#THEE HEAT IS SO PASSIONATE BUT FILTHY.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thesquireofcheddar · 4 years ago

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To exalt, enthrone, establish and defend, To welcome home mankind's mysterious friend Wine, true begetter of all arts that be; Wine, privilege of the completely free; Wine the recorder; wine the sagely strong; Wine, bright avenger of sly-dealing wrong, Awake, Ausonian Muse, and sing the vineyard song!

Sing how the Charioteer from Asia came, And on his front the little dancing flame Which marked the God-head. Sing the Panther-team, The gilded Thrysus twirling, and the gleam Of cymbals through the darkness. Sing the drums. He comes; the young renewer of Hellas comes! The Seas await him. Those Aegean Seas Roll from the dawning, ponderous, ill at ease, In lifts of lead, whose cresting hardly breaks To ghostly foam, when suddenly there awakes A mountain glory inland. All the skies Are luminous; and amid the sea bird cries The mariner hears a morning breeze arise. Then goes the Pageant forward. The sea-way Silvers the feet of that august array Trailing above the waters, through the airs; And as they pass a wind before them bears The quickening word, the influence magical. The Islands have received it, marble-tall; The long shores of the mainland. Something fills The warm Euboean combes, the sacred hills Of Aulis and of Argos. Still they move Touching the City walls, the Temple grove, Till, far upon the horizon-glint, a gleam Of light, of trembling light, revealed they seem Turned to a cloud, but to a cloud that shines, And everywhere as they pass, the Vines! The Vines! The Vines, the conquering Vines! And the Vine breaths Her savour through the upland, empty heaths Of treeless wastes; the Vines have come to where The dark Pelasgian steep defends the lair Of the wolf's hiding; to the empty fields By Aufidus, the dry campaign that yields No harvest for the husbandman, but now Shall bear a nobler foison than the plough; To where, festooned along the tall elm trees, Tendrils are mirrored in Tyrrhenian seas; To where the South awaits them; even to where Stark, African informed of burning air, Upturned to Heaven the broad Hipponian plain Extends luxurious and invites the main. Guelma's a mother: barren Thaspsa breeds; And northward in the valleys, next the meads That sleep by misty river banks, the Vines Have struck to spread below the solemn pines. The Vines are on the roof-trees. All the Shrines And Homes of men are consecrate with Vines.

And now the task of that triumphant day Has reached to victory. In the reddening ray With all his train, from hard Iberian lands Fulfilled, apparent, that Creator stands Halted on Atlas. Far Beneath him, far, The strength of Ocean darkening and the star Beyond all shores. There is a silence made. It glorifies: and the gigantic shade Of Hercules adores him from the West. Dead Lucre: burnt Ambition: Wine is best.

But what are these that from the outer murk Of dense mephitic vapours creeping lurk To breathe foul airs from that corrupted well Which oozes slime along the floor of Hell? These are the stricken palsied brood of sin In whose vile veins, poor, poisonous and thin, Decoctions of embittered hatreds crawl: These are the Water-Drinkers, cursed all! On what gin-sodden Hags, what flaccid sires Bred these White Slugs from what exhaust desires? In what close prison's horror were their wiles Watched by what tyrant power with evil smiles; Or in what caverns, blocked from grace and air Received they, then, the mandates of despair? What! Must our race, our tragic race, that roam All exiled from our first, and final, home: That in one moment of temptation lost Our heritage, and now wander, hunger-tost Beyond the Gates (still speaking with our eyes For ever of remembered Paradise), Must we with every gift accepted, still, With every joy, receive attendant ill? Must some lewd evil follow all our good And muttering dog our brief beatitude?

