Serene Falcon

Returns At Break Of Dawn

June 17th, 2011store at 5:30 am

There’s one pet I like to pet
And every evening we get set
I stroke it every chance I get
It’s my girl’s pussy

Seldom plays and never purrs
And I love the thoughts it stirs
But I don’t mind because it’s hers
My girl’s pussy

Often it goes out at night
Returns at break of dawn
No matter what the weather’s like
It’s always nice and warm

It’s never dirty, always clean
In giving thrills, never mean
But it’s the best I’ve ever seen
Is my girl’s pussy

There’s one pet I like to pet
And every evening we get set
I stroke it every chance I get
It’s my girl’s pussy

Seldom plays, never purrs
And I love the thoughts it stirs
But I don’t mind because it’s hers
It’s my girl’s pussy

Though often it goes out at night
And returns at break of dawn, break of dawn
No matter what the weather’s like
It’s always dry and warm

I bring tid-bits that it loves
We spoon like two turtle doves
I take care to remove my gloves
When stroking my girl’s pussy

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Harry Roy & his Bat Club Boys — My Girl’s Pussy – 1931

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I’m On Your Speed Dial, Y’Know

November 14th, 2010 at 11:45 pmprofile (Self Writ, Music, Videos)

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I Just Wanna Be Back Where I Belong

July 27th, 2010 at 2:00 pm

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Do The Chairs In Your Parlor Seem Empty And Bare ?

July 15th, 2010store at 10:30 pm

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Oscar Grogan & The Columbians — Are You Lonesome Tonight ? 1927

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The Color of Crime

June 10th, 2010 at 1:30 amprofile (Self Writ, Music, Videos)

An electrifying performance by 18-yr-old Sofie Alvén at Tivoli in Copenhagen in 2008.

I only found out about the recent General Election in Britain, as with the Olympics, and other sporting events, after the fact — having made a conscious decision to avoid mind-corrupting trash — however, after suddenly choosing to hear this song again, expecting the usual performance by an elder capable of appearing a grizzled old con, and being enchanted by this, I found that apparently that song is being used to signal the Tory/Lib-Dem Alliance. Yellow being the colour of Liberals, whilst Conservatives can always produce jail-fodder. One old joke when Lady Thatcher’s mob were in office went: ‘Which cabinet ministers are in prison ?‘ — ‘Not enough.’.

In British politics Blue is the colour of Conservatives; Red of Labour, Old or New; and Yellow for Liberals. Which leaves Green for the Greens.

T’was not always thus: Dark Blue, Red or Scarlet and Blue for 18th century Tories and Orange or Buff and [ Light ] Blue for the Whigs ( both being equally ancestral to the present Conservative Party ).

Still, on the wider world stage excluding the hues of regal families or national flags, colours go:

White : Royalist

Black : Fascist ( or Roman Church parties )

Blue : Conservative

Red : Communist

Pink : Socialist

Yellow : Liberal

Brown : Nazi

Green : Green or Islamist

 
Wiki endearingly says: ‘Symbols can be very important when the overall electorate is illiterate.’ Which mixed message says a lot about the sort of people who believe in democracy.

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Tell Your Children

June 6th, 2010 at 9:00 pm

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Sinéad O’Connor — The House of the Rising Sun

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And All Your Bodies Drown In The Salt Sea

April 21st, 2010store at 9:00 am

From St. Petersburg, the Scottish Tribute Ballad to Andrew Barton…

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The Silver Sail Of Dawn

April 13th, 2010 at 10:30 pmprofile (Other Writ, High Germany, Music, Poetry)

The fairies break their dances
And leave the printed lawn,
And up from India glances
The silver sail of dawn.

The candles burn their sockets,
The blinds let through the day,
The young man feels his pockets
And wonders what’s to pay.

A. E. Housman : The Fairies Break Their Dances

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Richard Wagner — Overture to The Fairies

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Yesterday’s Sunshine Has Turned Into Rain

March 22nd, 2010 at 3:30 pm

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Filicides

March 14th, 2010store at 7:00 pm

One of the many rare distinctions appertaining to being a jacobite is the fact that — without overtly disliking, yet not over-valuing, people except insofar as they adhere to creeds of filthy republicanism — one is able to loathe all parties concerned in Northern Ireland without distinction.

