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-   -   Innuendo (http://www.zefrank.com/bulletin_new/showthread.php?t=11556)

brightpearl 06-12-2007 09:39 AM

Sonnet 52
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

Shakespeare was the master, but that's no reason for the rest of us not to give it a go.

See if you can wrap your hands around this one.

Marcus Bales 06-12-2007 10:47 AM


Even before he takes the first sharp bite
He knows the pit is there, hard and rough
And bitter as everybody knows who ever
Bit one open to taste. But just the sight
Of fullness newly ripe is not enough --
Oh, no -- the sweet and tart he thinks will never
Not combine to slide across his tongue
And ache its root must slide and ache anew;
Experience is never just the view.
And then, the moment gone, he’s left among
Those fleeting flavors fading, fading, gone –
Until another, like tomorrow’s dawn,
Her firmness gently curved and fully flexed,
Surrenders to perfection being next.


brightpearl 06-12-2007 11:13 AM

Sure, we could have coffee some time, or listen to Bach's Allemand or something.

brightpearl 06-12-2007 02:50 PM

Your nose looks so damned cold, but my nose is so much colder
If you can't see my breath why don't you stand just a little bit closer
It's gonna be a fun, fun winter now that you've got my wool socks on.

The Show

brightpearl 06-12-2007 02:50 PM


Originally Posted by Marcus Bales (Post 348279)

Really like your peaches, wanna shake your tree
~Steve Miller

brightpearl 06-12-2007 02:57 PM


Originally Posted by l'azizza (Post 348207)
man at bar: Do you want a shot of Patron?

my very young, cute friend: No, I want a shot of tequila.


l'azizza 06-14-2007 03:58 AM

^ See BP, I don't get how that's innuendo, unless you're giving an example of a naive person that some in-your-endo would go over the head of. i.e. children's movies infused with humor for adults. Got any of those examples?

"I want it right here in my tool belt" (commercial for arch support shoes. But I'm gross like that.)

brightpearl 06-14-2007 08:27 AM

^^That's perfect! I figure if you can add "if you know what I mean" to the end, and it's funny, it belongs in this thread. I expect it to degrade naturally from Shakespeare to the fiction gutter.

About the quote from you, in Spanish, "Patron" is commonly used to refer to someone who's in a superior position. It has strong historical roots in that it originally meant "master" or "boss" during the slave/serf days, at least in Mexico. Of course, it's also a brand name, but innuendo is the international language...

If I walked into a bar in Mexico, for instance, and a man asked me if I wanted a "shot of Patron," he might or might not mean it politely. Just to be safe, I would run like hell. :D

l'azizza 06-14-2007 04:10 PM

Ah, thanks for clearing that up. So if my friend knew the background of the word Patron, she may have been really quite witty. I feel like I've learned something today!

my neighbor came to my door, wanting some sugar

Odbe 06-15-2007 05:47 AM


Marcus Bales 06-28-2007 07:15 AM


It’s not much good for screwing any more;
But there’s a head or two that might be turned
Whose worn-out notches fit its broken blade.
Although it’s rarely what I’m reaching for,
It’s come in handy now so often I have learned
To trust the strength from which the thing was made.
And sometimes, after I have had a drink
Or two or three, I hold it out and think
That though it’s old, abused, infirm and rough,
For all it’s done its flaws are few enough.

nycwriters 07-06-2007 01:44 AM

Deftly molded
pretty fingers grip the flesh
tearing apart, then
push together.
stretched sideways,
then spooned.

The bread goes in the oven.

Marcus Bales 07-06-2007 08:39 AM

My Last Duchess
Robert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her I said
‘Fra Pandof’ by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ‘twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps
Over my Lady’s wrist too much.’ or ‘Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat’; such stuff
Was courtesy, she though, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart … how shall I say? … too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ‘twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace – all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men – good; but thanked
Somehow … I know not how … as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say ‘Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark’ – and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --
E’en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Or, Sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your Master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

-- Robert Browning

nycwriters 07-06-2007 11:55 AM

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

ee cummings

Marcus Bales 07-06-2007 01:40 PM

Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter
John Crowe Ransom

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

Her wars were bruited in our high window.
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow,
Or harried unto the pond

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud
Dripping their snow on the green grass,
Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,
Who cried in goose, Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!

But now go the bells, and we are ready,
In one house we are sternly stopped
To say we are vexed at her brown study,
Lying so primly propped.

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