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Tamer Shrew Issue 01
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¿¿¿ Edited by: Stretch
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Dedicated to the thought-thread
and the ever beautiful W O R D.
Submissions: HoWL BBS 1.713.862.1415
LoVERS BBS 1.713.943.1838
____________________________________________________________________
This issue being that which is volumetrically known and thought
of as the first ... often denoted by this simple abbreviation:
vol. 1
--------------------------------------------------------------------
We.love.you.dearly
I'm.telling.you.we
do..........friend
We.got.a.line.on.the.good
thing.coming.straight.for
a.lesser.body.of.water.to
turn.one.more.time.around
and.plant.the.biggest.hug
you.can.imagine.round.you
my.friend.till.you.laugh.
like.that.kid.you.BURIED.
with.your.car.wife.phone.
husband.lover.money.shame
cock.so.many.years.ago.it
seems.another.life.to.you.....friend.
|-------------->> Words available for immediate fondling <<---------------|
|-------------------------------------------------------------------------|
1>> "Run On" ... (Certo)
2>> What I'm Reading Right Now ... (ed.)
3>> HoWL Sp00ge ... (Watchman T'ong)
4>> "Wind in My Drawers" ... (Stretch)
5>> "Blanket Land" ... (Stretch)
6>> "With Water" ... (Certo)
7>> "After the Shipwreck" ... (Homer the Brave)
8>> HoWL Sp00ge ... (Xann)
9>> "God Has Whiskers Just Like Any Other Catfish" ... (Stretch)
10>> "Heartbreaker" ... (Deathjester)
11>> "Shallow" ... (Certo)
12>> In Stretch's Humble Opinion (Ikono-capture)
13>> "No Title" ... (Homer the Brave)
14>> "Chronic Obsession" ... (Xann)
|-------------------------------------------------------------------------|
|-------------------------------------------------------------------------|
run on
words can fall
on me like a
beautiful day
dawning in all
the cheesy splendor
of the morning
coming out of the
night like the
steady grey seep seep
of deeper water
finding a place to
really spread out
and get busy with
the stuff of being wet
the stuff of being big
wet and heavy and
the run on can go
and go
and go
till everyones sick
of trying to mentally
add the punctuation
that they just *KNOW*
should be there somewhere
yet there it sits the
run on to end all
bleed'n run ons as
someone has read somewhere
'calmly licking it's chops'
and for lack of a better
frame of mind wondering
from whence will come
its next fucking
meal
man
(Certo)
[*]
What I'm Reading *Right* Now
The information you authorize for release may include information
that could be considered information about communicable or venereal
diseases which may include, but are not limited to, diseases such as
Hepatitis, Syphilis, Gonorrhea and the Human Immunodeficiency virus
also known as Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome ("AIDS").
[*]
----------------------------------------
From : WATCHMAN T'ONG Number : 81 of 107
To : ALL Date : 07/22/93 2:33am
Subject : Am I in the wrong conf.? Reference : NONE
Read : [N/A] Private : NO
Conf : 001 - Tomb of Knowledge
Today we are going to learn about one of the greatest fantasies
ever devised by the mind of man - BORDERS, BOUNDS, CONVENTIONS
(Taboos) !!!
What is a Border ? It is a boundary, bounds or demarcation. A
divider BETWEEN one thing and another.
I hate to spring this on you (yeah, right), but borders are a
fabrication of the human mind - THEY EXIST ONLY BECAUSE WE BELIEVE
IN & ACCEPT THEM. County lines, State borders, National boundaries
don't really exist at all. Almost everyone just accepts them as
real. So what, big deal, you say? Take it a little further - most
social conventions and "labels" are just borders with a different
name. Rich/Poor, Smart/Dumb, Graceful/Clumsy, Popular/Unpopular,
Wicked/Pure, In/Out, Patriotic/Treasonous, Upper Class/Low
Class... Catch the drift? These things are based on what is "ok"
to the majority, the ruling herd (social or political), or "folks
like me". When you begin to look past these shackles (yes, true
chains on the mind), you begin to see people, and governments, and
groups in a completely different light.
People are suddenly ok to know; even if they're Honkies or
Yankees or Japs or trash or Mormons or [fill in the blanks].
Liberty with no borders.
Governments now appear as what they really are - self-interest
groups playing on our short-sighted sense of "loyalty" to some
fabrication that they have carefully constructed and maintained
(generally at our expense). Who gives a fuck if I was born in
Texas if I CHOOSE to live here? Why is a "Native Texan" (who had
no choice where he/she was born) any better than a "Virginian" who
wants to live here? Also, who cares about "being loyal to your
school", when where parents live determines what school I attend.
