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Then, even as I stood watching the moon rise into view, there came again to me the beginning of that screaming, somewhat like to the sound of a woman sobbing with a giant's voice, and it grew and strengthened until it pierced through the roar of the wind with an amazing clearness, and then slowly, and seeming to echo and echo, it sank away into the distance, and there was again in my ears no sound beyond that of the wind.
William Hope Hodgson
-The Boats of the Glen-Carrig
William Hope Hodgson
-The Boats of the Glen-Carrig
UNDERWEAR
Underwear Underwear, underwear Someone’s gonna wear some underwear It sits there, so you can dance Without the friction of your pants Feeling good so you can funk Like a glove on your junk UNDERWEAR! It covers things So you can’t see It covers up And looks sexy UNDERWEAR (pause) UNDERWEAR (pause) UNDERWEAR (pause) UNDERWEAR (vocal stretch) Look at me! Almost naked! But you can’t see what’s protected! You can’t see beneath these briefs You can’t see what I hide from thee! That’s UNDERWEAR My UNDERWEAR UNDERWEAR UNDERWEAR You’re looking at my funny undies Looking at me, looking hungry In your eyes I laugh and scoff Now it’s time for underwear off! HUG THAT DIRTY BODY HUG THAT DIRTY BODY HUG THAT DIRTY BODY HUG THAT DIRTY BODY HUG THAT DIRTY BODY HUG THAT DIRTY BODY!!!
Incorporeal Frustrations
All hell howled in that night. Cries flew up into the sky like flocks of anguished sheldrakes, claws probed beneath doors, inquisitive ghost children despaired of their inability to shatter windows with their wretched fists of icy mist, and from time to time, a chimney toppled loud and fast like a broadside of curses. -Jean Ray, Whisky Tales
Water on Hands
We cannot put water on the back of our hand. Liquid can only be kept in two tightly clasped hands. Qwaya holds an oil stick with his fingers together so that he can listen to a dwindling low voice. His everyday memories that enter into his hands remain as records, just as a stray star in the universe is observed and called by its pet name.
The Spaalg
The instrument was strangely festooned with what at first seemed a sea vine, shaggy purplish stalks draping both bowl and fretboard. But almost at once we realized their supple muscularity, and that it was their caress extracting these limpid euphonies from the shamadka. A voice began to sing, a soprano that was icy-sweet like children’s temple choir. Its limbs were tough, snake-muscled things despite their looking nerveless as drenched plumes. It trailed astern of the instrument, where a flabby, tapered sack of skin ballooned along just under the surface. Near its peak this bruise-colored bag of flesh — bald as bone and blubber-soft — was puckered into a jagged-rimmed crater. Half cupped in this and half leaking into a maze of bays and channels branching from it, was the being’s eye — a viscous, saffron puddle all starred within by black, pupillary nodes that burgeoned, coalesced, diminished or multiplied by fissure into smaller wholes, their evolution as incessant as
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