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Array
(
[sid] => 33024
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Stone
[time] => 2004-01-28 18:21:50
[hometext] => A lovely poem about passing judgment.
[bodytext] => There you stand, back turned to me so I can’t see your emotions or read your secret expressions. The only thing I know about you, and it’s certainly not your name, is that you are thinking and focusing very intently on whatever is going on, so much so, in fact, that your arm is shaking, and rather violently, at that, under the weight of the powerful stone you hold away from your body. Let me ask you something, even though I know you can’t hear me. Do you enjoy holding stones over the bodies of the Irish? You look like one of the crazies my mother used to warn me against, like a glutton offering mercy in exchange for soup, like a fanatic crying “Heresy!” or “Witchcraft!” in tongues, like an executioner negotiating the terms of his strike with an unseen employer before returning to work, like a naïve child, about to learn what happens when you can’t afford to keep all of the puppies in the litter. Whatever your motive, as best as I can tell by the expression on your back, you seem quite (sadistically) pleased by the Irishman’s squirming underneath your powerful stone, and I am all too disgusted by this whole scenario to stick around and find out what happens. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 171 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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