A school I choose to attend, sure; be loyal if it pops your cork -
but an obligation? Says who?
(BTW: loyalty is my #2 cherished value between people. I have no
bitch at all about loyalty to something real. Truth is #1.)
Groups? Hey, do you want to know me, or just bag me? Exclusive
group? Am I that insecure to need a bunch of other insecure people
to prop me up? Or some "leaders" to feed off of me, or bag me for
their glory. NOT. Can't I just be open to anyone who will accept
me as a human without setting up a bunch of barriers? Yes, I know
there are shitheads out there. Yes, I know there are people who
will use me up if they can, group or no group. But, I'm free to
say "bugger off, jerk" without any artificial barriers, yes?
So! Wazit all mean? Get free, friend. Look at things that are
real. Identify salesmen of all types, and buy only what YOU want.
(True, this whole post is a sales pitch. Is it what YOU want?
Hope so, there's lots of freedom out there just for the thinking.)
þWatchmanþ
[*]
Wind in My Drawers
BlowBlowBlow
Wind in my drawers
Comes Cool This Morning.
And I'm up for sex on a monday 'morn.
And I'm down with driving to work.
And I've felt every feeling known.
And Love Them Still.
(stretch)
[*]
BlanketLand
The bumpy ones, the bumpy ones. He'd always known that his older
brother liked smooth, soft, rag-type things --often dragging around
fresh washed diapers (though a nice white t-shirt would usually do
in a pinch). But Benson, being the younger of the too, and more
inclined by nature to lean towards the severe, liked bumpy,
rough pieces of fabric. Especially the one his grandmother covered
that pillow with. Before it was a bumpy-rough pillow case, it was used
for over ten years as a curtain in his fathers old trailer house.
Even now ... all grown up ... still loving and rubbing himself to sleep
on that bumpy-rough rag of a pillowcase,...he could smell the stale smoke
... the spilled whisky ...
And the tents. Cool. Domed. And with only a sheet. The trailor
had some kind of floor routed air conditioning system ... big
units outside, pumped cold air through pipes under the trailor,
and eventually out the little grills you'd see two to three to a room.
A large sheet placed in just the right spot over one of these little
vents would balloon up like some kind of refrigerated blister,
offering a wonderful retreat from the east texas heat. This was a
safe place for a young boy in those days, you see ... and Benson
stayed there often ... cool ... domed ... and full of fresh air.
...it was a bumpy-rough pillow case, it was used for over ten years as
a curtain in his fathers old trailer house ... even now ... all grown
up ... still loving and rubbing himself to sleep on that bumpy-rough
rag of a pillowcase, ... he could smell the stale smoke ... the spilled
whisky ... his fathers hot breath playing games with the hairs on the
back of his young-boy-neck.
(stretch)
[*]
With Water
A young woman with flowers
and a gift
gave me these, I tell you
sure enough
to me, flowers.
She said water would
help, they were for the
trash anyway
and that water would
surely
help.
Heat cannot be to good
for roses,
and these, not half
opened, did not
look good
to begin with.
But water she said
and water it is,
and water it was I
brought them.
Three pink, now,
to water.
I'd no idea, I'd never
imagined. Closed flowers
opened, starving pink
could breath
could bloom again
with water.
(Certo)
[*]
After The Shipwreck
copyright 1993 Paul Mitchum, AKA Homer The Brave
So after the shipwreck, he just sat around and pretended.
Wasn't much else to do, after all, except pick bananas and swim in
the lagoon. Occasionally he'd trap some bird or catch a fish, but for
the most part he survived on fruit and rain water.
His water collector and his lean-to were the only man-made
things on the island, and even those were only man-assembled from
parts nature had made. Later on, much into the future, he would
eventually build an actual hut, to protect him from the occasional
storm that swept through. But as of yet, he still lived in a lean-to he
had scraped together just after the shipwreck.
So. He'd eat and swim and lay about and pretend.
He'd pretend that there were other people there with him. Other
people from a race that didn't ever need to eat and that never got
sick. They came to the island in a space ship and could leave any
time, but they stayed because they enjoyed being there and talking
to him. He was, after all, a fascinating conversationalist.
