COME TOUCH ME LIKE I?M AN ORDINARY MAN, HAVE A LOOK IN MY EYES UNDERNEATH MY SKIN THERE IS VIOLENCE, GOT A GUN IN ITS HAND READY TO MAKE SENSE OF ANYONE ANYTHING BLACK HOLES LIVING IN THE SIDE OF YOUR FACE RAZOR WIRE SPINNING AROUND YOUR BLISTERING SKY, BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY AND I DON?T KNOW WHY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY AND I DON?T KNOW WHY PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY PERSONAL RESPONSE INSANITY CONFINE ME LET ME BE THE LESSER OF A BEAUTIFUL MAN WITHOUT THE BLOOD ON HIS HANDS COME AND MAKE ME A MARTYR COME AND BREAK MY FEELING WITH YOUR VIOLENCE WITH THE GUN TO MY HEAD READY TO TAKE OUT ANYONE ANYWHERE BLACK HOLES LIVING IN THE SIDE OF YOUR FACE RAZOR WIRE SPINNING AROUND YOUR HEART BLISTERING SKY BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY AND I DON?T KNOW WHY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY OF THE BLISTERING SKY BULLETS ARE THE BEAUTY AND I DON?T KNOW WHY PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY PERSONAL RESPONSE INSANITY
I'm big on having a blistering pace. That's one of the hallmarks of what I do, and that's not easy. I never blow up cars and things like that, so it's something else that keeps the suspense flowing. I try not to write a chapter that isn't going to turn on the movie projector in your head.
Scorching heat radiates across the cheek of my ass from his open palm. 'Shit!' I cry out. Another blistering sting connects with the other cheek. 'Watch your mouth!' 'I'm sorry Sir, but jeez - it hurts.' 'I promise you - not as much as it could have, ' he sneers with a wicked gleam. 'Now, bend across the desk.
What a grin he had, what ferocious eyes, what a creature he was. He had dreamt himself an entire life and death. Ronan said, "I want to go back." "Then take it," said his father. "You know how now." And Ronan did. Because Niall Lynch was a forest fire, a rising sea, a car crash, a closing curtain, a blistering symphony, a catalyst with planets inside him. And he had given all of that to his middle son.
I have not been one who believed in the global warming. But I tell you, they are making a convert out of me as these blistering summers. They have broken heat records in a number of cities already this year and broken all-time records and it is getting hotter and the ice caps are melting and there is a build up of carbon dioxide in the air. We really need to address the burning of fossil fuels.
Life had been a suit I'd only put on for special occasions. Most of the time I kept it in the back of my closet, forgetting it was there. We were meant to die when it was barely stitched anymore, when the elbows and knees were stained with grass and mud, shoulder pads uneven from people hugging you all the time, downpours and blistering sun, the fabric faded, buttons gone.
Now the moon of the Aztecs is at the zenith, and all the world lies still. Full and white, the white of bones, the white of a skull; blistering the center of the sky well with its throbbing, not touching it on any side. Now the patio is a piebald place of black and white, burning in the downward-teeming light. Not a leaf moves, not a petal falls, in this fierce amalgam. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")
We are the owls of the weather chaw. We take it blistering, We take it all. Roiling boiling gusts, We're the owls with the guts. For blizzards our gizzards Dr tremble with joy. An ice storm, a gale, how we love blinding hail. We fly forward and backward, Upside down and flat. Do we flinch? Do we wail? Do we skitter or scutter? No, we yarp one more pellet And fly straight for the gutter! Do we screech? Do we scream? Do we gurgle? Take pause? Not on your life! For we are the best Of the best of the chaws!
On the lawn next to the sidewalk a fire ant colony is swarming. The ants are pouring out of a mound nest, here no more than an irregular pile of dirt partly flattened by the last pass of a lawnmower. Winged queens and males are taking off on their nuptial flight, protected by angry-looking workers that run up and down the grass blades and out onto the blistering-hot concrete of the sidewalk. The species is unmistakably Solenopsis geminata, the native fire ant.
E. O. Wilson
I wish we could spend July by the sea, browning ourselves and feeling water-weighted hair flow behind us from a dive. I wish our gravest concerns were the summer gnats. I wish we were hungry for hot dogs and dopes, and it would be nice to smell the starch of summer linens and the faint odor of talc in blistering summer bath houses ... We could lie in long citoneuse beams of the five o'clock sun on the plage at Juan-les-Pins and hear the sound of the drum and piano being scooped out to sea by the waves.
