Big Mouth Matthew Quotes

Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise.
"Bollocks!" He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. "Blast!"
"You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson," I chided, trying not to laugh. "Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?"
"What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn."
"And bollocks? That sounds downright profane." It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. "Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve."
"My keys are in the ignition," Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. "We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?"
"I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me," I retorted flatly. "We could shove your big violin through your car window, though."
"Always a smartarse," Wilson turned and began walking toward the road.
"I live about four miles away in that direction," I offered, hobbling along after him.
"Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me," Wilson grumbled.
I burst out laughing. He really was cranky ~ Amy Harmon

I'd take her to the top of the widow's tower at Ainsdale Castle, late at night, and we'd watch the moon rise. The widow's tower was very high but she wasn't afraid. Sometimes I'd steal a pie from the kitchens and we'd picnic up there. I brought up a blanket, too, so she wouldn't have to sit on the bare stone floor."
Mrs. Crumb made an aborted movement, as if she'd meant to turn to face him and then changed her mind.
He let the wineglass dangle by his side. "I told her a rabbit lived on the moon and she believed me. She believed everything I told her then."
"What rabbit?"
"There." He roused himself, straightening.
He drew back, fitting her against his chest and setting his chin on her shoulder. She smelled of tea and housekeeperly things, and she was warm, so warm. He caught up her right hand in his and traced the moon with it. "D'you see? There are the long ears, there the tail, there the forepaws, there the back."
"I see," she whispered.
"I told her the rabbit had lavender fur and ate pink moon clover up there." His mouth twisted, as he remembered. "She'd watch me with big blue eyes, her mouth half-open, a bit of piecrust on her dress. She hung on every word."
He could hear her breath, could feel the tremble of her limbs. Did she fear him?
"D'you believe me?" he asked against her ear, his lips wet with wine. She was a housekeeper and housekeepers didn't matter in the grand schemes of kings and dukes and little girls who wished upo ~ Elizabeth Hoyt

There were doors that looked like large keyholes, others that resembled the entrances to caves, there were golden doors, some were padded and some were studded with nails, some were paper-thin and others as thick as the doors of treasure houses; there was one that looked like a giant's mouth and another that had to be opened like a drawbridge, one that suggested a big ear and one that was made of gingerbread, one that was shaped like an oven door, and one that had to be unbuttoned. ~ Michael Ende

When you visit Gindaco, spend some time watching the cooks make takoyaki before ordering, because it's an amazing free show. The shop has an industrial-sized takoyaki griddle with dozens of hot cast iron wells, each one about an inch and a half in diameter. The cook squirts the grill with plenty of vegetable oil. She dunks a pitcher into a barrel of pancake batter and sloshes it over the grill, then strews the whole area with negi, ginger, and huge, tender octopus chunks. Some of Gindaco's purple tentacles are two inches long. This cooks for a little while, then the cook tops off the grill with more batter until it's nearly full.
Up to this point, the process looks haphazard, but then she whips out the skewers. Using only the same slender bamboo skewers you'd use for making kebabs, she begins slicing through the batter in a grid pattern and forming a ball in each well. Somehow she herds this ocean of batter into a grid of takoyaki in a minute or two.
The takoyaki cost all of 500 yen, and the price includes a wooden serving boat that you can take home and reuse as a bath toy if you haven't gotten too much sauce on it. A Gindaco takoyaki is a brilliant morsel: full of flavor from the negi and ginger, crispy on the outside and juicy within. Takoyaki also stay mouth-searingly hot inside for longer than you can stand to wait, so be careful. ~ Matthew Amster-Burton

Tom ran his thumb over the head, circling lightly, unable to resist leaning down to suck the tip into his mouth. Prophet inhaled sharply, threaded his fingers into Tom's hair. He closed his eyes and groaned when Tom stroked in earnest, lifting his hips off the bed in a big cat-like stretch, letting Tom take control of him again. "Think I didn't get enough?" "Think you need sleep." Prophet's eyes opened as he studied Tom's face. "You're going to put me to sleep this way." "Gonna try," Tom told him, his hand pumping Prophet's cock slowly, then faster when the man refused to tear his gaze away. He couldn't read the man's expression, not until his mouth dropped and his eyes glazed. "Yeah, like that." Prophet's voice was hoarse, body tense. His casted hand reached out to hold on to Tom's biceps, the one with the dreamcatcher. Tom caught him staring at it when he came. ~ S.E. Jakes