The leader of these people was named Orpheus, oddly enough, and
Orpheus would come and ask his opinions on all sorts of weighty
matters. For instance, one day they received word that their country
was going to war, and they were trying to decide if they wanted to
go back and do what they could to help. He just told them that they
could do whatever they wanted; after all, they were free to come and
go as they pleased, so of course, they decided to stay, since he was
such an amazing fellow. He had so much to tell them about life and
death and what followed that they simply couldn't leave. These
imaginary people were hooked on his ideas.
There was one of their group who was especially fond of him. She
was more beautiful than all of the women he had ever imagined, or
had even fantasized about. She was lean and strong and yet very yin.
He had read about Taoists and the concepts of yang and yin many
years ago, many years before he had come to the island. It was from
a book called The Joy Of I Ching. He liked the twin concepts of yin
and yang. Especially the way they co-mingled in the twin fish
symbol the Taoists would use to diagram their ideas. In many ways,
he was hung up on sex.
But She was tall and yin and beautiful, and he was as handsome
as his self-image allowed him to be, and he pictured himself as yang
as the white fish of the Taoist symbol. Many was the time he lusted
after Her, but there were very few places where the space ship
people didn't follow him around, he was so fascinating a fellow.
Sometimes he wished they'd go away, and then they'd usually find
something else to do for a while. This way he could masturbate and
fantasize about a fantasy.
Then one day, She approached him from behind the line of them.
They would do that sometimes, line up, like they were in a movie by
Akira Kurosawa. He prided himself on having seen movies by Akira
Kurosawa. Kurosawa was, in fact, his favorite film director, and
anyway, before he had come to the island, he could make references
to Kurosawa's work and people would be instantly impressed.
She approached him from behind the line of them.. Her bright hair
glowed in the light reflected off of the bright sand beach. She rooted
her feet firmly in the ground there before him, but the rest of her
body obviously wanted to wrap itself around his. She tentatively
touched his bare chest with her delicate smooth hand, the charms on
her bracelet jingling. Her touch was so light, it was as if She was not
touching him at all.
He coiled back, unsure. This is what he had wanted for so long; to
touch Her, to feel Her, but he was still unsure.
Something inside him clicked and they all walked away, toward
their space ship, to go home. Some of Them vanished before they got
to the ship. Just vanished, in mid-step. Just vanished, like breath on a
mirror.
This sort of thing was what he pretended from time to time. Other
times he'd pretend that the whole world was on fire, even the water.
He'd have to dance around on the burning beaches and eat fiery
bananas picked from a flaming tree. These things hurt him
immensely, but he had to do them, and in the back of his mind, he
knew that this was all pretend. He'd remember that it was pretend
and it would go away. But the first few times it happened to him, he
was so scared that he ran into his lean-to and squatted, grasping a
spear he had made, waiting for some attacker to come. He stayed
there motionless for hours and hours, his mind ablaze. No one came.
After he got used to it, though, he would sit and stare at his
imaginary flames for hours and hours in rapt fascination. He would
look at his hand, and it would be on flaming fire, but it didn't hurt,
and he was never burned. This was to him amazing.
He also pretended sometimes that he was being rescued. This
happened very infrequently, and sometimes he wasn't even aware
he was pretending until the very end.
A very large helicopter would come from the sunset side of the
island and the pilot would talk through a bullhorn and tell him to
climb up the rope ladder into the helicopter. The first few times the
helicopter came, he would start up the ladder only to fall back to the
ground a few seconds later when the whole thing vanished. That was
when he realized he was pretending. Other times, the helicopter
would come and he'd realize it was pretend and just stand there on
the beach, the helicopter's rotor-winds whipping the hair on his
head. Eventually the helicopter would just go away.
His favorite kind of pretend, however, was when he would fall
asleep and then dream that he was waking up. Then, almost
instantly, his dream-self would pretend that it was falling asleep, but
he would wake up. That was his favorite; that and the pretend that
he had a library of books. Most of his books were written by authors
he'd never heard of. He would walk over to the book tree, which
grew near the beach, and just pick one. Nine times out of ten, it was
one he hadn't already read.
He sat for hours and read books. He liked to read for a few
reasons: For one thing, there was damn little to do on the island. Just
eat and swim and sleep and pretend. So he would read. Also, he
knew that the people in the space ship would come back eventually.
They always seemed to. So maybe if he could impress them even
more with his vast knowledge of the world, they would let him
marry Her. Yin. God how he loved Her. He also liked to read because
most of the authors in his imaginary books agreed with him on most
points. Books by authors who disagreed with him he would toss into
the ocean. Maybe the fish would agree, he thought to himself with a
smirk.
