20 July 2008

{ 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 }