love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you

ladytron
You've got me girl on the run around run around
You've got me all around town
You've got me girl on the run around
And it's getting me down, getting me down

Lady if you want to find a lover
Then you look no further
For I'm gonna be your only

Searching at the start of the season
And my only reason
Is that I'll get to you
I'll find some way of connection
Hiding my intention
Then I'll move up close to you
I'll use you and I'll confuse you
And then I'll lose you
But still you won't suspect me
"venus in furs"



Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I'm on fire

Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
...
Only you can cool my desire
springsteen


What's your name?
(What's your name?)
Who's your daddy?
(Who's your daddy? He rich?)
Is he rich like me?

Has he taken
(Has he taken)
Any time
(Any time to show)
To show you what you need to live?
zombies

"cinema de papa"
who ever said i needed your hand?
who ever said i was gonna be of use?
who ever said you know what it is that's
beating in my chest?
who ever said you got me all figured out?
who ever said i needed you trying to raise me up?
who ever said i needed you to teach me
a damn thing, loverboy.


: from my perpetual Punk Rock Professor, le Katherine. :

When she walks, the revolutions coming
In her hips, there's revolution
When she talks, I hear the revolution
In her kiss, I taste the revolution

Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
Rebel Girl you are the queen of my world
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
I know I wanna take you home
I wanna try on your clothes


I won't play girl to your boy no more, sugaryes yeS yES YESSS Yes.

made wine from a lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

The only way to really make it—anywhere—is to put every bit of your being into the thing that only you can provide. The only angle is the art that you choose, that only you can provide. And to do that, you have to be quiet for a long time and find out what you bring forth. You have to know what's in yourself—all your eccentricities, all your banalities, the full flavor of your woe and your joy. What does it look like? What does it feel like? What makes it different from everybody else's? It's totally subjective. You're just given the task of bringing it up.
Jeff Buckley


I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love....
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)

My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
Walt Whitman



I think artmaking, is the pursuit of doubt. I know this because ever since I really flowed into the rabbit's nook-ish hole, I haven't been sure of a damn thing. Except of Love. And how much they and I exist for one another.

My music is like a lowdown dreamy bit of the psyche. It's part quagmire and part structure. The quagmire is important for things to grow in. Do you ever have one of those memories where you think you remember a taste or a feel of something, maybe an object, but the feeling is so bizarre and imperceptible that you just can't quite get a hold of it? It drives you crazy. That's my musical aesthetic, just this imperceptible fleeting memory.
Jeff



When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
Jeff


http://www.wnyc.org/arts/articles/54050


I hate to feel the love between us die. But it's over.
Just hear this, and then I'll go....
"Last Goodbye"

and little man, little Lola....wants y o u

THE EUROPE OF THE WOMAN
Enormous room. Ophelia. Her heart is a clock.
OPHELIA [CHORUS/HAMLET]
I am Ophelia. She who the river could not hold. The woman on the gallows The woman
with the slashed arteries The woman with the overdose ON THE LIPS SNOW The
woman with the head in the gas-oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone
with my breasts my thighs my lap. I rip apart the instruments of my imprisonment the
Stool the Table the Bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my Home. I tear the doors off their hinges to let the wind and the cry of the World inside. I smash the Window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photographs of the men who I loved and who used me on the Bed on the Table on the Chair on the Floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock which was my heart out of my breast. I go onto the street, clothed in my blood.
Heiner Mueller



Weird Beast (mad mad mad, you silly little girl)<<
Could I own a piece of you?
Just one to deny madness, delusion, hallucination—
So that some part can be mine
And I can still be haunted by you
(more strongly, maybe):
I want to linger on you
—what if you forget me?—
I would press my fragrance on your jutting collarbone
(for smoldering purposes)
So I could waft through your thought-dials
Could I stain your mind?
With something particularly winning
Cutting, so it scintillates
I might blur
To reflect what you’d need to see in me that’d make you like me
Best
It’s just a tired trance. A version.
And you don’t like her, anyway,
So what’s it gonna take? (“when will you finally understand?”)
Confused as to the reason for all the enthusiasm?
I’ve negotiated your frayed fringes, broken hinges
Before there could be Hesitation
Besides: I Love your Dark. I Love
your fear, your Weird, your limitation.
And I think I could make you safe to come alive.

