{ 19 } .. . eye scorcher

For canker vice the sweetest buds do love

There’s nothing so vast as my self-absorption, like an endless ocean with no land in sight. The waves that mar its boundless surface cannot stir the depths of my narcissist delight. The winds that regale me are unprevailing and the rains merely offer facile respite. So toss away those expectations, fling aside those wrong and right. Sink into my fathomless indulgence, and drown in my dreams tonight.


Well, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on to more practical things.

Say what you will about those gathering clouds, but in the end, those words won’t change the weather, no matter how much I believe in the power of a fluttering butterfly. Or of one hand clapping. An irresistible force of nature, as it were, is difficult to negotiate with. Talking sense is hard. Especially when I don’t have any.


spiral scratch
treatment bound .. . { the replacement, hootenanny }
lolly, lolly, lolly get your adverbs here .. . { buffalo tom, schoolhouse rocks rocks! }
digging my potatoes .. . { big bill broonzy, trouble in mind }

{ 18 } .. . lunacy

What does it mean if a matchbook is my sacred text?

Combustible words to live by, an auto da fé, a pyre of good intentions. At least, until the smoke fills our eyes and we drown in our loved ones’ tears. It’s a tragic laughter, a giddy cry – nothing to slow down for, no spectacle to gawk at, no accident at all, so please, move along.

We are the crocodiles of our denial, the salamanders of blind faith, the phoenix of perpetual regret. And someone accuses me of having no sense of humour. or was that no sense of decorum? aw, what the hell, it’s only my funeral.



spiral scratch
ashes to ashes .. . { david bowie, scary mosnters (and super creeps) }
desecration rag .. . { felix arndt, american pop: an audio history }
koko .. . { charlie parker }