His ears and nose were raspberry red, and when he spoke, a cloud of vapor billowed from his mouth. I wanted to tell him to cover his ears, immediately felt like my mother, and didn't. He's a big boy. If his lobes crack off, he'll deal with it. ~ Kathy Reichs

A muscle in the Commander's jaw jumps, and he levels his fierce glare on Willow. "You have a big mouth."
"I need a big mouth to keep up with my big brain. ~ C.J. Redwine

Somehow he released her hand and pulled his free. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her against him so her entire body pressed against his. The man was a rock. Big, unyielding and warmed by the sun. She wanted to snuggle even closer. She wanted to rip off her clothes and give the goats something to talk about. She wanted--
He licked her lower lip.
The unexpected moist heat made her gasp as fire raced through her. Every singed nerve ending vibrated with need for more. The masculine, slightly piney scent of him surrounded her. Operating only on instinct, she parted her lips to allow him entry. She had a single heartbeat to brace herself for the power of his tongue touching hers. Then he swept inside and blew her away.
It was like being inside the space shuttle on take-off. Phoebe might not have any personal experience with space flight, but she could imagine. The powerful force between them left her weak and clinging to his broad shoulders. She trembled and needed and ached with equal intensity.
His tongue brushed against hers again. He tasted of coffee and mint and something wonderfully sensual and sweet. His mouth seemed designed for kissing. Maybe it was all that non-conversation. Maybe talking too much undermined a man's ability to kiss. She didn't know and didn't care. All that mattered was the way he stroked her, touched her, teased her. He cupped her head with one hand and ran his other up and down her back. If only this moment would never end ~ Susan Mallery

Don't die in a bone. I am your creature, gloom mistress. I serve you with fidelity as big as a mountain, penumbral lady."
Harrow's eyes flickered open. "Stop."
"I am your sworn sword, night boss."
"Fine," said Harrow heavily.
Gideon's mouth was about to round out the words "bone empress" before she realised what had been said. ~ Tamsyn Muir

It must have been spring because the big tree in front of the house was shedding pods with two wings like a dragonfly, On days when there wasn't any wind, they would spin around in the air as they drifted softly to the ground.
I watched them float all the way down, sitting with my neck craned back until my mouth opened and holding out my hand just in case, but they never landed on it. When one hit the ground I'd look up again, my eyes darting, waiting for the next magical event, the sun warming the yellow hairs on my head.
Waiting like that for the next magic was as good a moment as any other that I can remember in the last sixty -five years. ~ Marlon Brando

That was before Clay moved those big, warm hands up over her body, spreading one on her lower back while the other curved around her nape. The hold was so proprietary, so aggressive, it should've scared her into running in the other direction. Instead it sparked a darkly sexual heat in her, stoking her need past blazing. She melted into him, pressing her aching breasts against the solid wall of his chest. He purred into her mouth. Nipples shocked into sudden pleasure by the vibration, she pulled back. "You purr?"

His smile was pure cat. "Only for you."

Any resistance she might've harbored to this dangerous, inevitable escalation in their relationship dissolved into a big fat pool at her feet. He was being charming. Clay did not do charm, not for anyone. Except, it seemed, her. She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Stop being so sexy."

His smile widened and, sliding his hand from her nape to her hair, he tugged back her head so he could kiss her again. The embers in her stomach burst into flame as she realized she was rubbing her nipples against him. He didn't seem to mind - he was doing that purring thing again. ~ Nalini Singh

Glancing up, I meet her gaze. "You can work on that mouth of yours."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's running a little rough. Nothing a face-fucking can't fix, though."
Her eyes widen. "Big words for a guy who drinks Capri Sun."
I try to keep a straight face, but I crack at that, letting out a laugh. "Got me there. ~ J.M. Darhower

Can you sharpen this for me, please?"

Logan leaned across the table and took the pencil from him. "You want me to play with your pencil, Tate?"

"Hilarious. The sharpener is right by you. You just have to pick it up and slide it in."

As soon as the words left his mouth and Logan's quirked into an arrogant line, Tate bit his tongue.

"Really? Did you really just say that to me?"

Feeling more comfortable than ever with Logan and this group, Tate shrugged and nodded. Time to give it to Logan as good as he gives.

"Yeah. Is there a problem? You just line it up...and slide it in."

"You know, Tate - "

"Don't do it." Tate cut him off as he moved his foot, the one he'd had sitting between Logan's feet all night, so his shin bumped Logan's calf.