Famously, after the last battle, at Stow-on-the-Wold, Jacob Astley, Major-General of the King’s Infantry, contemptuously predicted to his conquerors: “Now Boys, ye may now sit down and play, for you have done all your Worke, if you fall not out among yourselves.”

 
Quite apart from egregious terrorism and racketeering, which form a link with the established political movements which support and sponsor them and their ideals, the multi-splintered groups forming the twin ideals of Irish Republicanism and Unionist Loyalism are further joined by their infamous beliefs in democracy and religion: each partaking of the ancient liberal evil which rejected the Stuarts and Divine Right Royalism. As are also heirs — of course — the government forces of the pseudo-monarchical Great Britain — serving the ultimate beneficiaries of the murder of Charles the First and the expulsion of his progeny: foul old parliament and it’s hireling Windsor puppets squatting on a usurped throne — and dreary little Eire, which puts all these gangs of parricidal and fratricidal sentimental bastards beyond the pale.

 
Ulster’s ‘Troubles’ is merely one part of the aftermath of the defeat of Royalism whereby the republican scum fell out amongst themselves.
 

 
However, like most movements each can play a jolly tune — outside the province and some parts of Scotland religio-political parades are sufficiently rare — and here is one group of protties, the Ravenshill Flute Band, on Black Saturday 2006, playing Hello ! Hello ! Who’s Your Lady Friend ? — one of the Edwardian era’s most spectacular songs.

It was written by the half-French Fragson, murdered by his own father.

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I Will Not Have Gossip In This Jungle

March 7th, 2010 at 7:00 pmprofile (Self Writ, Melancholy, Music, Videos)

Long ago, and the which I never saw, there was an English TV sitcom called It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum — which title may go a way to explain why the snobbish might avoid it — dealing with a troop of conscripts in Burma during WWII. No-one I’ve met has ever averred that people there had a ‘Good War‘…

However, two of the cast, Mr. Don Estelle the singer, and Mr. Windsor Davies who played a Welsh Sergeant, collaborated on this rendition of Whispering Grass.

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At The Hotel Paradise

January 1st, 2010 at 6:00 am

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Kaiserlich

December 25th, 2009store at 5:00 pm

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Emmerich Kalman — Czardas Medley
The Johann Strauss Orchestra of, and conducted by, André Rieu

Never let us forget that to each’s infinite credit, the usurper Hitler, delighting in his awesome melodic prowess, offered Kalman Honorary Aryanship and that Kalman refused it.

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And No Words Did Pass

June 9th, 2009 at 12:00 pmprofile (Self Writ, Melancholy, Music)

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Robbers on High Street – Guard At Your Heel

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Refined Nordic Gloom

April 1st, 2009 at 3:00 am

Hello Saferide — Annika Norlin

Lyrics

Also, My latest OpenSUSE wallpaper…

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If It Takes Forever

January 1st, 2009store at 6:59 pm

The hiatus continues…

Still, I was rather under the impression that I had already included this Final Fantasy / Connie Francis mix regarding Squall and his Rinoa; but it was probably placed elsewhere; so it really should find a home here.

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God Rest Us, Everyone

October 3rd, 2008 at 2:00 amprofile (Self Writ, Correctitude, Music)

Had I slaves — the moral issue of ownership discarded, it being the natural state of mankind: the majority of my, your, and even the Kings of this earth’s, ancestors having been slaves in one form or another [ we do our best not to boast of those producing for us from the poorest to the wealthiest in 15 hours a day Chinese factories or coffee plantations under the beneficent order of free-trade, yet they too exist in the peripheral view of our consciousness ] — I should be a damn fine owner and probably only have them work two hours a day, and in the same conditions of life as I do; ideally, I would prefer neither slaves nor servants, merely utterly faithful retainers who fawned a lot and nodded acquiescently whenever I gave out a pithy gnomic utterance fitted to their state of understanding; however, no matter how ideal their lives and how well-protected I should keep them from harm, illness or education, under no circumstance would I ever swap places for a day with them, even in so limited a fashion as was minimally performed by the ancients. I not only have a tedious sense of propriety, but it’s imperative never to give them ideas; so rather cheerful Yule, or happy Solstice than the orgy of Saturnalia… Still, all three undoubtedly included one tradition that has carried over into our modern Christmas, which is some depressing guest wondering aloud how many of those present will see the next. In that spirit I offer a foretaste of Christmas, with many ingredients I should undoubtedly overlook were I to wait a few months for the real thing. Even supposing we were all alive then.

