staring at the board like she couldn't believe it.

This is actually pretty funny, because Kelsey is not only as big of a geek as I am, but she has a photographic memory, and thus has every line from every extended edition memorized. Andy couldn't remember Gollum's name at one point, and he kept getting questions that had to do with obscure Theoden quotes. Of course Mom and Dad made all kinds of cracks about writing this incident down on the calendar. Poor kid's still kind of in shock. I guess I'm mean even telling you guys about it, but I owe her one for the nickname incident. Payback is sweet. Heh.


Dragged Mom to the store last night so I could make some Christmas gift exchanges. I got a new tiara, since the one Mom got originally was too tall. It's so sweet :) It's a Russian style tiara, which means that the top curves in a half circle as opposed to coming to a central point. It's the style most reminiscent of the kokoshnik, the traditional Russian headdress that the modern tiara is based on. And it's very comfortable and lightweight, which means that I can sit through an opera without getting a headache for once. SCORE!

Also traded in the Random Rap CD for U2's "How to Dismantle An Atomic Bomb." I've been listening to this album constantly since last night, and I just about love it to pieces. I agree with Karen about the GS-ish songs. A lot of them strike me as such, or as songs that would fit well in that ship. But then, I was thinking about that in the shower this morning, and decided that I'm the type of person who makes things into what they want them to be. If my current fandom obsession was still Dark Angel, you can bet that this album would strike me as totally Max/Logan. *ponders* Which, now that I think about it, it does.


I wrote a poem last night. This isn't that odd, since I'm constantly writing things like poems and stories in my head, but I actually got up and wrote this one down, so I didn't lose it, or most of it. It's odd what eyeliner and lipstick can inspire in you. Or rather, the lack of motiviation to wash it off once you've put it on, because you're too lazy.

Haven't decided whether or not to post it in here. Might. Might not.

...I love Jorja to death, but my new green necklace is way prettier than hers. Okay, she's not allowed to dress herself anymore, hmmm?
nirix5: (Default)
Bleargh. Got a whole lot of nothing done today, at least so far. I'm going to write something- I just don't know what yet- and post it in the next hour or so. I hope. I've gotten all my distracting stuff out of the way (no new kimono on Ichiroya) and Oliver has finally relenquished my headphones.

I really need to get a computer at home. I always forget the stuff I mean to put in this journal. Like Jeannette sending my tiara back (I'm going to post the letter she sent me with it on Monday- my tiara saw action!!!) and Mr. Christopher dying. Mom's going to send a mass card and Nana's probably going to go to the funeral on Monday. It's really, really sad. I love the Christophers, although I didn't know the boys as well as Allison. I still miss them, sometimes.

Mr. Christopher's Obituary )

I hope when I die they have my funeral at Harmon's. They probably will. That's where everyone has their funerals.

Don't let Manhattan decieve you. The rest of New York is just like one big small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and everybody goes to Harmon's. Aunt Doris did.

I should really write out the story of Aunt Doris's funeral one of these days. I still think about that whole fiasco and crack up laughing. I found the pictures of it again the other day. I find it horribly ironic that one of the best pictures I've ever had taken of me when my hair was really long has a dead woman in a casket in it. Shame- it looks all pretty and shiny and stuff. Anyway...

Found some random crap floating around a notebook of mine from over the summer. Here it is.

“If you open the door, Romania will eat you alive.”
~ Gymnastics commentator

“I only get nervous when someone ties me to a chair and sticks a hand grenade between my legs. The rest is pretty much irrelevant after that.”

Commentator: “As the captain of this team, can you tell me their emotional state?”
Mom: “Yeah, we’re all freaked out, you stupid old bitch!”

“I don’t know what kind of kid you were, or your brains are so old that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.”
“WHAT?!?! I work my fingers to the bone all day for you, woman…”
“Yes, yes. …Do you want some teddy grahams?”
~ Mom and Dad

Hysterical rant written while canvassing for CCE )

The most spectacular piece of poetry you will ever read, written while waiting to be called up in traffic court a year and a half ago, when my mother and I were being Regency fangirls. We almost got kicked out of court for giggling so much... )

America is:
~ Jenna and Barbara Bush trying to be witty, failing miserably, and all of the Republicans laughing anyway.

~ reading the personal ads and not answering them.

~ people who are American telling everyone they’re something else and people who were born elsewhere telling everyone that they’re American.

~ possessed of an army of people who just joined up to get money for college.

~ porn. In other countries it’s sex, but in America it’s porn.

~ canvassing door to door without shame.