"Do what?"

"Say something dirty. I know you're dying to, but just sharpen the pencil."

Logan picked up the sharpener and made a big show of inserting the tip in the hole.

"Jesus," Shelly muttered from beside Logan. "I thought Rachel and Cole were bad. ~ Ella Frank

I splash enough water in Chloe's face to put out a small house fire. I don't want to drown her, just exfoliate her eyeballs with sea salt. When she thinks I'm done, she opens her eyes-and her mouth. Big mistake. The next wave rinses off the hangy ball in the back of her throat and makes it to her lungs before she can swallow. She chokes and coughs and rubs her eyes as if she's been maced.
"Great, Emma! You got my new hair wet!" she sputters. "Happy now?"
"Nope."
"I said I was sorry." She blows her nose in her hand, then sets the snot to sea.
"Gross. And sorry's not good enough."
"Fine. I'll make it up to you. What do you want?"
"Let me hold your head underwater until I feel better," I say. I cross my arms, which is tricky when straddling a surfboard being pitched around in the wake of a passing speedboat. Chloe knows I'm nervous being this far out, but holding on would be a sign of weakness.
"I'll let you do that because I love you. But it won't make you feel better."
"I won't know for sure until I try it." I keep eye contact, sit a little straighter.
"Fine. But you'll still look albino when you let me back up." She rocks the board and makes me grab it for balance.
"Get your snotty hands off the surfboard. And I'm not albino. Just white." I want to cross my arms again, but we almost tipped over that time. Swallowing my pride is a lot easier than swallowing the Gulf of Mexico.
"White than most," she grins. "People would th ~ Anna Banks

There is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, and in the mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks and its bottom are of cold water, while its current is of warm. The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain, and its mouth is in the Arctic Sea. It is the Gulf Stream. ~ Matthew Fontaine Maury

The idea of giving a man a rim job provoked the squeamishness I felt at thirteen when I accidentally stumbled upon my first porn, Women Who Love Big White Cocks. I was repulsed that a woman would put her mouth on a man's penis. After all, that's where he pees. I got older. I discovered my sexuality and on countless occasions, put my mouth where a boy peed. He put his mouth where I peed, put his fingers where I pooped, put where he peed where I pooped, and we swapped saliva the entire time. Men forgot that the female breasts that ignited their hard-ons fed them as infants. We didn't realize that although the meaning changed, our "dirty places" remained the same. ~ Maggie Young

Speak Life Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and they who indulge in it shall eat the fruit of it [for death or life]. PROVERBS 18:21 If we ride to work with somebody and gossip about our boss and talk about how we hate our job and what a stupid place it is, we will have a bad day. The Bible says, "A man's [moral] self shall be filled with the fruit of his mouth; and with the consequence of his words he must be satisfied [whether good or evil]" (Proverbs 18:20). Clearly, we will have to eat our words, so we need to talk about the right things to be happy. If we murmur and gossip, we will eat the fruit of death. But if we speak life, we will eat the fruit of the Spirit (see Matthew 12:37). Choose to eat good fruit today. ~ Joyce Meyer

There it was, a sign above a shop that said 221B BAKER STREET. My mouth hung open. I looked around at the ordinary street and the white-painted buildings, looking clean in the morning rain. Where were the fog, the streetlights, the gray atmosphere? The horses pulling carriages, bringing troubled clients to Watson and Holmes? I had to admit I had been impressed with Big Ben and all, but for a kid who had devoured the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, this was really something. I was on Baker Street, driving by the rooms of Holmes and Watson! I sort of wished it were all in black and white and gray, like in the movies. ~ James R. Benn

Politician? Me? Do I look like a big mouth with large pockets? ~ Florian Armas

But when you talk about Nabokov and Coover, you're talking about real geniuses, the writers who weathered real shock and invented this stuff in contemporary fiction. But after the pioneers always come the crank turners, the little gray people who take the machines others have built and just turn the crank, and little pellets of metafiction come out the other end. The crank-turners capitalize for a while on sheer fashion, and they get their plaudits and grants and buy their IRAs and retire to the Hamptons well out of range of the eventual blast radius. There are some interesting parallels between postmodern crank-turners and what's happened since post-structural theory took off here in the U.S., why there's such a big backlash against post-structuralism going on now. It's the crank-turners fault. I think the crank-turners replaced the critic as the real angel of death as far as literary movements are concerned, now. You get some bona fide artists who come along and really divide by zero and weather some serious shit-storms of shock and ridicule in order to promulgate some really important ideas. Once they triumph, though, and their ideas become legitimate and accepted, the crank-turners and wannabes come running to the machine, and out pour the gray pellets and now the whole thing's become a hollow form, just another institution of fashion. Take a look at some of the critical-theory Ph.D. dissertations being written now. They're like de Man and Foucault in the mouth of a dull ~ David Foster Wallace