Thus far, our responsibility for how we treat chickens and allow them to be treated in our culture is dismissed with blistering rhetoric designed to silence objection: 'How the hell can you compare the feelings of a hen with those of a human being?' One answer is, by looking at her. It does not take special insight or credentials to see that a hen confined in a battery cage is suffering, or to imagine what her feelings must be compared with those of a hen ranging outside in the grass and sunlight. We are told that we humans are capable of knowing just about anything that we want to know-except, ironically, what it feels like to be one of our victims. We are told we are being 'emotional' if we care about a chicken and grieve over a chicken's plight. However, it is not 'emotion' that is really under attack, but the vicarious emotions of pity, sympathy, compassion, sorrow, and indignity on behalf of the victim, a fellow creature-emotions that undermine business as usual. By contrast, such 'manly' emotions as patriotism, pride, conquest, and mastery are encouraged.
THE GHOST IS SITTING BLISTERING IN BAGGAGE CLAIM, LIKE A SINNER AT THE PEARLY GATES PRAYING FOR YOU TO SHOUT MY NAME YOUR THRIFT STORE SUITCASES TO THE GAUDY FACES TO BECOMING THE QUEEN THE FAX MACHINE TRANSMITTING ALL THE SHIRTS AND THINGS HOPING MAYBE THE LADY I'M SAVING FROM A FLORESCENT HATIES, ESCAPES THROW THE TICKET AWAY INSIDE DECAYS MAYBE SHE'S GONE MISSING BY MIX UP OR HICCUP THAT SWITCHES THE TERMINAL CHANGE LANE BLAME THE PLANE EITHER WAY I AIN'T GONNA LEAVE TODAY WITHOUT SEEN HER FACE THIS PLACE IS POISON I CAN GET A TASTE TRADE MY HOPE FOR AN ANTIDOTE TO MAYBE MAKE MY ESCAPE, BUT I GO BACK INTO THE FLAMES TO MAKE SURE SHE IS OKAY THEY SAY ITS JUST A PHASE, THEY TELL ME SIT AND WAIT, THEY SAY ITS ON ITS WAY, THEY SAY THAT EVERY CASE BECOMES A FRAME CULTIVATE A COMMON NAME, PACK MY THINGS TO GET ON THE PLANE AND FLY LEAVE HER STANDING AT THE BAGGAGE CLAIM...
The Whites always mean well when they take human fish out of the ocean and try to make them dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a chicken coop; but the kindest-hearted white man can always be depended on to prove himself inadequate when he deals with savages. He cannot turn the situation around and imagine how he would like it to have a well-meaning savage transfer him from his house and his church and his clothes and his books and his choice food to a hideous wilderness of sand and rocks and snow, and ice and sleet and storm and blistering sun, with no shelter, no bed, no covering for his and his family's naked bodies, and nothing to eat but snakes and grubs and offal. This would be a hell to him; and if he had any wisdom he would know that his own civilization is a hell to the savage - but he hasn't any, and has never had any; and for lack of it he shut up those poor natives in the unimaginable perdition of his civilization, committing his crime with the very best intentions, and saw those poor creatures waste away under his tortures; and gazed at it, vaguely troubled and sorrowful, and wondered what could be the matter with them.
DEAR SLIM, YOU STILL AIN'T CALLED OR WROTE, I HOPE YOU HAVE A CHANCE I AIN'T MAD - I JUST THINK IT'S FUCKED UP YOU DON'T ANSWER FANS IF YOU DIDN'T WANNA TALK TO ME OUTSIDE YOUR CONCERT YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO, BUT YOU COULDA SIGNED AN AUTOGRAPH FOR MATTHEW THAT'S MY LITTLE BROTHER MAN, HE'S ONLY SIX YEARS OLD WE WAITED IN THE BLISTERING COLD FOR YOU FOUR HOURS AND YOU JUST SAID, "NO." THAT'S PRETTY SHITTY MAN - YOU'RE LIKE HIS FUCKIN IDOL HE WANTS TO BE JUST LIKE YOU MAN, HE LIKES YOU MORE THAN I DO I AIN'T THAT MAD THOUGH, I JUST DON'T LIKE BEIN LIED TO REMEMBER WHEN WE MET IN DENVER - YOU SAID IF I'D WRITE YOU YOU WOULD WRITE BACK - SEE I'M JUST LIKE YOU IN A WAY I NEVER KNEW MY FATHER NEITHER HE USED TO ALWAYS CHEAT ON MY MOM AND BEAT HER I CAN RELATE TO WHAT YOU'RE SAYING IN YOUR SONGS SO WHEN I HAVE A SHITTY DAY, I DRIFT AWAY AND PUT 'EM ON CAUSE I DON'T REALLY GOT SHIT ELSE SO THAT SHIT HELPS WHEN I'M DEPRESSED I EVEN GOT A TATTOO OF YOUR NAME ACROSS THE CHEST SOMETIMES I EVEN CUT MYSELF TO SEE HOW MUCH IT BLEEDS IT'S LIKE ADRENALINE, THE PAIN IS SUCH A SUDDEN RUSH FOR ME SEE EVERYTHING YOU SAY IS REAL, AND I RESPECT YOU CAUSE YOU TELL IT MY GIRLFRIEND'S JEALOUS CAUSE I TALK ABOUT YOU 24/7 BUT SHE DON'T KNOW YOU LIKE I KNOW YOU SLIM, NO ONE DOES SHE DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE FOR PEOPLE LIKE US GROWIN UP YOU GOTTA CALL ME MAN, I'LL BE THE BIGGEST FAN YOU'LL EVER LOSE SINCERELY YOURS, STAN -- P.S WE SHOULD BE TOGETHER TOO
