May this day be cheerful and drunken! May your lives be young and green!
Happy St. Patrick’s day!
No philosopher – a mere observer and observed, the voice!
Let there be musics – I hear and I commit to paper. Let it be music for the present’s and the future’s ears.
If grasped, this all will push the all of you and me towards being faithful – not fearful.
Is there anyone – of course there isn’t. There’s no you to me, there is no me to you. There’s only you for me. And that’s the it of it.
I want to feel and touch and hear and say. It’s not subjective. There’s no objective. My life’s not yours but yours is mine. Aye, aye! It works with you.
There will be no enigmas in here – every little trifle and letter and syllable will be yours and its meaning will solely answer your questions. Float down the stream of these words and utterances and read your very own book.
O I am here – life exists. In me. The powerful play goes on, and I will contribute volumes.
Bollocks! Life ain’t exist – it is and lives. Amen, Aman! Women and man!
The warmth wonders. And he, basically like any other human, was is and will be interested in watching wonders although utterly not surprised to observe them happening. It is as sure as death that you would also be not surprised to seize ’em if you didn’t notice them, did you, would you? Doubtlessly he’s not the one to blame for it.
By Mother Nature he was produced in that special, that most wonderfully unmarvelous and disgusting as well way that he, to tell the truth, stood absolutely no chance to catch sight of the first and the main and the most sentimental for nothing wonder of his hole life-term. Quite sinful a wonder of wonders that would wander its way from the very fleshy desires. Ah, this wonderful world! Viva el mundo, viva la vida! Perversity fathers innocence, filthiness – purity. Passion was the reason for it and him. The sin was the nurse, the clerk and the rhyme.
The Roman hill, an arrow struck by Eros and the Tiber seasoned with a couple of pints of salt and here he goes, from there he’s come. Ave! Ave! Morituri te salutant! What the hell the Romans were thinking ’bout? Shame, shame on them! Witty barbarians, scholars and artists, actors and orators, whores and sluts. They spoke and taught and thought of Styx etcetera. Reincarnated. Fell. And felt like keeping on falling and fell outside.
Once red – for ever white. He spied on them foundering and now as they were not avalanching him bull’s-eyely, they felt the same, he felt himself, he felt the same.
R. A. O’Rayne