Postman Cheval
We are the birds always charmed by you from the top of these belvederes
And that each night form a blossoming branch between your shoulders and the arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow
Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist
We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleeps
And shining holes appear in his bed
Holes through which stags with coral antlers can be seen in a glade
And naked women at the bottom of a mine
You remembered then you got up you got out of the train
Without glancing at the locomotive attacked by immense barometric roots
Complaining about its murdered boilers in the virgin forest
Its funnels smoking jacinths and moulting blue snakes
Then we went on, plants subject to metamorphosis
Each night making signs that man may understand
While his house collapses and he stands amazed before the singular packing-cases
Sought after by his bed with the corridor and the staircase
The staircase goes on without end
It leads to a millstone door it enlarges suddenly in a public square
It is made of the backs of swans with a spreading wing for banisters
It turns inside out as though it were going to bite itself
But no, it is content at the sound of our feet to open all its steps like drawers
Drawers of bread drawers of wine drawers of soap drawers of ice drawers of stairs
Drawers of flesh with handsfull of hair
Without turning round you seized the trowel with which breasts are made
We smiled at you you held us round the waist
And we took the positions of your pleasure
Motionless under our lids for ever as woman delights to see man
After having made love.
poem by Andre Breton
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Related quotes
I had immediate success in the sense that I sold something right off the bat. I thought it was going to be a piece of cake and it really wasn't. I have drawers full of - or I did have - drawers full of rejection slips.
quote by Fred Saberhagen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Feng Shui
One day it was familiar but not home
it had turned that way
while he was at work
the first thing he noticed
were his matching sox
arranged symetrically in the corner
of a drawer which only contained sox
he searched several drawers
before locating his drawers
which had been assigned two levels down
he tried to find pattern to this arrangement
which hadn't been in thirty-eight years
usually he could find his drawers in a pile
nested near the unmatching sox
and now he straightened and noticed the bed
which had been turned, revealing darker paint
where the head once was
'It faces north now, the way it's supposed to'
He gazed at her in the blue lotus flower kimono
and she said ' You really should take off your shoes'
So he took off his shoes
sitting on the north headed bed
and looking up at a red paper dragon lantern
covering the bulb in the ceiling
Removing his shoes he stared at her
she looked like a geisha with a lot of make-up
and ivory sticks through her hair
' Things are going to change around you'
she said without smiling
'It looks like it has ' he said looking
at the dragon consuming a long legged bird
in a painting which now hung on the wall.
poem by George Murdock
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Four Until Late
By robert johnson
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
I believe to my soul that your daddys gulfport bound.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
You know she wont do nothing but tear a good mans reputation down.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
She cause so many men to wear an apron overall.
When I leave this town I will bid you fare farewell.
When I leave this town I will bid you fare farewell.
And when I return again, youll have a great long story to tell.
song performed by by Cream
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Four Until Late
By robert johnson
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
I believe to my soul that your daddys gulfport bound.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
You know she wont do nothing but tear a good mans reputation down.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
She cause so many men to wear an apron overall.
When I leave this town I will bid you fare farewell.
When I leave this town I will bid you fare farewell.
And when I return again, youll have a great long story to tell.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Until Late
by Robert Johnson
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
From four until late I was wringing my hands and crying.
I believe to my soul that your daddy's Gulfport bound.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
From four until late, she made me a no good barroom clown.
You know she won't do nothing but tear a good man's reputation down.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
A woman is like a dresser, some man always running through its drawers.
She cause so many men to wear an apron overall.
When I leave this town I will bid you fair farewell.
When I leave this town I will bid you fair farewell.
And when I return again, you'll have a great long story to tell
song performed by by Cream
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here we have been sitting down for a brief moment and you are already asking me if there are pictures of me in my drawers.
quote by Anthony Weiner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every day each of us wakes up, reaches into drawers and closets, pulls out a costume for the day and proceeds to dress in a style that can only be called preposterous.
quote by Mary Schmich
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The New Vestments
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.
By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabit-skins, -- but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any morre, never more!'
poem by Edward Lear
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My Heart and the Family
Open the chest of drawers I call the heart,
Inside is more furniture that I lay on,
Further up the wall is a red spot or two,
Me and my family and what else?
Outside there is a monster called the garden,
It’s a lawn, a tongue for languages and hurt,
The communication seems vital for the plants to grow,
Ovens in the kitchen are us, we grow food.