[to be continued?] ..Ed.
[*]
Jim Jones is Dead
JIM JONES IS DEAD
PENGO INCARCERATED
morrison went to hell
and well all follow him there
And What If Im Fashionably Lean?
And What If Im Fashionably Lame?
and all yr loving admirors spark katastrophy?
And
SATAN IS DEAD
AND LUCIFER IS YAHWEHS LOVER
and the popes got something to sell
and everybody wants some
And What If Im Fashionably Lean?
And What If Im Fashionably Lame?
n Pope-Paul-2 sparks atrocity???
And
and msoconneryrmyheroReallynow.
(Xann)
[*]
God Has Whiskers Just Like Any Other Catfish
"Eight fucking hours without a single bite!," he swears to nobody
in particular. Scratching his head with a dirty hand, he wonders
what he could possibly be doing wrong. He kept his pole baited, trading
new meat for a worthless strap when he reeled it in pale and soggy
(knowing full well a catfish likes it's bacon fresh ... the kind that
leaves grease on your fingers). Shit, the channel cats fed in the hundreds
here just the other day--heads swishing sideways through the water, mouths
open wide, needle-teeth-jaws like some damn velcro infested cavern. WHERE
WERE THE FUCKING FISH!?
Maybe it was the bacon. Everyone knows that a cat will
bite bacon, but it wasn't the fish's choice of meals. Likewise,
anyone who so much as claimed to be a fisherman also knew that what the
"Big Cat" wants is some of it's own,...preferably gut. But of course,
to get some gut he'd first have to get a fish. He pulls his straw,
wide-brimmed hat down a bit more over his eyes, wipes a greasy, pork
smelling hand across his forehead, eases back, unfastenes his pants,
and begins beating off.
He finishes the job quickly, maybe twenty strokes and he's done.
Beating off again, he thinks. That damn Carver and his fucking poems
about "the one that got away," and playing with himself beneath the eyes
of a vengeful God possessed of a wicked sense of humor. He had REALLY
related to that one; for all he knew, Carver had stolen that idea from
HIM. All that notoriety and praise for poems about HIS life! This last
thought did nothing for his already waning patience in the afternoon
heat.
The young man (and you now know he is a young man; I've now told you
this), still fuming from his most recent memory of Carver's thievery,
reels in his line once more and inspects the bit of soggy bacon hanging
(as any piece of dead flesh hangs) limply from the barbed curve of the
hook. White and useless. Water logged, bland, and hardly smelling of
bacon at all. Then, unable to quell the the strange urge, he ever so
slightly touches the soggy meat to his tongue. Nothing. No taste.
Dead meat. Shrugging and muttering to himself, he removes the now
useless shred of pork flesh and holding it in his left hand, uses his
right to bait the hook once more with a fresh, greasy strand of bacon.
Before casting again, he tosses the old piece into the placid brown
water of the lake, watches it smack the smooth surface, sees the
ripples spread outward in groups of four towards the very spot he'd
moments before lain prone and sweating--touching himself and groaning in the
afternoon sun.
Then, eyes still fixed on the floating bacon, Timothy (for this is the
young man's name; I've now told you this) feels the full weight of the
blistering mid-day sun, a strong man's hand pressing slowly,
dumbly, smack dab on the top of his head. The bacon floats, sending
out oily, rainbow colored trails of grease that spiral in growing circles,
disturbed by something passing just beneath the water's surface; boiling,
that's what the water was doing. Boiling. He'd heard it called that.
Timothy's vision blurs; his mind races like a rodent caught in a cardboard
box. He hears the laughter of a comedian God, one possessed of an all too
wicked sense of humor; he sees a big, shining, whiskered head swish back
and forth in the placid brown waters of the lake; he sees a needle mouth
and a velcro cavern; and he watches, horrified,...dead, limp flesh
disappearing into the mouth of a vengeful God.
(stretch)
[*]
Heartbreaker
The first time you swept me away with your beauty;
The kind, friendly laughter you poured in my heart
Repeatedly warms my heartaching soul with the
Magic that flows from Cupid's love dart.
I've lusted for months now...you can't comprehend
How the love that I feel for you comes to no end
And night after night my mind was inflated with you,
But now those thoughts have all become faded.
You dumped me, you WHORE! You stupid slut squared!
All the wonderful joys you and I have both shared
Must mean nothing to you...Insignificant, right?