You grow up with somebody, and he is a success, a big-shot, and you're a failure, but he treats you just the way he always did and hasn't changed a bit. But that is what drives you to it, no matter what names you call yourself while you try to stick the knife in. There is a kind of snobbery of failure. It's a club, it's the old school, it's Skull and Bones, and there is no nasty supercilious twist to a mouth like the twist the drunk gets when he hangs over the bar beside the old pal who has turned out to be a big-shot and who hasn't changed a bit, or when the old pal takes him home to dinner and introduces him to the pretty little clear-eye woman and the healthy kids. ~ Robert Penn Warren

It's a McLaren SLR 722 Roadster."

"How big is it?"

"It's a convertible."

"Will a tiger fit?"

"No. It seats only two, but the boys are man half the day now."

"Is it more than $30,000?"

He squirmed and hedged, "Yes, but-"

"How much more?"

"Much more."

"How much more?"

"About $400,000 more."

My mouth dropped open. "Mr. Kadam!"

"Miss Kelsey, I know it's extravagant, but when you drive it, you will see it's worth every cent."

I folded my hands across my chest. "I won't drive it."

He looked offended. "That car was meant to be driven."

"Then you drive it. I'll drive the Jeep."

He looked tempted. "If it will appease you, perhaps we can share it."

Kishan clapped his hands. "I can't wait."

Mr. Kadam wagged a finger at him. "Oh, no! Not you. We'll get you a nice sedan. Used. ~ Colleen Houck

[...] to you, unknown corporeal interlocutor who I hope is just kind of out there somehow knowing my thoughts and undertaking your own heroic struggle against the exigencies of having a body made of a trillion cells each with a hungry mouth [...] ~ Matthew Sharpe

I wish I knew your body was this warm before. I would have cuddled up with you every night." She stiffened suddenly, as if realizing what she'd just said. "Um, that didn't quite come out the way I intended it. I just meant..."
"Forget about it," he said softly. "I know what you meant. It's completely understandable that you'd want to cuddle up with me. I'm pretty irresistible."
Danica laughed, relaxing against him again. "Yeah, right. You're just a big, strong guy with a soft, gooey center."
His mouth twitched. "Exactly."
"Then tell me something. If you're so soft and gooey, why is there something hard poking me in the butt?"
It would have been Clayne's turn to stiffen, but he wasn't sure he could get any harder without exploding. But hell, it'd been a long time since he'd been this close to a woman this beautiful and sexy. Check that. He'd never been this close to a woman this beautiful and sexy--ever.
"Um...sorry."
He was so embarrassed he could barely get the word out. He would have backed away some, but Danica still had a firm grip on his arm and didn't seem inclined to let him go.
"Forget about it." She tilted her head to look at him, her dark eyes hidden beneath her lashes. "It's completely understandable that cuddling up with me would do that to you. I'm pretty irresistible. ~ Paige Tyler

Billy pulled her snug against his body, forgetting his arousal in the urgent need to give her comfort.
He felt her stiffen, sought the reason, and realized she must have felt his erection. She shoved him away with the flat of her palms and stared up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Or maybe shock was a better word.
Billy knew instantly what he'd lost. The wariness in her gaze spoke for itself. She'd always trusted him implicitly. Like a brother. But it was a lover's body she'd felt. He could see she was astonished that he'd become aroused by touching her.
He let his hands drop to his sides. He didn't think excuses would work, but he was willing to give them a try. His mouth curled up on one side in a cock-eyed grin. "Sorry about that. The feel of a female body does that to a man, whether he wants it to happen or not."
"It shouldn't happen between us," she said with certainty. "We're friends."
He shrugged. "You're female. I'm male. Sometimes it happens."
"Not to us," she insisted. She stared into his face suspiciously. "Or has it?"
"It might have happened once or twice. No big deal."
She stared at the visible bulge in his jeans, then glanced up at him, her face flushed and said, "It looks pretty big to me."
Billy couldn't help grinning. "Summer, you can't be this naïve. This is how a man reacts when he's around an attractive woman."
"You find me attractive?"
He saw the startled interest in her eyes and realized he'd op ~ Joan Johnston