My family stay at home, victory is assured and some,
Inside is the heart and my mirror is my family
For they have lunch, dinner and breakfast
In the day and night, with heart and pain, all day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Doll's House
The music comes on with the lights,
the little opera of emptiness begins, the little
dance of no one there —
just the rooms exhibited,
furniture in them like ideas,
a stage set waiting for action out of the blue.
But no,
even the fire in the hearth is neon, warms no one,
the drawers in the painted chests,
are filled with nothing,
the tables loaded with miniature, fake, repasts.
It’s night outside, about to snow, the dollhouse lights are on:
you’re in the dark,
watching the dollhouse like a thief,
pilfering its pockets for a clue to your own life,
wafted over by smells of cooking, and silence.
Inside the dark
a flute starts to play, imaginary people come in at the door:
invited to stay, they take off their coats,
tea is made in a miniature pot — oh,
it’s good I hear you say, let’s have crumpets too, and we put them on,
you and I, they’re almost crumbs but we toast them,
and what kind of jam do you want, I say, on top of the butter,
and you say raspberry,
and I give it to you, reader,
I give it to you and we both eat.
Outside the big house it’s snowing.
Applied frost creeps up the sides of the doll house windows,
the fake fireplace glows electric,
our toy dog sleeps on the rug —
a hush falls over this small house inside the big house,
we sleep in it…
I sleep, you sleep, he sleeps, she sleeps…
it sleeps, the real,
a sleep so delicious, we can dream in it,
as in a delirium, without sound…
windows opening into windows,
shoes never walked in at the door
that we slip on.
poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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You know how it is with drawers and labels in the music business. They don't want anything to be complicated. They just want it simple, as simple as possible.
quote by Mark McGrath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nanny's Chore - 0112 - Initial Version
Falls with full force
on all fours.
Crawls on the floor,
muddy paws.
Calls from the door,
sobbing sore.
Dressed in small drawers,
bawls for more,
and more, and more,
poor Nanny's chore!
(24 March 1976)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I know what she used to do sometimes. She kept her best cape she wore on the street in there, and she used occasionally to go up there to get it and to take it into her room. She kept a great deal in the guest room drawers.
quote by Lizzie Andrew Borden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For me, being a writer was never a choice. I was born one. All through my childhood I wrote short stories and stuffed them in drawers. I wrote on everything. I didn't do my homework so I could write.
quote by Laura Hillenbrand
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chores with Cinderella
Cinderella!
I need your crummy clothes cleaned.
First, make sure you have every stain off them.
You need to look decent tonight for the guests.
Next, Hang dry them so that they do not bleed into the other clothes.
I do not need you to have anymore bright blue shirts.
Last, Put them away.
Flor them so that the creeses match up.
And place them into your drawers
poem by Rebecca Leonard
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O Janus
My knuckles crack at the places they fold
And between each joint swells a reddened blister
During the bleak winter month,
In January
When troubles swear allegiance
Stagnant in the hollows of the old naked birches
Webbing the bedroom window with shadow
The drawers hang open
Like mouths snoring in slumber
Drinking the stars’ blanket of glow
The clock’s arms are weighed down with lead
When the stretch of the night is before the peak
And spying over the window sill
Waits the last late evening snowfall
poem by Alyssa Rieper
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Hands
In lack of
red,
I paint
you in
blue. I do
put
away the knife
in the chest
of drawers.
The clothes are
clean
in the closet
under the bed
old
photographs bits of
dust &sweat sighs and moans
are withering,
in boxes.
like long not heard Bach's
toccata.
Staccato fucking and
kissing miracles
two familiar
faces are, stuck in
the boxes.
Here,
long
nothing's happening.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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Knickers
Knickers are cute
knickers are fun
they cover my do, do
and hide my big bum!
Some lacy
some saucy
some pink
and some black,
I try them all on,
then sneak them all back!
My wife doesn't know
that I try on her drawers
I hope you don't tell!
I won't do it no more!
poem by Ruth Walters
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A Cup Runneth Over
The well has not gone dry,
less frequented maybe
by both the drawers and
the occasional passersby.
The stones are loose;
between them, mortar dissolves-
by clement or contrary
weather on seasonal cue.
The vessel is parched
and longs for its lover
by pulley once lowered
its rope frayed with disuse.
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Contemporary knowledge
Contemporary knowledge is perfectly categorized in drawers.
Savremeno znanje je savrseno kategorizovano u ladicama.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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