It was a shallow ocean, it was a very low sky
They're not too wide to get around given the old
school try
And you must have had nothing better to do
I've been kissing my cigarette, wishing it was you
True, you gave me the moon and the silver stars
They float outside my window of this tedious bar
But just like their master, they just drift in the
blue
I've been kissing the bottle, wishing it was you
So Gibraltar has tumbled
The world came to an end
And the joke was on me
You're not even my friend
But with all my new lovers
And there've been twenty-two
I've been kissing the mirror, wishing it was you
3.31.2009
3.30.2009
3.28.2009
...
it has been a work in (a very long) progress, but it looks as though Spike Jonze's 'Where the Wild Things Are' has finally materialized into something wonderful. with a release date set for october 16, i am pretty anxious to go see it in theatres. there is no truth to the statement "this is my favourite childhood book" for me, however i have read it and do think it is magical and touching. and dare i say that it looks as though Spike has hit the mark with his movie.
can't wait.
can't wait.
3.25.2009
3.24.2009
Feeling good
the people who live above me, as best i can tell, are on EI and meth. i only mention that to give you an idea of what i thought when they blasted some serious super mario bros. just now while i am laying on my bed listening to nick cave.
i wish i was upstairs.
Afternoon Studies
it was a miracle i even got out of longwood alive,
this town full of men with big mouths and no guts
i mean if you can just picture it,
the whole third floor of the hotel gutted by the blast
and the street below showered in shards of broken glass,
and all the drunks pouring out of the dance halls
staring up at the smoke and the flames
and the blind pencil seller waving his stick
shouting for his dog that lay dead on the side of the road
and me, if you can believe this,
at the wheel of the car
closing my eyes and actually praying
not to God above but to you, saying:
help me girl. help me, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long dark curls
some things we plan,
we sit and we invent and we plot and cook up
others are works of inspiration, of poetry
and it was this genius hand that pushed me up the hotel stairs
to say my last goodbye
to a hair as white as snow and of pale blue eyes
saying i gotta go. i gotta go,
the bomb in the bread basket are ready to blow
in this town of men with big mouths and no guts,
the pencil seller's dog, spooked by the explosion,
leaping under my wheels as i careered out of longwood
on my way to you waiting in your dress,
in your dress of blue
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
and with the horses prancing through the fields,
with my knife in my jeans and the rain on the shield
i sang a song for the glory of the beauty of you
waiting for me
in your dress of blue
thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
this town full of men with big mouths and no guts
i mean if you can just picture it,
the whole third floor of the hotel gutted by the blast
and the street below showered in shards of broken glass,
and all the drunks pouring out of the dance halls
staring up at the smoke and the flames
and the blind pencil seller waving his stick
shouting for his dog that lay dead on the side of the road
and me, if you can believe this,
at the wheel of the car
closing my eyes and actually praying
not to God above but to you, saying:
help me girl. help me, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long dark curls
some things we plan,
we sit and we invent and we plot and cook up
others are works of inspiration, of poetry
and it was this genius hand that pushed me up the hotel stairs
to say my last goodbye
to a hair as white as snow and of pale blue eyes
saying i gotta go. i gotta go,
the bomb in the bread basket are ready to blow
in this town of men with big mouths and no guts,
the pencil seller's dog, spooked by the explosion,
leaping under my wheels as i careered out of longwood
on my way to you waiting in your dress,
in your dress of blue
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
and with the horses prancing through the fields,
with my knife in my jeans and the rain on the shield
i sang a song for the glory of the beauty of you
waiting for me
in your dress of blue
thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
with your eyes black as coal
and your long, dark curls
i said thank you, girl. thank you, girl
i'll love you till the end of the world
Bonne nuit
Far be it from me to leave out a small amount of semi narcissistic prose. I've been more or less outwardly focused in the last little while, but does that say much if at all about the frame of mind I am posing in? Too much inward focus is concerning, I would think that most would agree. This is not a topic I really wish to delve too far into because, quite frankly, it's not worth it. But I will accept a need to oblige balance.
Grrrrrls rub on ya titties
I have unequivocally been trolling the internet on far too many fashion and art and fanciful blogs/websites. sometimes i think its a bit much, even for me. so why? you ask.why not.
Mark Fast / SS 09
No doubt this shit is sexy, its also all made by a Canadian who grew up 'in the countryside along a highway next to a forest'. He knits everything by hand on a...well just go to the website and read for yourself. I would be pretty fucking floored if I could strut around in one of the above.
Oh and
right?
3.23.2009
Alphabet
although i am attempting to put pen to paper more, i am still intrigued by and drawn to photographs. i got my rocks off a-b-c-ing through these beautiful images at the photographic dictionary.
3.18.2009
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