Are you sorry it happened?" Her fingers clenched as she waited tensely for his answer.
"Good Lord, no." He brought her small fist to his mouth and kissed it open, and flattened her palm against the side of his face. "It's what I've wanted most in my entire life. And the one thing I knew I could never have. I'm surprised. Shocked, even. But never sorry."
Daisy turned and snuggled against him, sandwiching one of his thighs between her own.
The rain beat out a brisk song against the side of the house, some of it coming through the window. Considering the idea of getting out of bed, Daisy shivered a little, and felt Matthew draw the covers higher over her bare shoulder.
"Daisy," he asked without heat, "where is the damn key?"
"I put it in your coat pocket," she said helpfully. "Didn't you see? No?…well, I suppose you were distracted at the time." She trailed her hand over his chest, letting her palm graze the point of his nipple. "You're probably angry with me for locking us in the bedroom."
"Enraged," he agreed. "I insist you do it every night after we're married."
"Are we going to get married?" Daisy whispered, raising her head.
His eyes were warm, but there was no hint of pleasure in his voice. "Yes, we're going to marry. Although you'll probably hate me for it someday."
"Why in the world would I…oh." Daisy remembered what he had told her about the likelihood of his past catching up to him someday. "I could never hate you," ~ Lisa Kleypas

No spoon has yet destroyed a mouth, but the knife of war cuts portions that are hard to swallow. Perhaps the big mouths of the privileged are able to cope with them, but they dull the teeth of the little people and ruin their stomachs. ~ Franz Grillparzer

Annabel was, like the writer, of mixed parentage: half-English, half-Dutch, in her case. I remember her features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Lolita. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: "honey-colored skin," "thin arms," "brown bobbed hair," "long lashes," "big bright mouth"); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Lolita). ~ Vladimir Nabokov

So how's Cupid Day treating you?" He pops a mint in his mouth and leans closer. It grosses me out, like he thinks he can seduce me with fresh breath. "Any big romantic plans tonight? Got someone special to cozy up next to?" He raises his eyebrows at me.
[ ... ]
"We'll see," I say, smiling. "What about you? Are you going to be all by your lonesome? Table for one?"
He leans forward even more, and I stay perfectly still, willing myself not to pull away.
"Now why would you assume that?" He winks at me, obviously thinking that this is my version of flirting
like I'm going to offer to keep this company or something.
I smile even wider. "Because if you had a real girlfriend," I say, quietly but clearly, so he can hear every word perfectly, "you wouldn't be hitting on high school girls. ~ Lauren Oliver

Why are you making that face, Fern?" Bailey asked.
"What face?"
"That face that looks like you can't figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning."
Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. "I was thinking about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it. What do you think this face means?" Fern gave herself an underbite and crossed her eyes.
"You look like a brain-dead cartoon character," Bailey answered, snickering.
"What about this one?" Fern pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.
"You're eating something super sour!" Bailey cried. "Let me try one." Bailey thought for a minute and then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big dog.
"You're looking at something delicious," Fern guessed.
"Be more specific," Bailey said and made the face once more.
"Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream sundae," Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his mouth and grinned cheekily.
"Nope. That's the face you make every time you see Ambrose Young."
Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it aside.
"Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face you make whenever Rita comes ~ Amy Harmon

Because a new love affair always gives hope, the irrational mortal loneliness is always crowned, that thing I saw (that horror of a snake emptiness) when I took the deep iodine deathbreath on the Big Sur beach is now justified and hosannah'd and raised up like a sacred urn to Heaven in the mere fact of the taking off of clothes and clashing wits and bodies in the inexpressibly nervously sad delight of love- don't let no old fogies tell you otherwise, and on top of that nobody in the world even ever dares to write the true story of lovem it's awful, we're stuck with a 50% incomplete literature and drama- lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow- the secret underground truth of mad desire hiding under fenders under buried junkyards throughout the world, never mentioned in newspapers, written about haltingly and like corn by authors and painted tongue in cheek by artists, agh, just listen to Tristan und Isolde by Wagner and think of him in a Bavarian field with his beloved naked beauty under fall leaves. ~ Jack Kerouac

No boyfriend wants to see their girlfriend in a video with a big, handsome black dude feeding his fingers into her mouth, do they? But that concept is my expression, and boyfriends have to deal with that, don't they? ~ FKA Twigs

Lea stood upon a fallen log ahead of us, staring ahead. Mouse walked up to her.

