when the boy's head, full of raw torment,
longs for hazy dreams to swarm in white,
two charming older sisters come to his bed
with slender fingers and silvery nails.
they sit him at a casement window, thrown
open on a mass of flowers basking in blue air,
and run the fine, intimidating witchcraft
of their fingers through his dew-dank hair.
he listens to their diffident, sing-song breath,
smelling of elongated honey off the rose,
broken now and then by a hiss: saliva sucked
back from the lip, or a longing to be kissed.
he hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet-
smelling silence and, through his grey listlessness,
the crackle of small lice dying, beneath
the imperious nails of their soft, electric fingers.
the wine of torpor wells up in him then
near on trance, a harmonica-sigh
and in their slow caress he feels
the endless ebb and flow of a desire to cry.
-arthur rimbaud
i was going to cite cioran but i cannot find the heights of despair. where did it go to? surely danny didnt borrow it. hes still on his fiftieth read through of the dragonlance chronicles. welp. that means you get rimbaud. something nice and sophomoric for us all to grab our respective crotches to.
the power of suggestion
all ive been able to listen to is joy division and gang gang dance and morrissey. im trying to re-invent, or re-kindle rather, that great feeling of angst that welled up in me somewhere between high school and college. you remember the one. in my case its been gone for some time, but im sure if i listen to ceremony or that song where morrissey sings my love is like a needle in the eye. . . enough i can try to get close. . . anyway, im not * really * sure its the greatest idea. i mean I do seem to recall a lot of bad side effects. . . there was self mutilation and god awful poetry and what not but hey im still here and wow what it did for my libido. seriously, alex was just talking the other day about a friend of his who apparently has no refractory period (*and* hes not in the business, go figure). and i thought to myself, now when i was a young strapping buck, eyes painted black, why i could pull of such a feat of manliness. not that at this point in my life i really care, but i remembered. . .so here i am. listening to our british friend himself. masturbating furiously. well. not RIGHT now. but just before right now. sorry that was bad locker room banter and now you have to wrangle your way through the rest of this journal entry with an image of me whatever your image of me is and a little jar of vaseline.
lets have a butchers. . .
engerlund engerlund engerlund. youre to sing that to the tune of one of sousas marches. i cant remember which. anyway were off next week to jolly oldfor a spell and not that any of you care, but alan isnt coming, and im really bent out of shape about it. granted there was billy childish and val last time, and this time chelsea is actually fielding a half decent side (* ehem * robert), and theres a fabulous northern soul gig in brighton and tim told me about the time he got to the top of the london eye and pissed himself in leather trousers and im really keen to try that . . .but alan really makes london. beer for breakfast. getting high in the cemetery behind the bridge. cockney rhyming slang. julien freud. it was the bees knees.
wink wink, nudge nudge
common journal entry:
dear [insert name of suicide girl here] i just saw your new set and its so hot!!! its just awesome!!! and so tastefully done!
read as:
christ almighty did that just hit my computer screen?
dont worry folks the 10:30 show is completely different than the 7:30 show.
longs for hazy dreams to swarm in white,
two charming older sisters come to his bed
with slender fingers and silvery nails.
they sit him at a casement window, thrown
open on a mass of flowers basking in blue air,
and run the fine, intimidating witchcraft
of their fingers through his dew-dank hair.
he listens to their diffident, sing-song breath,
smelling of elongated honey off the rose,
broken now and then by a hiss: saliva sucked
back from the lip, or a longing to be kissed.
he hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet-
smelling silence and, through his grey listlessness,
the crackle of small lice dying, beneath
the imperious nails of their soft, electric fingers.
the wine of torpor wells up in him then
near on trance, a harmonica-sigh
and in their slow caress he feels
the endless ebb and flow of a desire to cry.
-arthur rimbaud
i was going to cite cioran but i cannot find the heights of despair. where did it go to? surely danny didnt borrow it. hes still on his fiftieth read through of the dragonlance chronicles. welp. that means you get rimbaud. something nice and sophomoric for us all to grab our respective crotches to.
the power of suggestion
all ive been able to listen to is joy division and gang gang dance and morrissey. im trying to re-invent, or re-kindle rather, that great feeling of angst that welled up in me somewhere between high school and college. you remember the one. in my case its been gone for some time, but im sure if i listen to ceremony or that song where morrissey sings my love is like a needle in the eye. . . enough i can try to get close. . . anyway, im not * really * sure its the greatest idea. i mean I do seem to recall a lot of bad side effects. . . there was self mutilation and god awful poetry and what not but hey im still here and wow what it did for my libido. seriously, alex was just talking the other day about a friend of his who apparently has no refractory period (*and* hes not in the business, go figure). and i thought to myself, now when i was a young strapping buck, eyes painted black, why i could pull of such a feat of manliness. not that at this point in my life i really care, but i remembered. . .so here i am. listening to our british friend himself. masturbating furiously. well. not RIGHT now. but just before right now. sorry that was bad locker room banter and now you have to wrangle your way through the rest of this journal entry with an image of me whatever your image of me is and a little jar of vaseline.
lets have a butchers. . .
engerlund engerlund engerlund. youre to sing that to the tune of one of sousas marches. i cant remember which. anyway were off next week to jolly oldfor a spell and not that any of you care, but alan isnt coming, and im really bent out of shape about it. granted there was billy childish and val last time, and this time chelsea is actually fielding a half decent side (* ehem * robert), and theres a fabulous northern soul gig in brighton and tim told me about the time he got to the top of the london eye and pissed himself in leather trousers and im really keen to try that . . .but alan really makes london. beer for breakfast. getting high in the cemetery behind the bridge. cockney rhyming slang. julien freud. it was the bees knees.
wink wink, nudge nudge
common journal entry:
dear [insert name of suicide girl here] i just saw your new set and its so hot!!! its just awesome!!! and so tastefully done!
read as:
christ almighty did that just hit my computer screen?
dont worry folks the 10:30 show is completely different than the 7:30 show.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I was scanning up and saw Def Jux. Being a man of the NY, did you ever see Company Flow live?
Drangonlance series: an excellent fantasy novel to lose yourself in...no fault in wanting to live in that world for a while....
Everyone needs a good depressive time. those days were sometime around seventh, eights and nineth grade for me...although I fall into those times again every now and then. lighting the candles, writing poetry and song, wearing all black, drinking untill I pass out and self mutination...its a good thing I don't scar...for me, radiohead, tori amos, morrissey...times when I just want to feel like life is ending...only to be reborn again a few months later to ask myself what the hell I was so depressed for...