A primal doom, inexorable, wise, Permitted, ordered, even these to rise. Even in the shadow of so bright a Lord Must swarm and propagate the filthy horde Debased, accursed I say, abhorrent and abhorred. Accursed and curse-bestowing. For whosoe'er Shall suffer their contagion, everywhere Falls from the estate of man and finds his end To the mere beverage of the beast condemned. For such as these in vain the Rhine has rolled Imperial centuries by hills of gold; For such as these the flashing Rhone shall rage In vain its lightning through the Hermitage Or level-browed divine Touraine receive The tribute of her vintages at eve. For such as these Burgundian heats in vain Swell the rich slope or load the empurpled plain. Bootless for such as these the mighty task Of bottling God the Father in a flask And leading all Creation down distilled To one small ardent sphere immensely filled. With memories empty, with experience null, With vapid eye-balls meaningless and dull They pass unblest through the unfruitful light; And when we open the bronze doors of Night, When we in high carousal, we reclined, Spur up to Heaven the still ascending mind, Pass with the all inspiring, to and fro, The torch of genius and the Muse's glow, They, lifeless, stare at vacancy alone Or plan mean traffic, or repeat their moan. We, when repose demands us, welcomed are In young white arms, like our great Exemplar Who, wearied with creation, takes his rest And sinks to sleep on Ariadne's breast. They through the darkness into darkness press Despised, abandoned and companionless. And when the course of either's sleep has run We leap to life like heralds of the sun; We from the couch in roseate mornings gay Salute as equals the exultant day While they, the unworthy, unrewarded, they The dank despisers of the Vine, arise To watch grey dawns and mourn indifferent skies.

Forget them! Form the Dionysian ring And pulse the ground, and Io, Io, sing.

Father Lenaean, to whom our strength belongs, Our loves, our wars, our laughter and our songs, Remember our inheritance, who praise Your glory in these last unhappy days When beauty sickens and a muddied robe Of baseness fouls the universal globe. Though all the Gods indignant and their train Abandon ruined man, do thou remain! By thee the vesture of our life was made, The Embattled Gate, the lordly Colonnade, The woven fabric's gracious hues, the sound Of trumpets, and the quivering fountain-round, And, indestructible, the Arch, and, high, The Shaft of Stone that stands against the sky, And, last, the guardian-genius of them, Rhyme, Come from beyond the world to conquer time: All these are thine, Lenaean.

By thee do seers the inward light discern; By thee the statue lives, the Gods return; By thee the thunder and the falling foam Of loud Acquoria's torrent call to Rome; Alba rejoices in a thousand springs, Gensano laughs, and Orvieto sings... But, Ah! With Orvieto, with that name Of dark, Eturian, subterranean flame The years dissolve. I am standing in that hour Of majesty Septembral, and the power Which swells the clusters when the nights are still With autumn stars on Orvieto hill.

Had these been mine, Ausonian Muse, to know The large contented oxen heaving slow; To count my sheaves at harvest; so to spend Perfected days in peace until the end; With every evening's dust of gold to hear The bells upon the pasture height, the clear Full horn of herdsmen gathering in the kine To ancient byres in hamlets Appenine, And crown abundant age with generous ease: Had these, Ausonian Muse, had these, had these.....

But since I would not, since I could not stay, Let me remember even in this my day How, when the ephemeral vision's lure is past All, all, must face their Passion at the last

Was there not one that did to Heaven complain How, driving through the midnight and the rain, He struck, the Atlantic seethe and surge before, Wrecked in the North along a lonely shore To make the lights of home and hear his name no more. Was there not one that from a desperate field Rode with no guerdon but a rifted shield; A name disherited; a broken sword; Wounds unrenowned; battle beneath no Lord; Strong blows, but on the void, and toil without reward.

When from the waste of such long labour done I too must leave the grape-ennobling sun And like the vineyard worker take my way Down the long shadows of declining day, Bend on the sombre plain my clouded sight And leave the mountain to the advancing night, Come to the term of all that was mine own With nothingness before me, and alone; Then to what hope of answer shall I turn? Comrade-Commander whom I dared not earn, What said You then to trembling friends and few? "A moment, and I drink it with you new: But in my Father's Kingdom." So, my Friend, Let not Your cup desert me in the end. But when the hour of mine adventure's near Just and benignant, let my youth appear Bearing a Chalice, open, golden, wide, With benediction graven on its side. So touch my dying lip: so bridge that deep: So pledge my waking from the gift of sleep, And, sacramental, raise me the Divine: Strong brother in God and last companion, Wine. Hilaire Belloc

#lit

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tiffdawg · 4 years ago

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Hey Tiff, here for the mod mfk game 😊

I'll try and make this short! I tend to babble. Apologies for the inevitable.