~ a giant crime scene, complete with angsty G/S, C/W, AND N/G overtones.
nirix5: (Default)
Rockin' Kill Bill all over the place this weekend, with [ profile] frozenexeternia and [ profile] jubei26. (Ran into [ profile] hylianhero1803 too at one point.) Also rockin' Boondock Saints, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Best Buy, Best Buy cashiers, Wegmans and stockboys various and sundry, jolt, twizzlers, rain, graveyards, swings, outdoor stages, the Punisher, the Punisher with his shirt off, the Punisher with his shirt on, the Punisher in the one part where he falls over, digital cameras, impossible pink skirts, graphic t's, pretzels, the news stand in the carousel mall, m&m's, iconage, pretending I can speak Japanese with the rest of 'em, Irish music, JC Chasez, JT, Darren Hayes, the Budwieser Factory, the ruins, swingsets at night, weirdos in parking lots, underground parking garages, angsty poetry, boy shorts, pillows, uncomfortable beds (mine), Sky, Cowboy Bebop, laptops, that anime with the cat episode whose name I can't remember, smirnoff twisted (twice), English accents, Irish accents, rosary beads, Keira/Rachel, role playing, little black dresses, cold stone creamery, deep intellectual conversation, Serenity and Endymion (UGH!!!), and Our Friend in the River.

Whew. I forget anything on that?

Oh yeah. My bottle of Sangreia blew up. Goddammit.

Here's a poem, written last night, after dinner, on the porch.

Bah, what happened to the wind?
Stupid miserable rain.
Lisa's territory, not mine-
seems like I've got my flying music on
for nothing.
Water pouring down in sheets
might as well be winding cloths
without a strong breeze
to lift it back out of the gutter


Nov. 23rd, 2003 01:58 pm
nirix5: (Default)
Did I write this? I think I did, but if I didn't, I'd appreciate someone telling me so. I found it on the top of one of my stories that I printed out a while ago.

And her fingers plucked the guitar strings
A lover's neck made of wood, not flesh
Hung not with necklaces
Beaten metal chains
But strings, resonant sound
Croons to her more skillfully
Then a larynx ever could
Music to your ears, isn't it
When you can't decided whether
You should want or desire
And you speak to hear your own voice
Is that another person in the room
Or are you still alive

....I must have wrote it. It makes no sense.
nirix5: (Default)
Dude. I'm starving. There's alot of soup downstairs but I want... I don't know, cookies or something.

Since it is my birthday, I've decided to take up space on your friends list and regale you all with one of my favorite poems of all time.


The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat.
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Also. I am seriously digging "Party to Damascus." It's got the perfect mix of rap, singing, and hooks in other languages to keep me happy. Word up, yo.
nirix5: (Default)
April is National Poetry Month. Hark, I have decided to observe National Poetry Month by writing a Poem. And also by reading Emily Dickinson, and getting myself quite confused. Yerp.

Idle Thoughts on a Tuesday Morning )
nirix5: (Default)
I wish it would warm the fuck up already. If it was summertime, I wouldn't be sick and stuck in the house. I could be on a motorcycle (admittedly, it would be Justin's, and I'd have to bug him to give me rides,) or fooling around in the garage with the heavy bag, or climbing trees, or running around with no shoes, or doing walkovers on the grass, or swinging.

But no, I'm stuck here with paperwork. Dad wants it done by close of business today. I don't care. I don't know what I'm doing- I have no clue how to do accounting, and no one's told me anything about it; so far I'm just adding up things on receipts by year and writing them in a ledger. Whatever. I'm not quite cut out for this, I think.

On the upshot I get to take classes later in the spring. One on creative writing, one on marketing on what you wrote, and one on book keeping. (Dad wants me to take that last one. I wanted to take Russian, but nooooo.)

Still working on my femslash story. It's a little bit too chatty at this point- I wanted more imagery, less dialouge, but any of you who've read my stuff know that it runs to alot of dialouge. Ech. I don't know.

I thought of a really great poem lying in bed last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the words by the time I decided to write it down, which is sad cause it was REALLY good. Here's what I wrote down of it. (In the dark, in bed. Which means I needed my Little Orphan Annie Ring to decode it all.)

My sheets are swimming in your memory
and yet
you haven't touched them
now, then, ever


The way you would
pull me down from the walls
with gentle insistence
not smotheringly
is something I love about you
and the way you smile
into my pillow
(yes, the one
that your head has never touched)


And it was such a beautiful poem
I can't remember it all now
I will have forgotten it
by morning
except for these
hastily scribbled in the dark.
(The scratching of the pen
sounds wonderful
with my eyes closed-
thank you for that)

I think I want to be a forensic pathologist.

