No Fun - The Stooges
Love Of The Loved - Cilla Black
ABC - The Pipettes
Hollows Bridge - The Suns
Got My Eye On You - The Brian Jonestown Massacre
The Cuckoo - Taj Mahal
Control - The Joint
Whales - The Cairos
Love Is Paranoid - The Distillers
Spadam - Coma
Head Spins - DEAD BEAT BAND
Ring Me, Elise - Dag för Dag
Spider Stole My Fungus - Zeahorse
Born of Frustration - James
Mermaids 2 - I Am Kloot
Tenderoni (Renaud Mix) - Chromeo
(Special Thursday Show!)
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Love’s Garden Grief
By Robert Southwell
Vain loves avaunt! infamous is your pleasure,
Your joys deceit;
Your jewels jests, and worthless trash your treasure,
Fools' common bait.
Your palace is a prison that allureth
To sweet mishap, and rest that pain procureth.
Your garden grief hedged in with thorns of envy
And stakes of strife;
Your allies error gravel'd with jealousy
And cares of life;
Your branches seats enwrapp'd with shades of sadness;
Your arbours breed rough fits of raging madness.
Your beds are sown with seeds of all iniquity
And poisoning weeds,
Whose stalks ill thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanity,
Whose fruits misdeeds;
Whose sap is sin, whose force and operation,
To banish grace, and work the soul's damnation.
Your trees are dismal plants of pining corrosives,
Whose root is ruth,
Whose bark is bale, whose timber stubborn fantasies,
Whose pith untruth;
On which in lieu of birds whose voice delighteth,
Of guilty conscience screeching note affrighteth.
Your coolest summer gales are scalding sighings,
Your showers are tears;
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinful living,
Your favours fears;
Your gard'ner Satan, all you reap is misery,
Your gain remorse and loss of all felicity.
Love Among the Ruins
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
Now,--the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone--
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.
Now,--the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks--
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force--
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.
By Ezra Pound
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast - Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.