Eminem And Dido
Let me sleep, " he said, and shut the door; it clicked in her face and she felt animal terror - this was what she feared most in life: the clicking shut of a man's door in her face. Instantly, she raised her hand to knock, discovered the rock... she banged on the door with the rock, but not loudly, just enough to let him know how desperate she was to get back in, but not enough to bother him if he didn't want to answer. He didn't. No sound, no movement of the door. Nothing but the void. "Tony?" she gasped, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. "Okay, " she said numbly; clutching her rock she walked unsteadily across the porch toward her own living quarters. The rock vanished. Her hand felt nothing. "Damn, " she said, not knowing how to react. Where had it gone? Into air. But then it must have been an illusion, she realized. He put me in a hypnotic state and made me believe. I should have known it wasn't really true. A million stars burst into wheels of light, blistering, cold light, that drenched her. It came from behind and she felt the great weight of it crash into her. "Tony, " she said, and fell into the waiting void. She thought nothing; she felt nothing. She saw only, saw the void as it absorbed her, waiting below and beneath her as she plummeted down the many miles. On her hands and knees she died. Alone on the porch. Still clutching for what did not exist.
Philip K. Dick
In Woolrich's crime fiction there is a gradual development from pulp to noir. The earlier a story, the more likely it stresses pulp elements: one-dimensional macho protagonists, preposterous methods of murder, hordes of cardboard gangsters, dialogue full of whiny insults, blistering fast action. But even in some of his earliest crime stories one finds aspects of noir, and over time the stream works itself pure. In mature Woolrich the world is an incomprehensible place where beams happen to fall, and are predestined to fall, and are toppled over by malevolent powers; a world ruled by chance, fate and God the malign thug. But the everyday life he portrays is just as terrifying and treacherous. The dominant economic reality is the Depression, which for Woolrich usually means a frightened little guy in a rundown apartment with a hungry wife and children, no money, no job, and desperation eating him like a cancer. The dominant political reality is a police force made up of a few decent cops and a horde of sociopaths licensed to torture and kill, whose outrages are casually accepted by all concerned, not least by the victims. The prevailing emotional states are loneliness and fear. Events take place in darkness, menace breathes out of every corner of the night, the bleak cityscape comes alive on the page and in our hearts. ("Introduction")
Francis M. Nevins Jr.
Merrill Hartweiss scales a rocky incline toward Renna. The noon sun bakes the hillside as Merrill's boots dig into the broiling sands. Yet another gypsy tune enters his head. It starts off slowly. A lone guitar, its strings strummed with the lustful passion of a young man brushing his fingertips softly against the breasts of his lover. Another guitar joins, like a second hand, exploring her hot flesh, stroking the side of her bare abdomen, and gradually moving upward toward her chest. Then, a female voice joins the guitars; it is slightly raspy, yet sultry; filled with a fiery allure. The guitars pick up in intensity and tempo. There is a rhythmic clapping now, in synchronization with the strumming. The man has entered his lover. Sweat begins to form on Merrill's forehead, then quickly turns to vapor, dissipating into the blistering heat from the sunlight reflecting off the sands. Steady clapping, louder still. The tempo quickens, progressively and with a vigorous intensity. The man arches his back, cresting then falling; cresting, arching, rising and falling deeper again and again into his lover. The clapping, now faster, still rhythmic, but so much more intense. The guitars keep pace with increasing ferocity. In the woman's voice, short, quick breaths form words as she cries out her lover's name from deep within the throes of a forbidden love