I have more space for icons, but I don't know what icons to make. Help me out, someone. Ideas?
nirix5: (Default)
Sometimes that song that the stars sing
Grows to big; it is too much
For only one person to handle
And when it overflows
Into something else
Sometimes it is beautiful
Always it is a relief

(Oh anything
Just keep my mind off of it
Thinking how I had you once
No, I can't forget that
Sometimes I wish
I could lose you again)

And then I realize
When everything is over, said and done and
Buried in the recent past
And distant memory
Sometimes I am more alone
Then I was in the first place

Sometimes that far away music
Chords plucked by unseen fingers of long forgotten constellations
Whose resonance leaves me trembling and still
It grows to be too much
It becomes too much
For one lonely person to take
And it’s so very, very hard
Not to bow and break
Under that delightful pressure


Jun. 10th, 2002 08:19 pm
nirix5: (Default)
I. Hate. Voicemail.
I. Intensely. Dislike. Stupid. People.

La la la la. Here is a poem I wrote. It's copyrighted, so don't think of stealing it, but if you did think of stealing it, I can read your mind, and I'm on my way to your house right now to kill you when you sleep with my great-grandmother's pineapple machete.

(Did that sound tough????)

Read more... )
nirix5: (Default)
Found this, and thought you all might like it.
~ Niri

It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float

Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous

With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear

Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening

Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony

Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,

Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge

Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source

Of your ice-hearted calling-
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting

Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
nirix5: (Default)
Have the day off as dad is coughing up his lungs. Not the cheeriest of images, but hell, it's sixty degrees out so what do I care? (Okay, I do care. But still. A day off is a day off.)

Here are some quizzes (I got them from Meli.)

What Ayumi Hamasaki song are you?

Quiz by Mika Tsukino

I'm not sure what this series is but it looks cool.

You're Aoki Seiichirou!
You are one of a dying breed... a true gentleman (or gentlewoman, as the case may be). You tend to be a little disorganized and scatterbrained, but your heart is always in the right place. While you aren’t always the one who gets the most attention, you are sweet, dependable, and extremely loyal to your loved ones. Your family and friends are very important to you, and you will go to any length to protect them.
Which Dragon of Heaven are you?
Quiz by Kerianne

Take the
Which Poet are You? Quiz - brought to you out of boredom and pretention!

Robert Frost is cool, but Sylvia Plath is better. Especially Mad Girl's Love Song.

Mad Girl's Love Song
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

That's one of my favorite poems EVER. That and the one by e.e. cummings that I can't remember the title of that ends with, "there's a hell of a universe next door, let's go."

Pity this busy monster manunkind, not
Progress is a comfortable disease...
something something hypermagical ultraomnipotence
blah blah blah.

[ profile] darkshade and The Huntress are going to NY today. Dur. I wish I could go down but I don't have the time/money right now. I need to soon, but mom was saying something about Easter and why don't we go to Nana's... Mickey fickey. I don't know.

I'm in the process of writing another installment of the RPfic. Just so ya know.

And [ profile] xxcelebornxx is letting me borrow his horse! I'm just thrilled. Will go over there later... and bring a carton of orange juice for Celeborn, seeing how he's sick and all.

nirix5: (Default)
Strangers no more, but stranger still
The one who mocks me
In the bronze mirror.
So unlike that frail shadow
I thought myself.
Long exiled,
Home at last.
nirix5: (Default)
To my beloved, feisty flint arrow~

Your eyes are as round and shiny as the button on my pants-
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways…
One leaf two leaves three four…
I love you FOUR LEAVES!!!!
FOUR LEAVES, dammit!!!!!
Your eyes are like… the chair…
The chair of LOVE
I love your pretty hair
It’s not as pretty as mine, but there’s a reason
I’m a spokesmodel for Pantene Pro-V
So I don’t blame you for anything
Like my problems
And my inherent inability to rhyme
So do not feel slighted
And stuff
Cause this does not rhyme
After all I love you FOUR LEAVES
(I only loved my ex two and three quarters)

Love always,
Legolas Greenleaf
(Try our extra conditioning line of shampoo today!)

You are the pistil in the flower of my heart.

(Opera Ghost! Ha ha!)
(Because you know I have that kinky on-a-boat-in-a-sewer fetish)
nirix5: (Default)
I will now impart to you, the readers of this
oh-so-profound journal, my most favoritest poem EVER, since I was just a little kid.

Please, everybody, look at me!
Today I'm five years old, you see!
And after this, I won't be four,
Not ever, ever, any more!
I won't be three- or two- or one.
For that was when I'd first begun.
Now I'll be five awhile, and then
I'll soon be something else again!

~ Mary Louise Allen

*bows to applause* Thank you, thank you.

*curtain falls*


nirix5: (Default)

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