Friday, January 15, 2010

Rainy morning.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message [S]he Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

[S]he was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

--W.H. Auden

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

sweet, sweet medicine, save me tonight

I'm tired and I'm sad. I wanted to write, but now I can't think of anything to say. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm sad. That's really all I've got.