 
Firstly, two contrasting Swedish renditions of O Holy Night ( O Helga Natt ), by Jussi Bjorling and Sissel ( not together ). [ No video. ]

 
A lone Swedish girl offered her love to the world last Christmas:

 
Whilst some others briefly sang the by no means Christmasful, but undoubtedly perfect, song: Mein Hut der hat Drei Ecken [ Full Lyrics: Mein Hut, der hat drei Ecken, drei Ecken hat mein Hut. Und hätt' er nicht drei Ecken, so wär' er nicht mein Hut ! ]

 
Then, flying on a goose’s back straight from Rumsfeld’s Old Norse Europe to the raw energy of the New, one can see the immediate contrast from the decadence of ruins with ‘Hannah Montana’s’ vibrant Rocking’ Around The Christmas Tree; not only has American civilisation the pure innocence of vacuity, and an awesome instantaneous sharing of screaming community — along with godknowswhatthosecreaturesare; but it appears to be set in summer’s lease.

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As Cold As Ice

September 18th, 2008 at 6:00 am

Depression came early this autumn. Sufficiently accounting for going AWOL; yet viewers would be correct to strongly demand a notification such as this, yet ennui waits for no man

 
 
Glancing through one of those not unamusing collections of fake-medieval detective stories, and was so struck by this beginning sentence by a Mr. Paul Harding, I fast checked the reference online, yet could not find any such thing in the work quoted.

‘I was reading Bartholomew the Englishman’s The Nature of Things in which he describes the planet Saturn as cold as ice, dark as night and malignant as Satan.’

A quick check astrological showed the ruling house of the hour i was born to be Saturn : not believing in this discipline in the least, this was previously unknown to me, it just seemed kinda inevitable…

[ Why I disbelieve may be shown, not only by the unlikelihood of vast symbols influencing our self-wrought nature, but by the interpretation given:

This astrological combination indicates a headstrong individual with a fiercely passionate nature. Your likes and dislikes are intense, and you tend to impose your will and taste upon others. You will rise to positions of leadership, for you display unusual courage and independence. Your nature is practical, and your goals are very much tied to matters of this world. You are stubborn in your views and you are ardently jealous of your possessions and values. Although you conduct your own affairs in semi-secrecy, you have to probe into the life of your love partner. Much about you is deep. You store away your emotions, hide your resentments, bury away knowledge. The key to a more harmonious self lies in cultivating humility and greater self-control of your one-directional, assertive personality.

Apart from the fact I can't recognise any of this; I love the sheer unsubtility of the gross flattery astrologers offer: no wonder they were so popular in braver times. And I've already got enough humility. ]

***

Neanderthal Days and Neanderthal Ways

And of Ice, I read up on Afrocentric ‘history’ just for a laugh, and came across some work by a Michael Bradley referenced, popular in the Farrakhan School, The Iceman Inheritance : Prehistoric Sources of Western Man’s Racism, Sexism and Aggression, which promulgated that white people descended partly from those crazy red-haired neanderthals, and that modern pathologies particular to western civilisations are caused by sexual dysfunction of cold neanderthal hearts — my lack of faith in psychosexual therapy, really all therapies, indicates that I am quite sure that it is as fully successful in analysis conducted at a range of 40,000 years as in the immediate present — still, I was slightly pleased, since if we are all different species rather than merely different races, then all our white ‘sins’ are both natural and indeed, ineluctable.

Apparently the book proffered the additional delight that the jews are the purest form of neanderthals; amusingly referenced here in a resigned list of things certain peoples believe about the jews. Just remember that every believer is entitled to their vote under any democracy, and marvel that anyone is truly stupid enough to believe in democracy.

