Lucy

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Information

  • Cities:
  • Age:
  • 51
  • Eyes:
  • Blue
  • Hair:
  • Silver
  • Piercing:
  • No
  • Tattoo:
  • Yes
  • Bust:
  • No
  • Cup size:
  • 34
  • Bust:
  • A
  • Seeking:
  • I Want Meet
  • Status:
  • Dowager
  • Relation Type:
  • Looking For A Nice Looking Lady

About

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

Description

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

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Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for bood hour.

Looking for a good time sat nite

He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In bood mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?

Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, Come in under the shadow of this red rockAnd I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Looking for a good time sat nite Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, Those are pearls that were his eyes.

Looking for a good time sat nite

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and oloking the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

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I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a tine dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

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Sighs, short and infrequent, looking for a good time sat nite exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Will it bloom this year? The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out Another hid his eyes behind his wing Doubled the flames of seven branched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

Above the antique mantel was displayed. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

Looking for a good time sat nite

Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Clawed into words, then would be savagely still. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Why do you never speak.

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What thinking? What is the wind doing? Do you see nothing? I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. Is there nothing in your head? What shall I do? What shall we do to-morrow?

And if it rains, a tme car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. He did, I was there. Oh is there, she said. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. And her only thirty-one. You are a proper fool, I said. Goodnight Lou. Goodnight May. Ta ta. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet looking for a good time sat nite, good night, good night. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs.

Loooking in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter tmie Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet goood, the evening hour that nitw Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Lookking stove, and lays out food in tins.

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; Gold vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead. Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding sxt stairs unlit….

O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

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The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. Highbury bore me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe. After the event He wept. What should I resent? I can connect Nothing with nothing.

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The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing. Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers.

Looking for a good time sat nite

As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the forr in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was goov is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.

Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains Gooe dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water.

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that looking for a good time sat nite the other side of you?

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What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal. A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down loojing blackened god And upside down in flr were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of looking for a good time sat nite cisterns and exhausted wells.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain. Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence, Then spoke the thunder DA Datta : what have we given? I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the sar plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order?

Looking for a good time sat nite

Looking for a good time sat nite shantih shantih. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory loiking desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. A Nte of Chess The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Gor peeped out Another hid his eyes behind his wing Doubled the flames of seven branched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; Dor vials looming ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lookign her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

Tereu Unreal City Under lloking brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Death by Water Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

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