Prediction is very difficult, especially if it's about the future.

I ran. I ran so far away. Bellerive Beach, Bellerive. August 2013.

This Theme Thursday I am thinking that if I were a LIP, which LIP would I be?

Labium superius oris is nice, but Labium inferius oris is surely only inferius in nóminis only. The cupid's bow has autant de charme and the tuberculum labii superioris the kind of stout reliability only found in Hungarian washerwomen Golden Retrievers.

I am told that women are attracted to men with masculine LIPS. That is, LIPS that are not too big or not too small, can chop firewood and know where and when to take her in hand.

So if I were a LIP, I'd be a proud LIP. A LIP worth loving. A LIP worth loving, living and dying for.

Comments

kaykuala said…

A LIP worth loving,
living and dying for

That would have been perfect for any lips! Nicely!

Hank

30 August 2013 at 01:38

Mrsupole said…

Hi Kris,

I agree with Hank, that is such a great saying. Any woman would be happy to have a set of lips attached to any man that is worth loving, living and dying for. I also think you are correct in what kind of lips women are interested in. Tiny or small lips might make a man seem weak and big lips might make him seem too aggressive. But what matters most is the man that they get to know who is attached to those lips. And as long as those lips are willing to kiss us every day then we are happy.

I hope you are having a great week and using your lips to kiss those two beautiful boys and your fantastic wife. Although they probably know those lips love them.

God bless.

4 September 2013 at 21:22

Kris McCracken said…

The birds! Thanks all. We've been busy for the past week. Nary a moment to sit down!

9 September 2013 at 21:27

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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