|
profile PAMELA 130194 archives February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 May 2009 November 2009 December 2009 cbox affiliates andro-meda archana ariel audrey cassandra chelsea chinghan christy clare daoxin deborah-loone dini evangeline georgina geraldine hanru harriet hazel jasmine jeaneve jessie jimin joan jolene jolene [1c1 08'] khairunnisa [1c1 08'] klare linqi meijun oneceeone07 paveta pearlyn phoebe racheepoo renhui sabrina samantha si hui tessa-sim tessa-ying trisha vanessa soh vanessa vanitha verity vishaki wendy wenxi whitesands xintian xinyi yimin-thegreat yuanteng yvonne ziyu zoey credits skin by: Jane |
Tuesday, 2 October 2007 @ 22:18
STUPID PAMELA-YOU SHOULDN'T BE SLACKING [a black rabbit dies for it's country]-by gavin ewart born in the lab, i never saw the grass or felt the direct touch of wind or sun and if a rabbit's nature is to runfree on earth, i missed it: though the glass never let shot shoot or predators pass while i was warm against my mother's side something was waiting in the centrifuge (the world's a cage, although the cage is huge) and separate i lived til i died- watered and fed, i didn't fret, inside and all the time i was waiting for the paste, scooped with a spatula from the metal rim, the concentrate bacillus at the brim, and lived the life of feeling and taste, i didn't know it. knowing would be a waste, in any case, and anthrax is the hard stuff that knocks out the mice, the dogs, the men, you haven't any chance at all when they've finished with you, you're down on a card how could i know to be upon my guard when they pushed the container into line, with the infected air stream? breath is life: though something more deadly than a knife cut into me, i was still feeling fine, and never guessed the next death would be mine- how many minutes later lungs would choke as feet beat out the seconds like a drum, hands held me on the table: this was a sum with the predictable ending of a joke fighting i died, and no god even spoke [the bettery hen]-by pam ayres oh i am a battery hen on me back theres not a germ i never scrathched a farmyard and i never pecked a worm i never had the sunshine to warm me feathers through eggs i lay everyday for the likes of you when you has them scrambled piled up on your plate its me what you should thank for that i never lays them late i always lays them reg'lar i always lays them right i never lays them brown i always lays them white but its no life for a battery hen in me box im sat a funnel stuck out from the side me pellets come down that i gets a squirt of waterevery half a day watchin with me beady eye me eggs roll away i lays them in a funnel, strategically placed, so that i don't kick 'em, and let them go to waste, they rolls off down the tubing, and up the gangway quick, sometimes i gets to thinkin' "that could've been a chick!" i might have been a farmyard hen, scratchin' in the sun, there might have been a crowd of chicks, after me to run,there might have been a cockerel fine, to pay us his respects instead of sittin' here till someone comes and wrings our necks. i see the time and motion clock, is sayin' nearly noon, i 'spec me squirt of water, will come flyin' at me soon and then my spray of pellets, will nearly break my leg, and i'll bite the wire nettin' and lay one more bloody egg. imagine each phrase being typed out at least five times each and you'll see how much i typed ): but im so proud of me, i actually managed to remember all this (: but now, i have to memorize the feelings parts and the more important quotes that i can use ): i want to sleep!! ): |