In defense of the inconclusive, I submit nothing.
I feel less in the vicinity of natural thought this week. It’s like a slow social suicide, though I have no illusion that I’ve been nothing but quite the social corpse for the past few months anyway. At least Saturday night allowed me to feel somewhat ‘aired out’ and human. If I wasn’t so ugly…I’d be no less well off, I suppose. Part of my brain must be on Mars. The rest of it got buried in a matchbox somewhere near Luton.
Am I the only one listening to Mick Ronson today? I bet I am. ‘Growing Up and I’m Fine’ is one of the most intoxicating songs of 1974. I put it on replay for about 20 minutes. Seductive? I hope someone would think so. Velvet and Champagne, or sawdust and cider…I’m somewhere in there, don’t you think?
Penis rhymes with schemas. I’m somewhere in there.
Gone are the long songs, in are the wrong ones. Shut down the alley sweepers, some of us still believe in the power of nonbelievers. Moving mountains with small spoonfuls you get a sense of how distinctly unusual this repulsive idol sometimes often is.
I’m ready for you, phase stereo effects ablaze.
~m
Am I the only one listening to Mick Ronson today? I bet I am. ‘Growing Up and I’m Fine’ is one of the most intoxicating songs of 1974. I put it on replay for about 20 minutes. Seductive? I hope someone would think so. Velvet and Champagne, or sawdust and cider…I’m somewhere in there, don’t you think?
Penis rhymes with schemas. I’m somewhere in there.
Gone are the long songs, in are the wrong ones. Shut down the alley sweepers, some of us still believe in the power of nonbelievers. Moving mountains with small spoonfuls you get a sense of how distinctly unusual this repulsive idol sometimes often is.
I’m ready for you, phase stereo effects ablaze.
~m