Mic drop?
Yirminci yüzyılın devlet adamlarından, iktisadiyattan, teknolojiden tanrılar yaptığını kabul etmek kolay. Cahiliye döneminde hurmadan bile put yapıldığını düşününce şaşmıyoruz buna.
The reptilian dropped her body and exited the house. It took a moment to inspect the doorway. Curious, it swung it shut and listened to the sound of the latch.
It quickly lost interest beyond the education acquired in hunting this bipedal species. It now knew they lived in these large structures, comprised of multiple materials, and that each structure had a doorway that swung open. There was no doubt in the creature’s mind it could breach the entrance by brute force. It was good info that would come in handy in future hunts.
With that in mind, it set out into the woods in search of more prey.
She's made her mind up, the
wild woman none can tame:
I should burn, drop dead, my frame
shrink to a wizened pigmy's.
That's her goal.
A vampire, she leaves me
bloodless, unmanned,
unstrung, body and soul.
She pretties for her role
in her trusty mirror, where
as she prinks and preens,
she croons to herself, "Divine!"
Turns my way; her eyes roll:
I'm old. In the mirror there
her face shows the more
charming next to mine.
You ugly Florentine,
that's her thought?
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Song of Myself (I)
1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