I took a few online sociopathy tests for fun, which results varied as wildly as astrology, although all gratifyingly scored around the higher marks. Although I can scarcely doubt being an amoral sociopath, honour and the vagaries of luck forbid the more volatile expressing of such tendencies; the trouble is that I really couldn’t care enough about people to want to kill them; even minute non-violent injury such as blowing up their empty car seems to mark being over-passionately engaged in the mundane world [ as does noticing they live, of course ], unless they offer really serious provocation, natüralich. As with all other animals, each gets individual respect, and should not be killed or injured in the slightest unless they threaten — if a bear is likely to harm one, then murdering it is justified: old lunatics like this fellow who shot a nursing bear eating birdseed really ought at least to receive enough punishment to send them to Hell. P’raps being fastened to a steering wheel and blown up with plastique as happened to the fellow in Ambler’s Send No More Roses, or something of that order ? [ Actually, I knew until fairly recently a chap who claimed to have invented plastique, or some form of it at least. Very useful stuff. ] Hopefully he would not protest unbecomingly. Being cold I always abhore unnecessary suffering: but even more the suffering inflicted by victims’ lack of pride. One of the most horrific and repulsive acts of modern cinema was the notorious, ‘Look into your heart‘ scene from Miller’s Crossing: Just kill the disgusting little fucker already…

***

And They Fight Like Girls…

I also took the Inner Dragon Psych test…

 
First, tell me which breath-weapon you’d most like to control:
Lightning / Storms ~ ZOT! he he he he…

Okay, what size do you feel like inside ?
Size? Who cares? I’m the baddest dragon on this planet

Next, where would you prefer to live ?
Secluded mountain valleys, away from everything.

Which statement best describes how you feel about humans ?
They look funny. They talk funny. They act funny. They taste funny. And they fight like girls.

Select the sentence that best describes how you feel about other dragons:
Nah, that whole community thing isn’t for me.

And how do you view yourself as a dragon ?
I am the shadow, the mist, and the wind. My intentions are hidden and my reasons are my own.

What’s your most likely course of action if threatened ?
Just pass on by and hope they’re not dumb enough to try anything – for their sake.

Given the chance, would you use magic or spells ?
Yes (including “yeah, sure, whatever”, “because they might make pretty colors”, etc.)

How much treasure would you hoard if you could have all you wanted ?
You cross me and I’ll take what you’ve got. Otherwise, not much.

Lastly, which genre of music do you prefer ?
Classical, Marches, Instrumentals.

I turned out to be a White Dragon.

The Blackbird Whistling

Other news being that I converted to Blackbird as primary music player, if solely because I love the fat little fellow. It works perfectly, even on Windows 2000 for which it is not designed; I had hoped to add one of these permanent links here, yet apart from being paralysed by choice of these charming images, they are transparent pngs, and may not come out well on this darker theme…

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Just Got A Hold On Me

August 19th, 2008store at 2:00 pm

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The Barefaced Cheek — Morals [ Who Needs 'Em ? ]

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Mors Et Vita Redoubled

July 31st, 2008 at 10:00 pmprofile (Melancholy, Music, Poetry, The King of Terrors, Videos)

 
“UNDER the roots of the roses,
Down in the dark, rich mould,
The dust of my dear one reposes
Like a spark which night incloses
When the ashes of day are cold.”

“Under the awful wings
Which brood over land and sea,
And whose shadows nor lift nor flee, —
This is the order of things,
And hath been from of old:
First production,
And last destruction;
So the pendulum swings,
While cradles are rocked and bells are tolled.”

“Not under the roots of the roses,
But under the luminous wings
Of the King of kings
The soul of my love reposes,
With the light of morn in her eyes,
Where the Vision of Life discloses
Life that sleeps not nor dies.”

“Under or over the skies
What is it that never dies ?
Spirit — if such there be —
Whom no one hath seen nor heard,
We do not acknowledge thee;
For, spoken or written word,
Thou art but a dream, a breath;
Certain is nothing but Death !”

Richard Henry Stoddard : Mors et Vita

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Dark Ambient

July 19th, 2008 at 9:45 pm

 
Hi Miss Alice.
With glass eyes
What kind of a dream
Are you able to have ?
Are you entranced by ?
Again for me
My heart tears apart
And flows out
Memories
Pierce into
The mended crevice

Hi Miss Alice.
With a fruitful mouth
To whom are you
Throwing love at ?
Grieving love at ?
I’m already
Spinning words
The warmth of my tongue
Completely cools
And I can’t sing
The song that I adore

Still, you do not answer.

