The Songstone

Du Fu ( 杜甫) 712 – 770 - also to be found here : with thanks to Mish. Returning every day from court, I pawn spring clothes. The river sees my drunken mien; my boozing debts mount up all over town. Men do not often live three score and ten. The butterflies go deep into the flowers, the dragonflies on wing among the drops, the passing time is always rushing hours; no time to know you: separation stops. 朝回日日典春衣 每日江頭盡醉歸 酒債尋常行處有 人生七十古來稀 穿花蛺蝶深深見 點水蜻蜓款款飛 傳語風光共流轉 暫時相賞莫相違

"(T)he future is a horny worker's hand spanking a perfumed bourgeois arse; (s)he may keep a dab of scent and be grateful."  (Unknown revolutionary). October. I went for the weekend with Meg, my Japanese girlfriend: it was her birthday. I was given a six-month stay; she was given three; I pointed this out with glee; I could tell from her moue the arrow flew true. Later, in bed, having pleasured me in unspeakable ways - 愛のコリーダ - she pointedly asked whether European girls could do what she just had. I had to admit they could not, or at least never had. Thus her honour was satisfied and face restored. And thank God for that!

The President has proposed that teachers should be armed. As a teacher, I agree. Think how much simpler weeding out the lazy students will be: "Haven't done your assignment again , Smith minor?" Bang!

Dad: so when you were born I left you in the care of mama and nana and didi because they would look after you better than I could. Son: you didn't want to wipe up the shit. Dad: don't say shit. Son: OK, dad. *** Son: so you know kids have been warned not to talk to strangers online. Some paedophiles are pretending to be chicken nuggets to groom their next victim. I'm sorry, but it's natural selection, isn't it? How stupid do you have to be to believe that the online voice urging you to meet them in the park is really a chicken nugget? Dad: (5 minutes of helpless laughter) even so, just because they're dim, doesn't mean they deserve to be a paedophile's victim, does it? Son: didn't say it did, but c'mon dad, fuckin' chicken nuggets? Dad: don't say fuckin'. Son: OK, dad.

Becky Binz-Comely was having a wonderful week. Formula 1 and Darts had been forced to stop using 'grid' and 'walk-on' girls after pressure from their broadcasters. A great moment for equality and a small step towards ending the disgusting objectification of women! Not that Becky objected to objectification per se . She always loved the Lady Garden Gala at Claridge's, where gorgeous hunks in skimpy loin-cloths served hard-lunching ladies. Oh! Becky took a large swig of Chardonnay. But that was different: hard-lunching, decent ladies deserved their annual ogle; not at all the same as those filthy, leering oiks at the darts. Context was everything.  Had daddy's allowance come through? She must buy a new frock to celebrate! Meanwhile, in Romford, ex-walk-on girl Jacky Common looked despairingly at the bile of bills on the table. 60% of her income gone overnight. What would she do now? She picked up the kitchen knife and considered those who with a whim

I s'pose we die in minutiae. The Visigoths come and the Senate debates procedure, precedence and etiquette.  As bees die, insects go, forests chop, seas acid, sperm decays, air chokes, nukes raise, we obsess on which sleaze gropes which bint's bum, or if some bourgeois cunt on 200k should get the same as the fuck on 250. What an epitaph.

Dad: Fair enough. Just sayin'. You should also consider that 2% doesn't sound a lot, but for every million men, it means 20000 looked like that. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the