Gggrrrr rawf arrrgggrrrrarrrr," I said.

Mouse gave me an impatient glance, and somehow--I don't know if it was something in his body language or what--I became aware that he was telling me to sit down and shut up or he'd come over and make me.

I sat down. Something in me really didn't like that idea, but when I looked around, I saw that everyone else had done it too, and that made me feel better.

Mouse said, again in what sounded like perfectly clear English, "Funny. Now restore them."

Lea turned to look at the big dog and said, "Do you dare to give me commands, hound?"

Not your hound," Mouse said. I didn't know how he was doing it. His mouth wasn't moving or anything. "Restore them before I rip your ass off. Literally rip it off."

The Leanansidhe tilted her head back and let out a low laugh. "You are far from your sources of power here, my dear demon."

I live with a wizard. I cheat." He took a step toward her and his lips peeled up from his fangs in unmistakable hostility. "You want to restore them? Or do I kill you and get them back that way?"

Lea narrowed her eyes. Then she said, "You're bluffing."

One of the big dog's huge, clawed paws dug at the ground, as if bracing him for a leap, and his growl seemed to . . . I looked down and checked. It didn't seem to shake the ground. The ground ~ Jim Butcher

I read a newspaper article in May 1984 which predicted that syringes would one day be a major cause of the transmission of HIV. It was what I had been waiting for - a project that had a lot of the things that I liked: problem-solving, product design, campaigning, and being a bit of a big mouth pain-in-the-bum. ~ Marc Koska

Very Like a Whale

One thing that literature would be greatly the better for
Would be a more restricted employment by authors of simile and metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,
Can'ts seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have
to go out
of their way to say that it is like something else.
What foes it mean when we are told
That the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold?
In the first place, George Gordon Byron had had enough experience
To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot
of Assyrians.
However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus
hinder longevity,
We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.
Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming
in purple and gold,
Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wolf
on
the fold?
In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy there
are
a great many things,
But i don't imagine that among then there is a wolf with purple
and gold
cohorts or purple and gold anythings.
No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually
like a wolf I must have some kind of proof;
Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red
mouth and
big white teeth and did he say Woof woof?
Fra ~ Ogden Nash

Tyler stood next to me, both looking at the big O of my mouth with blood all around it and the little slit of my eye staring up at us from the floor, and Tyler says, Cool. ~ Chuck Palahniuk

The big television crouched in the shadowy beam of the porch light. Mattie could see its black, open face, and she felt as though she were looking into the mouth of a deep, dangerous cave. ~ Cathie Pelletier

Clear waters drift through the immensity of a tall forest.
In front of me a huge river mouth
receives the long wind.
Deep ripples hold white sand
and white fish swimming as in a void.
I sprawl on a big rock,
billows nourishing my humble body.
I gargle with water and wash my feet.
A fisherman pauses out on the surf.
So many fish long for bait. I look
only to the east with its lotus leaves. ~ Wang Wei

It was indeed a long wait, well over two hours. I sat in the car and listened to the radio
and tried to picture, bite by bite, what it was like to eat a medianochesandwich: the
crackle of the bread crust, socrisp and toasty it scratches the inside of your mouth as you
bite down. Then the first taste of mustard, followed by the soothing cheese and the salt of
the meat. Next bite - a piece of pickle. Chew it all up; let the flavors mingle. Swallow.
Take a big sip of Iron Beer (pronounced Ee-roan Bay-er, and it's a soda). Sigh. Sheer
bliss. I would rather eat than do anything else except play with the Passenger. It's a true
miracle of genetics that I am not fat. ~ Jeff Lindsay

