Sunday, November 26, 2006

your hair, like a flock of goats, bounding down Mt. Gilead

Oh, ha ha ha, la la la, the Bible, it's so raunchy sometimes. To wit (from the Song of Songs):

Your lips are honey, honey and milk are under your tongue, your clothes hold the scent of Lebanon.

Your breasts are two fawns, twins of a gazelle, grazing in a field of lilies.

Ah, romance. Or mystical love. You pick.

Speaking of romance and other languages and cultures and translations: I have an Arab friend. Arabic is much more romantic than English. She is hot, and has always attracted male attention. Once she threw up her hands at me and said "These Canadian boys have no poetry! They say 'I love you', like that's supposed to rock me to the core. My mother will pass me a cup of fucking tea and say 'Here you are, oh my eyes, oh my soul.' Well if a man is in love with me, I need him to do better than those three trite and leaden words. I need poetry!"


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