Sunday, June 28, 2015

Dedicated with Heartfelt Sincerity to the Gay Community
Once I had a secret love
That lived within the heart of me
All too soon my secret love
Became impatient to be free
So I told a friendly star
The way that dreamers often do
Just how wonderful you are
And why I'm so in love with you
Now I shout it from the highest hills
Even told the golden daffodils
At last my heart's an open door
And my secret love's no secret anymore.
Doris, we hardly knew ye!

Friday, June 26, 2015


SCOTUS HITS
A NEW LOW
S
   H
       I
SHIT
  H
     I
       T


Tuesday, June 23, 2015

On the Light Side



__________ INEQUALITY __________

Today, there is no worse affliction
Than the curse of sex addiction.

Especially, if it's detected 
From the hetero-male directed.

Apparently, now it’s AOK
To parade naked, if you're gay,

But dare to give a broad the eye,
And you'll soon be hung out to dry.

Gays in public squares may tarry
Shrieking for the right to marry,

But no more do men dare to flirt
With e'en a wretched piece of skirt.

Since men are free no more to play,
Do feminists hope they'll all turn gay,

Or better yet be a Pretender
Cut off their balls, and change their gender?

~ FreeThinke



Sunday, June 21, 2015


A Different Side of Thomas Hood
Illustration to the Vauxhall Sonnet, engraving  by Thos. Rowlandson
Sonnet to Vauxhall

“The English Garden” - Mason
The cold transparent ham is on my fork—
   It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle—
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,
   Mocking a Vauxhall shower!—Married and Single

Crush—rush;—Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
   Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk
Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
   To study the Sublime, &c.—(vide Burke)

All Noses are upturn’d!—Whish-ish!—On high
   The rocket rushes—trails—just steals in sight—
Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light—
   And Darkness reigns—Then balls flare up and die—
Wheels whiz—smack crackers—serpents twist—and then
   Back to the cold transparent ham again!

~ Thomas Hood (1799-1745)



Hood’s output was created at great cost to his health. In his early days he was a talented engraver working alongside artists such as Thomas Rowlandson (a man with whom he later often collaborated), but was compelled to abandon this profession and seek an outdoor life to recover his strength. It was a tough existence, for Hood became an invalid in 1841 and was saved from financial ruin thanks only to the intervention of Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel, who was a great fan of his works. 
When Hood eventually died, his family were granted a state pension –– and the public continued to adore him. A memorial was later built by public subscription in Kensal Green cemetery. 
As the century progressed Hood’s poetry and witticisms remained so familiar as to be often quoted in ordinary conversation. As late as 1903 William Rossetti (of Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood fame), perhaps somewhat extravagantly, described Hood as ‘the finest English poet between the generations of Shelley and Tennyson.’ However, fashions change, and so from these heady heights of appreciation Hood has quietly slipped into obscurity, and has long-since vanished from the standard English literature curriculum.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

I remember, I remember.

I remember, I remember.
   The house where I was born,
   The little window where the sun
   Came peeping in at morn;
   He never came a wink too soon,
   Nor bought too long a day;
   But now, I often wish the night
   Had borne my breath away.

   I remember, I remember
   The roses, red and white,
   The violets, and the lily-cups,
   Those flowers made of light!
   The lilacs where the robin built,
   And where my brother set
   The laburnum on his birthday,
   The tree is living yet!

   I remember, I remember.
   Where I was used to swing,
   And throught the air must rush as fresh
   To swallows on the wing;
   My spirit flew in feathers then
   That is so heavy now,
   And summer pools could hardly cool
   The fever on my brow.

   I remember, I remember
   The fir frees dark and high;
   I used to think their slender tops
   Were close against the sky;
   It was a childish ignorance,
   But now 'tis little joy
   To know I'm farther off from Heaven
   Than when I was a boy.

~ Thomas Hood (1799-1845)




Thomas Hood (1799-1845) is a shamefully overlooked 19th century literary great ... His obscurity is all the more surprising when we consider how immensely popular he was throughout the Victorian era. 

During his short lifetime Hood overcame debilitating illness and grinding poverty well enough to be considered a national treasure. He contributed humorous articles to popular magazines such as Athenaeum and Punch, and also single-handedly ran his own magazine The Comic Annual (1830-42). He wrote just one novel –– Tylney Hall (1834) –– but poetry was his real forte.

Hood’s output was created at great cost to his health. In his early days he was a talented engraver working alongside artists such as Thomas Rowlandson –– a man with whom he later often collaborated –– but was compelled to abandon this profession and seek outdoor occupation to recover his strength. It was a tough existence. Hood became an invalid on 1841, and was only saved from financial ruin by the intervention of Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel, who was a great fan of Hood’s works. When Hood eventually died, his family was granted a state pension, and the public continued to adore him. A memorial was later built by public subscription in Kensal Green cemetery. ...
http://www.wickedwilliam.com/thomas-hood-tylney-hall-multicultural-wanstead/