She looked at the strong hand holding hers. "Oh my goodness, what did you do?" Harper asked, eyebrows raised and mouth open as she studied the cuts and bruises.
"Had a conversation with a streetlight once you got into the cab," he said, pulling her closer to him.
"I'm sorry, Trent. I really am. If I blew you and me because of all this, I get it and I don't blame you. I'm done running. I'm done being scared. I'm done doubting whether you and your friends will help me if I need it. I am done with everything except being in love with you. I - "
Harper was flipped onto her back and underneath Trent in the blink of an eye.
"Say it again." His dark eyes were fierce as he held each side of her face in his big, safe hands.
"I'm sorry, I - "
"No." He cut her off. "Not that part. The 'I love you' part."
"I love you." Harper had barely gotten the words out of her mouth before Trent's lips descended on hers. Their mouths clashed together, banging teeth before soothing bitten lips with soft tongues.
Trent pulled away, taking a deep breath before staring deep into her eyes. Harper could feel his very soul merging with hers.
"I love you, Harper. Everything else is details. A lot of fucking details, granted, but just details. ~ Scarlett Cole

As we started to turn and walk out, the big and easy Samoan reached over and touched Henry's shoulder, the arm attached having powered the biker's head into the drywall of the Rapid City Regional Hospital. "I know you?"

The Bear smiled the one-crease-at-the-corner-of-his-mouth smile. "Momentarily. ~ Craig Johnson

The mad scientist is going to chase you around with a hypodermic needle, Gregori," she teased.
Gregori lifted an eyebrow, his face an unreadable mask,the pale eyes glittering with more than menace. White teeth flashed,a baring of fangs.
"Maybe not," Gary conceded. "Not the best idea after all."
Savannah was up and moving with hersensuous grace to fit herself beneath Gregori's shoulder. She looked impossibly small next to the big Carpathian, delicate, fragile even. It wasn't so much Gregori's height but the rippling muscles, the thickness of his arms and chest, and the power emanating from him. Her face was turned up toward his, her soft mouth curved with laughter, in no way intimidated by him.
Gregori's arm swept around her and crushed her to him, nearly enveloping her completely. "She thinks I am going to take her on this ridiculous vampire hunt."
"She's right,too,isn't she?" Gary grinned at him.
"Unfortunately," Gregori admitted. ~ Christine Feehan

I went to the springs while the sun was still up, and sitting on a rocky outcrop above the cave mouth I watched the light grow reddish across the misty pools, and listened to the troubled voice of the water. After a while I moved farther up the hill, where I could hear birds singing near and far in the silence of the trees. The presence of the trees was very strong ... The big oaks stood so many, so massive in their other life, in their deep, rooted silence: the awe of them came on me, the religion. ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

Until you've got your mouth full of cocaine, you don't know what kissing is. One kiss goes on from phase to phase like one of those novels by Balzac and Zola and Romain Rolland and D. H. Lawrence and those chaps. And you never get tire. You're on fourth speed all the time, and the engine purrs like a kitten, a big white kitten with the stars in its whiskers. ~ Aleister Crowley

EASY PHILOSOPHY
by
Peter Cole Friedman

as soon as you get pubes

you'll start reading Marx

then ideally some Plato

some Descartes or Kant

which sound like aperitifs

then you'll talk

to other people who read

this stuff

you'll talk about life

and other big subjects

but mostly about this stuff

and you'll recognize the names

of the scholars in the field

and you'll start citing things

they've said about the stuff

and they will alight as they do

on your dandelion brain

like fat birds and one day you will

bend and bend so much

that you'll almost forget the world

has a sun which feeds you

even with your mouth closed ~ Peter Cole Friedman

Honest to God, I hadn't meant to start a bar fight.
"So. You're the famous Jordan Amador." The demon sitting in front of me looked like someone filled a pig bladder with rotten cottage cheese. He overflowed the bar stool with his gelatinous stomach, just barely contained by a white dress shirt and an oversized leather jacket. Acid-washed jeans clung to his stumpy legs and his boots were at least twice the size of mine. His beady black eyes started at my ankles and dragged upward, past my dark jeans, across my black turtleneck sweater, and over the grey duster around me that was two sizes too big.
He finally met my gaze and snorted before continuing. "I was expecting something different. Certainly not a black girl. What's with the name, girlie?"
I shrugged. "My mother was a religious woman."
"Clearly," the demon said, tucking a fat cigar in one corner of his mouth. He stood up and walked over to the pool table beside him where he and five of his lackeys had gathered. Each of them was over six feet tall and were all muscle where he was all fat.
"I could start to examine the literary significance of your name, or I could ask what the hell you're doing in my bar," he said after knocking one of the balls into the left corner pocket.
"Just here to ask a question, that's all. I don't want trouble."
Again, he snorted, but this time smoke shot from his nostrils, which made him look like an albino dragon. "My ass you don't. This place is for fallen ~ Kyoko M.