I'm INFP-T (mediator). When I originally took the test, I sent it to all my female friends to take because I wanted to know their types 😂 (I didn't think my male friends would give a sh*t).

I hold strong opinions, I know my faults, I find it hard to ackowledge my good traits, I've been through a fair deal of trauma and abandonment (lol), I deal with my baggage through humor (and lots of therapy, too), I used to see myself as a poor sad girl but have grown to see I'm far more than that (thank f*ck), I swear daily but probably less than I did when I was a teen (and I had a filthy mouth then), I dealt with the death of a close relative at a fairly critical time in my mental development and so I think I have a fair view on death and how to comfort someone going through that, if they desire it from me. I am quite proud of how present I was for that relative when they were dying, even if I didn't truly understand what they were going through, at the time, I hope they were comforted by me spending so much time with them.

Less dark sh*t: I love to sing, even though my voice is shrill and can actually pierce my ears at times (so I try not to do it around others ((like it took 4 years to sing infront of my partner!)). I'm infatuated with the filmmaking process and general processes behind creating worlds on screen and page. (I was around 8 when I asked for my first prop replica as a birthday/christmas gift. I just love props and the work and detail that goes into making stuff for sets/costume etc. That's like thee subject that will get my passion fired up all the way. I buzz.) I can be really dumb, something that's developed with age. My mind will just omit information when I'm trying to form a sentence or reference to something. It's probably down to poor concentration (and one summer I smoked a bunch of weed every other day.)

Umm yeah. I f*cking love coffee. I can have up to 4 a day (either just black or a soy cappucino). It's one of my only dirty habits, really. (I rarely drink alcohol, smoke, or take drugs, bar that summer.)

When I was younger I took a couple of psychology courses 'cause ain't the brain fascinating? The subjects I got high marks on, in high school, were Literature, History, Creative Arts, and Science. I sucked at maths but was placed in a higher intelligence class because I was in those for other classes and the timetables for lower sets clashed (it honestly sucked. Like my tutor even said 'you shouldn't be in this class'. Thanks dude!). I dropped out of college because I had severe PTSD, and am yet to go back 👎I don't think I want to.

I have a couple of tattoos. I prefer the summer to winter. I love house plants but I'm terrible at keeping them alive. If I'm travelling somewhere where the main language isn't english I will learn that language! I have an extensive vinyl collection. I'm annoying.

I'LL SHUT UP NOW SORRY I AM SO SO SORRY FOR THIS DUMB INFORMATION THANK U FOR READING I BET YOU PAIR ME WITH FRANKIE. I USUALLY GET FRANKIE OR DIN 😂

Ezra + Rivals to Lovers

You and Ezra first met while harvesting gems on a small moon. Two loquacious leaders on competing teams, neither were surprised when the confrontation ended in a shootout. Despite your past and the nature of life as a floater, you held your head high and held strong morals. You didn’t compromise for anyone. Especially not a sharp-tongued man with wicked intentions.

The fifth time you crossed paths with Ezra, you noticed the blade of your knife had left a white scar on his cheek, marring his handsome features. Pride swelled in your chest. And the smirk on his face told you he knew exactly what was on your mind.

It went on and on like that for years. Your heated encounters became a regular occurrence and even as he tried to kill you, he was perhaps the only reliable person in your life. You tried and tested each other, pushed the other to their limits, and offered a tether for your wandering souls.

Somewhere along the line, things changed. In the most inopportune moment on a planet with a toxic atmosphere, your breathing apparatus malfunctioned. Fate was not on your side, but Ezra was.

As you laid on your cot one night in your run-down pod, you realized you hadn’t run into the prospector for a few months. Your heart sank in your chest as you imagined all of the things that could’ve happened to him. You lived a dangerous life. Loosing people, friends and rivals alike, was expected. Something you were well accustomed to. That was why you kept yourself so closed off and kept everyone at a distance. So how did Ezra, of all the people in the galaxy, have such a hold on you?

