An early work of Picasso has been sold in Paris. This canvas painted front and back shows two naked men painted around 1895 and 1897, when Picasso was only 14/16 years.
I let you enjoy:
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Can You Order Pizza With A Gift Card
An early work by Picasso
An early work of Picasso has been sold in Paris. This canvas painted front and back shows two naked men painted around 1895 and 1897, when Picasso was only 14/16 years.
I let you enjoy:
An early work of Picasso has been sold in Paris. This canvas painted front and back shows two naked men painted around 1895 and 1897, when Picasso was only 14/16 years.
I let you enjoy:
Friday, June 11, 2010
Mexico Average Breast Size
Nightmare Be back to the furnaces
Oyez beautiful squires and gentle ladies,
A cautionary tale and yet cruel
The obsession of the poor father who wanted
Soule, late, become a chef.
Having worked hard throughout his life,
He could never yield to this desire.
Since fourteen, he went to the factory,
And stood there, standing at his machine.
therefore pleased that at the age of sixty, he went into retirement
, smiling and confident.
It is now ten years
saw it in his kitchen, lonely, obsessed by the idea
create a sublime stew
Who reconcile Epicurus and diet!
To do this, he even turned his house,
By removing the pieces, tearing down walls,
To install the cellar, its refrigerators,
His table to prepare his basement and his piano.
He just kept to his intimacy,
A corner table for his mattress, his bedside.
It comes out and remains almost cloistered
Except to fetch at market days,
The new ingredients that
wants to incorporate in its magic, to try to reach the nirvana
Supreme think himself in the firmament,
Achieving absolute, this lighthouse nonexistent.
More salt than pepper in his few hairs,
aromatics, to force her eyes sting.
He hears in his head, six votes from elsewhere
who give advice, or wish to have his misfortune.
It feels invested with a divine mission! Every day he waits
these, like a fool, six blasts. A
garlic, root of all, it adds nothing and everything,
By saying that one day, and why not tomorrow, he will find
finally the key to this mystery.
But his own impatience, always the despair.
He stirs, spins, drops and saucers,
Plays with knives and sometimes ouch-cuts!
Each end of the cooking is an embarrassment. It focuses
and sooner, dull the result. He admires
, taste and sauce, hoisted his trial.
It approves, must be even more demanding.
short, ultimately, it is never happy! It's fun
passers, all these people
Installed properly, who mistake him for a fool.
He finally think they are just jealous,
For him, it's art! "Smoke," say the neighbors,
Boil a brisket, this is not very smart! "
is true and that he put forth in vain kitchen.
very distressed, he cries, his head in his hands.
He wanted to offer this gift
To finally silence those stupid gossip.
But he is tired, these critics murder.
His complexion is pale and chest pain.
porridge in lobsters, he tried everything.
It does has more courage, sees her legs trembling.
It feels small, dirty and would stop.
He never gird his crown of laurels!
head in his oven, he puts the throttle.
And as Too bad if all farts, it is not his onions !
Epilogue Following the hearse, which goes to the cemetery,
I hear the comments of certain shrews
Who, again, laugh as he passed,
Creating this epitaph: "It was a case Soule!"
Oyez beautiful squires and gentle ladies,
A cautionary tale and yet cruel
The obsession of the poor father who wanted
Soule, late, become a chef.
Having worked hard throughout his life,
He could never yield to this desire.
Since fourteen, he went to the factory,
And stood there, standing at his machine.
therefore pleased that at the age of sixty, he went into retirement
, smiling and confident.
It is now ten years
saw it in his kitchen, lonely, obsessed by the idea
create a sublime stew
Who reconcile Epicurus and diet!
To do this, he even turned his house,
By removing the pieces, tearing down walls,
To install the cellar, its refrigerators,
His table to prepare his basement and his piano.
He just kept to his intimacy,
A corner table for his mattress, his bedside.
It comes out and remains almost cloistered
Except to fetch at market days,
The new ingredients that
wants to incorporate in its magic, to try to reach the nirvana
Supreme think himself in the firmament,
Achieving absolute, this lighthouse nonexistent.
More salt than pepper in his few hairs,
aromatics, to force her eyes sting.
He hears in his head, six votes from elsewhere
who give advice, or wish to have his misfortune.
It feels invested with a divine mission! Every day he waits
these, like a fool, six blasts. A
garlic, root of all, it adds nothing and everything,
By saying that one day, and why not tomorrow, he will find
finally the key to this mystery.