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Night’s Black Bird

June 30th, 2008store at 4:30 pm

Flow my teares fall from your springs,
Exilde for ever: Let me morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorne.

Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose.

Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pittie is fled,
And teares, and sighes, and grones
My wearie days of all joyes have deprived.

From the highest spire of contentment,
My fortune is throwne,
And feare, and griefe, and paine
For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone.

Hark you shadowes that in darkesse dwell,
Learn to contemne light,
Happy that in hell
Feele not the worlds despite.

John Dowland : Flow My Tears

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Where Skims The Gull The Baltic Waves

June 29th, 2008 at 3:15 amprofile (Self Writ, High Germany, Music, Poetry)

WHERE is the German’s fatherland ?
The Prussian land? The Swabian land ?
Where Rhine the vine-clad mountain laves ?
Where skims the gull the Baltic waves ?
Ah, no, no, no !
His fatherland ‘s not bounded so !

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
Bavarian land ? or Stygian land ?
Where sturdy peasants plough the plain ?
Where mountain-sons bright metal gain ?
Ah, no, no, no !
His fatherland’s not bounded so !

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
The Saxon hills ? The Zuyder strand ?
Where sweep wild winds the sandy shores
Where loud the rolling Danube roars ?
Ah, no, no, no !
His fatherland ‘s not bounded so !

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
Then name, then name the mighty land !
The Austrian land in fight renowned ?
The Kaiser’s land with honors crowned ?
Ah, no, no, no !
His fatherland ‘s not bounded so !

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
Then name, then name the mighty land !
The land of Hofer ? land of Tell ?
This land I know, and love it well;
But, no, no, no !
His fatherland ‘s not bounded so !

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
Is his the pieced and parceled land
Where pirate-princes rule ? A gem
Torn from the empire’s diadem?
Ah, no, no, no !
Such is no German’s fatherland.

Where is the German’s fatherland ?
Then name, oh, name the mighty land !
Wherever is heard the German tongue,
And German hymns to God are sung !
This is the land, thy Hermann’s land;
This, German, is thy fatherland.

This is the German’s fatherland,
Where faith is in the plighted hand,
Where truth lives in each eye of blue,
And every heart is staunch and true.
This is the land, the honest land,
The honest German’s fatherland.

This is the land, the one true land,
O God, to aid be thou at hand !
And fire each heart, and nerve each arm,
To shield our German homes from harm,
To shield the land, the one true land,
One Deutschland and one fatherland !

Ernst Moritz Arndt : Was ist das deutsche Vaterland ?

Arndt was not a good man, for he was a liberal; yet he partially atoned by proving that if the Devil must have the all good tunes, he also acquires striking lyricists to complement them well…

To demonstrate that the less mundane, and more subtle, system of absolute monarchism can subvert revolutionary liberal impulses and turn them to light, Franz Liszt — above politics and kaisertreue, put the above anthem to music, dedicated to King Friedrich Wilhelm IV who then bestowed one of the earliest civilian Pour le Merites in return…

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What Lives In Vegas, Dies Out of Vegas

June 26th, 2008 at 1:00 am

One thing the world admires in Americans is that, despite the mistrust and fearfulness innate on a personal level, they retain a basic confidence in the group and retain an idealism in all matters of faith. As a realist I could scarcely maintain that most ideals are barely removed from derangement, but they make people happy — and it is definitely preferable to be surrounded by optimists rather than equally delusional pessimists.

One aspect, faith in science and faith in government — during the twentieth century these were so interwined as to become indistinguishable — was exemplified by those so avid for entertainment and [ very ] momentary pleasure that they flocked from around the continent to ever-welcoming Las Vegas to stare at the mushroom clouds that blossomed in the 1950s. While this might seem to more critical minds the nadir of stupidity, I honestly have to confess that considering the loathliness of most activities that the city so famously offers it does seem an alternative — if only for a blink of an eye.