So I'm yours to abuse for just one drunk night?
The screeches for mercy, the cries and the wails,
The spatulas, handcuffs, and cats of nine tails!
We whipped and we lashed and we thrashed, and we chained!
We made so much damn noise the neighbors complained!
It was LOVE, damn it! LOVE that you've just thrown away!
Simply zip, doink, squirt, and have a nice day!
I won't be discarded like horny young trash
By one who's been known to tango for cash.
With you can any man do as he pleases and
There must be millions of social diseases that
Grow in your passion receptacle, probed by
Thousands organic and many electrical. Robed
In your lingerie, you attract scum that
Sticks to your body like wads of wet gum.
Loosen up a bit more, and I won't be surprised
When your uterus falls out, withers, and dies.
You're cheap and you're trashy,
Self-centered, and rude
Perpetually bitchy,
Demanding and lewd!
You're so stupid, your brain must float in your bladder!
But your body's so fine, does all that really matter?
For the sake of sheer lust I hereby announce that
The HELL with the inside, the OUTSIDE's what counts! So
Won't you PLEASE take me back, oh Love Of My Life?
That we may one day become husband and wife.
(Deathjester)
[*]
Shallow
I knew a girl, yeah, I knew a girl, said she
had the keys to heaven. Took me in a
great big jar where circles numbered seven.
Brought me hash and pipes to smoke it, left
me with a genius. Rolled her own and blew
a ring, then turned and said, "I have us."
"I have us large and small" she said, and fingers
crawled familiar, "I have us here and now,"
she said, no hell on earth could touch her.
Her legs were of the tallest tree, her mind a
sieve of diamonds, her hair the shifting sea
at night, her voice a veil of silence.
And all the while I smoked the hash, my mind
gone numb and shallow, all the while I climbed
the trees, whose limbs I'd long since swallowed.
A bitter pill a bitter pill no hell on earth
can touch her ... a pleasing sea, a diamond sieve
this girl gone numb and shallow.
(Certo)
[*]
----------------------------------------
48/48: SOMETHING THATS BEEN BOT
Name: Stretch #174 @7350
Date: Mon Jun 28 02:49:16 1993
Response To: MORPHEUS #8 @1
-=> I'm tell'n ya .. we's talkn' 'bout Something thats been bot <=-
M#@> temples, what were the Indians to think when confronted with a Bible?
M#@> It meant no more to them than any other book the New World "gave"
M#@> them.
M#@> I would think that if God were intent upon giving all men the chance
M#@> for salvation, he would have made a visit to other reaches of the
M#@> World.
WHICH, sets me to wondering about something kind of along the same
lines. Yes, *WHAT* about the rest of the world and the cultures
not visited by the Xtian God? Notice, I said the Xtian
God, not >A< God--since I'm quite sure all societies and groups of
people on the planet have and have had *some* kind of divine
representation, some kind of God. How do Christians
feel about the presence of other deities besides their own?
Condemnation is usually the route taken by most, at least
this has been my observation when dealing with 95% percent of
all Christians I've come into contact with. Perhaps a better
phrase would read: condemnation with the ever present hope and
possibility of conversion. Perhaps not. Although I do
take much from the teachings of Christianity, I take equally
from the teachings of Buddhism, Tao, and other eastern and
native american traditions. I cannot, however, accept the
Christian notion that it is their responsibility to pilgrimage
to distant lands and convert (very ugly word when used in this
context-IMHO) the natives found there--natives already so in
tune with their surroundings and their own rich spiritual tradition
as to make these so called "pilgrims" seem like babbling
invalids who are still light years from knowing ANY truth.
I saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel about a year
ago that affected me greatly; It seems as though it was only
this morning that I viewed it. It was concerning a tribe of
Brazilian natives who lived a secluded life in one of the very
few areas of the jungle not yet touched by modern man. The
show centered around the growing danger of modern civilization's
steady march into the less travelled areas of the Brazilian
jungle. I sat there, totally awe struck by the beauty of the
natives and their children's existence. The older tribesmen
and tribes women wore these really huge wooden rods through their
lower lips, and painted themselves in fantastic colors on
their face and bodies. And the children were the most
beautiful of all; the footage showed them leaping
into a beautiful, clear river ... some were stretched out
on big wet logs at the rivers edge ... some were swinging
from vines, landing on the heads of their brothers and sisters.
