Mon Plaisir

aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-11-08T11:25:00

2009-11-08T16:31:02Z

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This is my single instance of Anglophilia: no helot outside the countries once ruled by His Britannic Majesty is capable of fixing a mixed drink. The French are anatomically incapable of doing it. The things I've tasted in France under the misnomer cocktail are nothing short of obscene, as only heteros with stringy hair can be obscene. Looking at a Frenchman drenching a martini glass in wet ice to "cool" it is enough to give one a stroke.
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In a bar, I am an archreactionary. No multi-culti shit in a bar, please.
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Basically I love a whiskey highball: a LARGE slug of whiskey (Scotch for me; but Canadian rye will do, if I'm sharing with someone under age) topped by soda water, in a high tumbler. No ice. No goddam ice! NO ICE.
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I also enjoy a classic gin Martini, very dry, straight-up, no junk.
Keep that glass dry!
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oui oui oui

2009-11-07T16:19:41Z

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This little piggy went to market,
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This little piggy stayed home,
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This little piggy had roast beef,
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This little piggy had none.
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And this little piggy went...
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"Wee wee wee" all the way home!
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LE SECRET DE L' ALCHIMISTE

2009-11-06T22:23:43Z

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Frère Jacques, frère Jacques...
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Transforming recognition of you
As a living construct of his smile,
A talisman, a needed lovingness,
Perhaps because you always climbed the bellrope of night,
Much as I heard the knell, as usual, only once.
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Byways of a mysterious forest
That could be home or could be anywhere,
When the keys and bolts and spells
Cannot grant the secrecy of peace.
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One needs to piss as much as one needs love,
And I am certain of God's betrayal,
No matter how ill theology might take it.
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Je n'ai jamais violé le rêve inassouvi.
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DREAM, WHILE LIGHT SLEEPS

2009-11-04T00:39:38Z

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2009-11-02T22:28:50Z

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DAWN OF ALL-SAINTS

2009-11-01T20:26:25Z

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He was far from sober and asked me in a pretty Irish accent if the tube was near. I told him I would gladly take him wherever he needed to go.
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He was skinny and pink, with a big rump. He lay on the bed meekly, with his famous arse in the air as if saying: there it is, have at it.
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Murrvelous, he said. Foock me again he said.
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Dream, while light sleeps.
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aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-10-24T14:46:00

2009-10-24T18:52:50Z

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aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-10-24T11:02:00

2009-10-24T15:03:18Z

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aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-10-19T19:51:00

2009-10-19T23:54:45Z

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....it was comfort in those succeeding days to sit up and contemplate the majestic panorama of mountains and valleys spread out below us and eat ham and hard boiled eggs while our spiritual natures revelled alternately in rainbows, thunderstorms, and peerless sunsets.
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Nothing helps scenery like ham and eggs. Ham and eggs, and after these a pipe—an old, rank, delicious pipe—ham and eggs and scenery, a "down grade," a flying coach, a fragrant pipe and a contented heart—these make happiness. It is what all the ages have struggled for.
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Mark Twain: Roughing It [His adventures in the Nevada gold rush] Chapter XVII.
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olly alexander

2009-10-13T01:00:40Z

ERIC VU-AN

2009-10-10T16:26:13Z

a fragment of KAFKA

2009-10-08T18:03:53Z

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Whoever is forsaken and wishes, now and then, to hook up with someone, notwithstanding the changes that time, season, work, other circumstances impose; find an arm, any arm, to hold on to, will need a window looking out into the street.
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Even if he is at the point of no longer looking for anything, if he is just a dead-tired old man leaning on his window sill, running his gaze between the crowds and the clouds, his head hanging, unable to want anything; horses will carry him nevertheless in their procession of carriages and noise, plunging him yet again in the community of men...
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LE NIL

2009-10-04T14:26:58Z

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Les eaux du Nil, toutes pâles, s'écoulent
The waters of the Nile, colourless, flow
Sous les étoiles de la nuit,
Under the stars of night,
Des sphinx, aux bords, sur deux rangs se déroulent...
While sphinxes file by on rows on each shore...
Au milieu, notre barque fuit.
In between, our boat flees.
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Le bienaimé, s'accoudant sur la proue,
The beloved boy, leaning on the bow,
Laisse errer sur moi son oeil doux;
Lets his sweet eye roam over me;
Moi, renversant la tête, je secoue
Turning my head I shake
Mes cheveux d'or sur ses genoux.
My golden hairs over his knees.
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Et les grands sphinx, dans la plaine infinie,
And the great sphinxes on the infinite plain
Nous regardant passer près d'eux,
Watching us pass near them,
Confusément versent une harmonie,
Confusedly pour forth a harmony
Qui tombe en amour sur nous deux.
That falls like love over us two.
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Armand Renaud (1836-1895)
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PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-30T01:16:58Z

PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-30T01:06:42Z

PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-30T01:03:29Z

PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-30T00:57:48Z

החיוך של אלוהים

2009-09-28T17:22:13Z

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Her simple all-white dress gives a perfect report of her young body, slim, small round breasts, trim hips, pale neck. Her gentle rhythm knows nothing of her almond eyes, her deep red lips, her nose that wants to be long, but ends with a curtsey.
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She is the Smile of God, ha-Tchiyuch shel-Elohim, the only possible holiday.
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PHOTOGRAPHES

2009-09-27T19:38:35Z

PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-27T14:22:20Z

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Alicia de Larrocha
Spanish Pianist
1923-2009
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aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-09-24T13:19:00

2009-09-24T17:22:11Z

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A boy with long and dark hair was standing shirtless in the subway last night. He had a lovely lean chest with worked nipples, bushy armpits, torn black jean shorts over hairy legs, battered spiked boots, leather armlets, drop silver earrings. He could have been Italian, or black Irish.
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Our eyes locked for a moment. He looked haunted, somewhere between intimidated and angry. I love that look. I walked over, standing very close to him and leaning towards his right ear, I whispered: "You're beautiful, man."
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He stammered, "I'm autistic".
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PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-23T00:19:07Z

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aulic_exclusiva @ 2009-09-21T22:29:00

2009-09-22T02:30:18Z

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PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-22T02:23:04Z

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Le Petit Trianon
Queen Marie-Antoinette's
tiny retreat within the Versailles Palace complex

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Her Bed Chamber
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Her Sitting Room
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Her Salon
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The Stairs

a masterpiece of the Louis XVI style
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The Petit Salon
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The Petit Salon
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The Parterre à Trianon
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PHOTOGRAPHS

2009-09-21T06:00:01Z

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Sir Siegfried Sassoon
anti-war poet, diarist,
author of one of the best gay classics since Tolstoy,
Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man
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