The late Mr. Carlin, who performed last there just 12 days back, happened to describe it as “… the most dispiriting, soul-deadening city on earth.” and a few years back expounded to the patrons watching his act there, “People who go to Las Vegas, you’ve got to question their fucking intellect to start with. Traveling hundreds and thousands of miles to essentially give your money to a large corporation is kind of fucking moronic. That’s what I’m always getting here is these kind of fucking people with very limited intellects.” which seems fair enough — and almost sedulous in avoiding empty flattery. Yet, although personally oblivious to the pleasure of gambling for money, the faded rat-pack type entertainment seems yet more repellent. Essentially this demonstrates one problem with absolute freedom and happiness: with all you will ever need, how does one use that freedom to maintain happiness ? We may futurely discover that in any of the heavens promised by various faith: on earth it appears to involve sitting in exquisitely awful hotels, listening to Cool singers, and regularly giving even larger sums than most religions demand in blind faith that it will be returned a thousandfold.

This is quite an interesting site, Essays On Deep Las Vegas Culture; and although my liking for Elvis is nearly as tepid as my liking for the city, I find the song ok for it’s remarkable vigour and structure — written naturally by someone who had not been there, and lived in poverty; unlike the criminals who built the place — and the fountain is tremendously pretty.

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Darkness Hold Me Like A Friend

June 7th, 2008store at 3:30 am

It is an axiom that every American born has a chance of becoming president, yet few avail themselves of that option. Such a fairytale there to sooth the slumbering never to be acknowledged fact that 99.9% of them are subjugated by a — semi — elected ruling class and have no chance whatsoever of effecting change within the system — which is no doubt all for the best — takes no account of the fact that the odds are of course far lesser than any state lottery, which are usually stupendously unlikely. There are over 300 million Americans at present, barring any major event taking place overnight; there will be around 400 – 440 million in 2050 — although this is probably an underestimate if the present rate of legal immigration of 1 million a year was raised to to 3 or 5 million, as this 2006 legislation indicated, and illegal immigration rose dramatically for some reason [ such as some countries becoming less endurable through nature or war ]. There is the natural probability that these masses will reduce the numbers through attrition: over-crowding will increase the national propensity of Americans to kill each other at random. Anyhow, whilst strictly disinclined to search for the answer, even if it is known, I’ll assume that the total number of citizens who lived during the 20th century was, say, 400 million [ 76 million in 1900 to 281 million in 2000 --- during which time millions died and were replaced ]. During that century, 1901 to 2001, there were 18 presidents.

Even odder than that fact, from a european view, is the fact that out of all those millions, most admittedly disbarred by reasons of eligibility, disinclination, sex, mental impairment etc., even the early preliminary hat-throwing stages of a presidential race only appear to encompass around twenty to fifty persons seriously considered; and after the winnowing out by press and parties, the fix is in place and the permissible candidates are ready to run. Which means only around four Americans are ever papabile out of 300 million people. It might be slightly preferable if the final ballot was to be of a choice of twenty persons with some kind of transferable vote system to knock them down till there’s just one man standing. This wouldn’t make the system legitimate of course, but then no system which includes people voting can confer legitimacy on any result.

 
 
As a graceful tribute to that dead-eyed political process here are some songs for each participant. Unattributed generic Corries-type band for the first, but I couldn’t find the inimitable original from Francie & Josie; Alice Blue Gown no doubt since the song was inspired by the daughter of another great family of presidential nepotists — although scarcely so semi-insanely so as poor old Hil with her almost unique sense of unaccountable entitlement; Red Yo-Yo as pace McCain, Iran will resemble how we kept the Gorbals over here [ a ben trovato tale goes of after perhaps the Somme or Ypres an over-excitable senior staff officer burst into tears when taken to view the mud, deeper mud than anyone can really imagine, and exclaimed "My God, did we send men to die in that ?!" --- Yes we did sir, and nor all your tears shall wash out a word of it... Still, another point is that even in piping days of peace we really didn't provide very well for our poor... 'Did we keep people in places like these ?' Matt McGinn was a commie, and looking at Glasgow then, one can understand why. Naturally, having faith in the working-class is as vulgar and debased as faith in an aristocracy, or faith in wealthy businessmen, yet people had to believe in something I guess. ]

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