And this whole scene, the whole river in fact, was draped
in green. It was fantastic ... like a massive green tunnel
of foliage with sun breaking through the canopy of tree limbs,
playing on both river and children alike. A beautiful people
and a beautiful place to live.
THEN, the show shifted it's focus to a group of Xtian's on
a so called "pilgrimage" who had come to this veritable Eden
to proclaim the word of THEIR God and attempt to "CIVILIZE"
these people, people no doubt closer to spiritual truth
than any could ever hope to be in one lifetime. They were
trying to dress some of the elders in suits, in clothes you'd
see the average "Joe" wearing in the grocery store. Blazers
rather than stripes of berry juice and mud, baseball caps
rather than headresses crafted of reeds, stones
and bone. Shoes instead of bare feet. It was one of the
most appalling, painful displays of organized/religious
rape of a culture that I've ever seen.
... The strutting peacock calmly licks a baboons armpit.
___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.12
WWIVMail/QWK 4.52 [REGISTERED]: IKONOCLAST - @7350 ON EliteNET
[*]
No Title
Cement and rubble, smoke, barbed wire, pools of blood growing
under limp dead wounded human soldier bodies. Smell of burned
flesh, of smoke, of death, of drying blood, of... pollen.
A field of green grass, blue sky, a breeze that could hold a
kite in the air. A kid, a child, gently guiding that kite in the
air. He's 7. He has beautiful blond hair that the wind pushes
into his eyes. Its fall. Pollen count is up.
Mom and dad sneeze, wear coats. They notice how late its
getting, and call to the young child, who resists. 'If you don't
come now, we'll leave without you,' they threaten. 'Very well.
Go ahead.' is the reply.
A seven-year-old girl is running across the war-torn street. She
has long beautiful black hair, and is wearing a flowered dress,
which the smoky wind flaps and wrinkles. She skips, she sings a
little song to herself, soldiers' wounds heal as she passes by,
skipping, singing a little song to herself.
Through gunfire, an eight-year-old boy in a blue sweater walks
toward a man with a rifle, walking slowly, deliberately, knowing
he can't be seen. No bullet touches him. He does not choke on
tear gas. He lightly touches the man's rifle, and it runs out of
ammunition.
A field of green grass, red sunset sky, a breeze that could hold
a kite in the air. A breeze which grows stronger as night falls.
The kite is pulled ever higher by the mounting wind. The boy with
beautiful blond hair runs out of twine so he pretends, and that
is enough. Higher goes the kite.
A red-headed boy, eight years old, hops up onto a pile of
sandbags, merrily, easily. He looks down at a scared and
inexperienced young soldier who is frozen in fear. He hops down
into the foxhole, gently pulls the rifle barrel out of the
soldier's mouth, and skips away happily, into the fog.
A six-year-old girl. The most beautiful the boy has ever
pretended, with long flowing hair and frosted features. A white
gown which floats, which glides, which shimmers. She floats
through the sky, above the smoke and flak. Movement above the
battlefield, a shimmering movement. The moon is rising. Fighting
can stop for the night.
A field of green grass, indigo nighttime, no wind. A kite, high
in the sky. A boy, pretending.
(Homer the Brave)
[*]
Chronic Obsession
got nothing but a cat to keep me company
news years again n im thinkin bout you n me
n you dont have to be my queen
n ill show you what i mean
next time i see you, girl, i wont upset you
back there you didnt even know my name, girl
n you didnt take me, when i said id give you the world
but everythings so different now
n it makes me think of how
i long to see you, girl, and what ill do
anything...anything...so ill play my harp for you just like i done
before...
... ... ... ... ... . . .. .... .
i wanna write a sad song to make you slow down
i wanna make you stop n dream n take a look around
so look back to the day i met you
hey goo whats new, n Lady
ill play for you, just like i done before
back as far as i can see
about what we used to be
and what we are, i dont think will upset you
n i still aint tired of you
after all that weve been thru
n to this day you set my insides ...
to buurrnin'
(Xann)
[*]
[EOF]
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> N O T E <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Thanks again to everyone who uploaded their W O R D S ...
This isn't going to be a monthly thing, or even weekly ...
As I get material, I'll compile it and spit it out ...
Peace, Jah!, and all that good stuff ...
If *YOU* want to see *YOUR* words in the next issue, then
you can upload to:
HOwL BBS 1.713.862.1415
LoVERS BBS 1.713.943.1938
It's a good 'tang ... all proceeds are totally non-existent,
and besides ... it's for the children. :-)
... stretch