You sat in a canteen aboard the ship taking you to your next harvest, pushing around the food on your tray with your fork. Your mind was elsewhere as you desperately tried to plot a new course for your life as you knew you couldn’t do this any longer. You didn’t even look up when someone sat across from you until you heard that familiar, deep baritone.

“I have missed you, birdie.” Your head snapped up. Eyes never settling, you took him in, not able to believe that he was real. That he had returned to you. With tired eyes, a few new scars, and only one arm, he looked… well, he looked like shit. “Might I inquire where you are headed next in this vast and ever-expanding galaxy?”

“Somewhere warm,” you said with what voice you could muster. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere… with you.”

You held your breath as you waited for his answer, prepared for rejection. Surely, after all these years contently at each other’s throats, you’d misread the situation. He hummed a little as he nodded thoughtfully, but the glimmer in his dark eyes gave him away. A smile pulled at your lips.

“In all my years, I have never struck such a fortune as the day I met you,” he grinned.

#tiff answers #anon 💌#fanfic game 💞#please don’t send any more requests in! im just finishing the ones sitting in my inbox

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libidomechanica · 5 years ago

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Then thoughts were, since

Again to move among a filthy

soul. Who conquest on the dam ready to

be first of woes; you must confusion have grows

and their enemy to build. As if

Dian: rain relent, and songs and partly the

bier with dandling, in the third,

were sweet bitter by thy wealth may stay with

King Henry said their statue, said: “ for whether;

then at once a week and being sealed sorrow,

wind will not be done, in the trumpet

shall we? All nature thought is the sill and

so forget not mine,” so I am and

equippd a Camel side of the hollow

up thy dove. Unbolts of prayer with

health, the long fasting ruffian shall not knowing

for a common senses sore dismay; perhaps

she got the kisses after dying

taper burrowing, hast the meant nor veil: marsh-divers,

rather too—their plates— without number.

Of mine. The boar, rough knives and moan: or

as the silverd shield a silken hood. She

is reside, half-disrooted China, touched its

salutes him king it to hear of

it, sometimes it we seldom. Of bristles

to groans, through a wand of prophecy

dilating Lust full eye, bright as the top-

gallant to be embraced something in her

sombre cave, appal. and glean your faces

fell that ever saw the saloon of such

the lasted by the board, and

she Ways, And cut through the men that has

made thee. the meadows down the bell-moulded,

falling lute. Since the flower, scattered in hand,

and Deaths-head and from the grandson,

first love by wealthy men, at first you. Cleaves will longer

to thee ridiculous: but, coming at a

sudden turns—with things, about the

brow that they tumbled on his hat, her face

to a blank to bear; think for

whom grimy naked as fuel, heat, and like

a soda bottlebrush tree, but waking you and

yet never men belief, tries more, whole ambition, so much

was it should I, and by thought star of

laws Salique who sees his through they arent afraid

of all shall men adored and fold wives a second

time, if so indeed them as noises

jump both together: it flashd for, and

thou leave him of trophies, stopped, menaced,

thou canst thou toil our than civilization

in which, shining lovers, whose degrees all she

flowers allyd in the mounted

as shadows; and she has oft beam glittered

in, the county, had ever them

burning round his loaths on, which eloquence thou

knowst my hairs; if thousands (t is merely

mean,) tears and darkly bright, when the

client brows, with doubt, ceasing sport. And

labours by, a breezes rapt in a breath of

passion, fury, frantic. D to say: (though he

is experiences out we paced, last Love,

I did but in such are forty steps that

we called us: unmeet for objects

for misery; “ as burning)

besides the lily fingers, bards, diplomatists,

and in the skies to rift

the sad sighs the very essence of

calm surprise will dare told; she whole were

of Futurism just as the flies.

Upon the breath was talkd on his

beetle brows, with famine asks— You yet

mixd so say whats tired I reread Aristotle

by weal and body being sport: the loss of

the clatter, and then would in this

mouth but a curate; some of Lucy Gray upon

fresh from fames black piano our

guides thee here within the clown, to

the Storm grace I should double incision!”

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #153 texts

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