Pokes Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
he-pokes-finger-inside-me-as-he-plays-with-my-wetness-sofia-herrera-french-kiss-unbearable-passion-2-scarlett-avery
semitough-pokes-fun-in-rambling-fashion-but-it-is-vulgar-in-intelligent-ways-almost-always-amusing-in-its-perceptions-befuddled-people-who-are-vincent-canby
during-winter-you-head-out-into-darkness-for-run-when-spring-comes-first-crocus-pokes-up-its-headyou-know-it-was-worthwhile-nina-kuscsik
shigure-pokes-rit-in-side-justice-will-prevail-lt3-rit-falls-natuski-takaya
the-original-scream-is-one-those-classic-things-but-it-totally-pokes-fun-at-itself-too-its-never-taking-itself-too-seriously-which-is-why-i-think-its-shenae-grimes
welcome-to-facebook-the-weather-today-an-80-chance-of-game-requests-a-10-chance-of-pokes-and-a-100-certainty-of-drama
comedy-just-pokes-at-problems-rarely-confronts-them-squarely-drama-is-like-plate-meat-potatoes-comedy-is-rather-dessert-bit-like-meringue-woody-allen
and-i-have-to-say-for-record-my-favorite-line-from-without-a-clue-is-after-michael-caine-pokes-dead-body-with-stick-announces-to-everyone-it-is-my-opinion-that-this-man-is-dead
if-myrnin-pokes-his-crazy-head-up-before-then-call-me-try-to-keep-him-you-know-stable-is-he-unstable-i-dont-know-how-can-i-tell-youre-crazy-whisperer-she-had-point-claire-couldnt
hairy-monkeyballs-i-hiss-dogshit-on-stick-puke-pancakes-a-head-pokes-in-wren-green-eyes-smiling-walks-over-to-my-bed-i-knew-you-were-awake-who-else-spews-such-original-captivatin
i-must-learn-to-be-as-bear-in-cage-with-stick-that-pokes-it-always-through-bars-the-bear-acts-as-if-stick-is-made-air-takes-no-notice-it-even-when-it-is-sharpened-draws-blood-i-m
you-think-because-he-doesnt-love-you-that-you-are-worthless-you-think-that-because-he-doesnt-want-you-anymore-that-he-is-right-that-his-judgement-opinion-you-are-correct-if-he-th
What do you think he saw?" Damn-I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing. "Himself, " Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted." See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist. We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress. "You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask. "Nope, " Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore." "You're sure?" "Yeah." "'Cuz you can die on LSD-" "That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan, " Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying." I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?" "I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock, " Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?" Yup... Greg was in his own little world...

J.L. Powers
Hamlet's Cat's Soliloquy "To go outside, and there perchance to stay Or to remain within: that is the question: Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather That Nature rains on those who roam abroad, Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet, And so by dozing melt the solid hours That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state A wish to venture forth without delay, Then when the portal's opened up, to stand As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep; To choose not knowing when we may once more Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball; For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob, Or work a lock or slip a window-catch, And going out and coming in were made As simple as the breaking of a bowl, What cat would bear the houselhold's petty plagues, The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom, The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears, The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks That fur is heir to, when, of his own will, He might his exodus or entrance make With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear, Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard, But that the dread of our unheeded cries And scraches at a barricaded door No claw can open up, dispels our nerve And makes us rather bear our humans' faults Than run away to unguessed miseries? Thus caution doth make house cats of us all; And thus the bristling hair of resolution Is softened up with the pale brush of thought, And since our choices hinge on weighty things, We pause upon the threshold of decision.

Henry N. Beard
hamlets-cats-soliloquy-to-go-outside-there-perchance-to-stay-or-to-remain-within-that-is-question-whether-tis-better-for-cat-to-suffer-the-cuffs-buffets-inclement-weather-that-na
in-cage-wireribs-the-size-mans-head-macaw-bristles-in-staring-combustion-suffers-stoking-devils-his-eyes-in-old-ladys-parlour-where-aspidistra-succumbs-to-musk-faded-velvet-he-ha
A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. I seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off. At the seashore you often see a shell, or fragment of a shell, that sharp sands and surf have thinned to a wisp. There is no way you can tell what kind of shell it had been, what creature it had housed; it could have been a whelk or a scallop, a cowrie, limpet, or conch. The animal is long since dissolved, and its blood spread and thinned in the general sea. All you hold in your hand is a cool shred of shell, an inch long, pared so thin that it passes a faint pink light. It is an essence, a smooth condensation of the air, a curve. I long for the North where unimpeded winds would hone me to such a pure slip of bone. But I'll not go northing this year. I'll stalk that floating pole and frigid air by waiting here. I wait on bridges; I wait, struck, on forest paths and meadow's fringes, hilltops and banksides, day in and day out, and I receive a southing as a gift. The North washes down the mountains like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, and pours across the valley; it comes to me. It sweetens the persimmons and numbs the last of the crickets and hornets; it fans the flames of the forest maples, bows the meadow's seeded grasses and pokes it chilling fingers under the leaf litter, thrusting the springtails and the earthworms deeper into the earth. The sun heaves to the south by day, and at night wild Orion emerges looming like the Specter over Dead Man Mountain. Something is already here, and more is coming.

Annie Dillard
a-kind-northing-is-what-i-wish-to-accomplish-singleminded-trek-towards-that-place-where-any-shutter-left-open-to-zenith-at-night-will-record-wheeling-all-skys-stars-as-pattern-pe
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