But his own impatience, always the despair.
He stirs, spins, drops and saucers,
Plays with knives and sometimes ouch-cuts!
Each end of the cooking is an embarrassment. It focuses
and sooner, dull the result. He admires
, taste and sauce, hoisted his trial.
It approves, must be even more demanding.
short, ultimately, it is never happy! It's fun
passers, all these people
Installed properly, who mistake him for a fool.
He finally think they are just jealous,
For him, it's art! "Smoke," say the neighbors,
Boil a brisket, this is not very smart! "
is true and that he put forth in vain kitchen.
very distressed, he cries, his head in his hands.
He wanted to offer this gift
To finally silence those stupid gossip.
But he is tired, these critics murder.
His complexion is pale and chest pain.
porridge in lobsters, he tried everything.
It does has more courage, sees her legs trembling.
It feels small, dirty and would stop.
He never gird his crown of laurels!
head in his oven, he puts the throttle.
And as Too bad if all farts, it is not his onions !
Epilogue Following the hearse, which goes to the cemetery,
I hear the comments of certain shrews
Who, again, laugh as he passed,
Creating this epitaph: "It was a case Soule!"
June 2010
There, there, all for that!
Sometimes I'm ashamed ....
Congratulations for arriving so far!
But do not get angry, there's a game "culinary" hidden in the text:
Who can find the 16 basic elements of this ......... crap?
There, there, all for that!
Sometimes I'm ashamed ....
Congratulations for arriving so far!
But do not get angry, there's a game "culinary" hidden in the text:
Who can find the 16 basic elements of this ......... crap?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Chicken Pox Groin Pain
Péter mogette (Maid song) Again and Again
I know that my pen laziness, I just
What about my writings.
My blank page grows,
my writing is in distress!
Yet the good times are coming:
Spring, time of renewal, and return
lil zoziaux .....
Too bad! I'm done!
must stop this story, or I'll fart
the mogette!
Please do not blame me,
For it is not of my own free
If I deprive you of my pills. Coup
depressed, hopeless.
But, perhaps, are what worries me
Who torment, take my noggin.
My future seems ugly
All my dreams have vanished.
must stop this story, or I'll fart
the mogette!
Imagination routed,
I turn around like a woodlouse.
Absent, hidden behind my door,
As a refugee in Beirut.
Down in my couch, eyes glued to
my screens,
Web and TV, ubiquitous
I saw the world and its dangers.
must stop this story, or I do
mogette the fart!
But what is this reality
What we are hammering at your leisure?
Brainwashing to build
a virtualized world?
E-mail, i-pad, facebook, twiter
Are the new keys to happiness.
Living alone for a better world,
sanitized, frica, "fliqueur?
is until this world ends, I
Or mogette the fart!
But how did we do before
To know, to say hello, smile
Se, find love,
To live together, altogether?
Some try to rip us off, we
crush us to pieces.
Faced with these smoke and mirrors, Monte
made me want to chant:
I feel a storm coming,
We will blow up the mogette!
I know that my pen laziness, I just
What about my writings.
My blank page grows,
my writing is in distress!
Yet the good times are coming:
Spring, time of renewal, and return
lil zoziaux .....
Too bad! I'm done!
must stop this story, or I'll fart
the mogette!
Please do not blame me,
For it is not of my own free
If I deprive you of my pills. Coup
depressed, hopeless.
But, perhaps, are what worries me
Who torment, take my noggin.
My future seems ugly
All my dreams have vanished.
must stop this story, or I'll fart
the mogette!
Imagination routed,
I turn around like a woodlouse.
Absent, hidden behind my door,
As a refugee in Beirut.
Down in my couch, eyes glued to
my screens,
Web and TV, ubiquitous
I saw the world and its dangers.
must stop this story, or I do
mogette the fart!
But what is this reality
What we are hammering at your leisure?
Brainwashing to build
a virtualized world?
E-mail, i-pad, facebook, twiter
Are the new keys to happiness.
Living alone for a better world,
sanitized, frica, "fliqueur?
is until this world ends, I
Or mogette the fart!
But how did we do before
To know, to say hello, smile
Se, find love,
To live together, altogether?
Some try to rip us off, we
crush us to pieces.
Faced with these smoke and mirrors, Monte
made me want to chant:
I feel a storm coming,
We will blow up the mogette!
June 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)