Does it make you sad that I have written words for you that
You will never see?
I pity that there are pieces that you
miss, Every Time,
until it occurs to me: maybe the more simple answer is you’re just Unimpressed
In which case.
I think I’ll lie down for awhile to stop sleeping.
I fall and I fall and I fall and I don’t know where it leads
I wake up and don’t even know where to begin
They all look blank next to the one I clutch to for comparison
I could touch them and leave them with absolutely no reason, with perfect reasoning:
You bring me down.
But I wait for you
to hold my hand,
take a fucking stand,
graze my cheek again.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve, because I don’t know How Else.
And. (as if I needed further confirmation)
I must be crazy to be in love with you.
you, Oh. You.
it doesn’t change the truth at hand
Theansweris yesTheanswer is yesTheanswerhasalwaysbeen yes.



Oh dear. There she goes again!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTKII4n3mX0
"Get a grip."


Did you know that Sartre, that great thinker, once referred to the "obscenity" of the "female sex is that of everything which ‘gapes open.’It is an appeal to being as all holes are.” Wow. The tight confines of enlightenment.


The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.

I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.

There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves—
Zeros, shutting on nothing,

Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.

I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.

And we, too, had a relationship—
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
Sylvia

with cecilia, up in my bedroom

Ophelia
I
When the stars sleep in the calm black stream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia floats,
Slowly floats, wound in her veils like a dream.
--Half heard in the woods, halloos from distant throats.

A thousand years has sad Ophelia gone
Glimmering on the water, a phantom fair;
A thousand years her soft distracted song
Has waked the answering evening air.

The wind kisses her breasts and shakes
Her long veils lying softly on the stream;
The shivering willows weep upon her cheeks
Across her dreaming brows the rushes lean.

The wrinkled water lilies round her sigh;
And once she wakes a nest of sleeping things
And hears the tiny sound of frightened wings;
Mysterious music falls from the starry sky.
II
O pale Ophelia, beautiful as snow!
Yes, die, child, die, and drift away to sea!
For from the peaks of Norway cold winds blow
And whisper low of bitter liberty;

For a breath that moved your long heavy hair
Brought strange sounds to your wandering thoughts;
Your heart heard Nature singing everywhere,
In the sighs of trees and the whispering of night.

For the voice of seas, endless and immense,
Breaks your young breast, too human and too sweet;
For on an April morning a pale young prince,
Poor lunatic, sat wordless at your feet!

Sky! Love! Liberty! What a dream, poor young
Thing! You sank before him, snow before fire,
Your own great vision strangling your tongue,
Infinity flaring in your blue eye!
III
And the poet says that by starlight you came
To pick the flowers you loved so much, at night,
And he saw, wound in her veils like a dream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia float.
Rimbaud

I threw myself out of bed and ran away from the room that was growing around me like a web, seizing upon my imagination, gnawing around me like a web, seizing upon my imagination, gnawing into my memory so that I would forget in five minutes who I was and whom I loved.
Anais

Lady Lazarus
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Come back in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
SYLVIA (o Sylvia)


‘God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away.…of falling…in darkness and knowing nothing.’
Henry Miller



Maybe I’ll Save You<<
Would you write me loveletters
From across great distances
On faded, crumbling paper of crushed lavender
Would you notice the weight of my smile
The melancholic shade of each eyelid
Would you hold out your hand
When I’ve fallen down when I’ve
Lost my way, my will—Would you know
When I’ve misplaced how to say I
Need you?
Would you take note of what I am, which
Is to say what I love, love?
Would you leave me lonely?
Would you let me fill you with my crackling
Fire
Would you trust me that I’d never burn you
On purpose?
Would you tell me I’m beautiful when I cry
Would you want me as the mother of your children?


One cannot escape from one’s own nature, although Henry said yesterday, ‘There are flaws in your goodness.’ Flaws. What a relief. Fissures. I may escape through them.
Anais


http://www.geographis.ch/~podouphis/Delaroche_martyre.jpg

and nobody knows but me

He That Loves A Rosy Cheek
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires:
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
Thomas Carew

His cheeks are perpetually rosy, suggestive, authentically or not, of modesty and sweetness.
If I kneel down to bring my ear close, I can hear it, it sounds literally pure, as if their lungs were filled with pristine weddinggown satin.
Julia Glass

‘When I write about you, I will have to write of you as an angel. I cannot put you on a bed.’
‘But I don’t behave like an angel. You know I don’t.’
‘I know, yes, I know. You’ve tired me out these past days. You’re a sensual angel, but you’re an angel just the same. Your sensuality doesn’t convince me.’
‘I’ll punish you for that,’ I said. ‘From now on I’ll behave like an angel.’
Anais

Pierre mumbled after a moment and, oddly enough, he blushed, which made him resemble a freshly fallen angel.
James Baldwin

Of course. Of course. You see it; you know.

What if I leave it for you to read (all in envelopes)....



for I carry away no secrets.
Anais

girl, you'll be a woman, soon

Oh, to sleep until I am whole again, to awaken free and light.
Anais


And so she exclaims: 'All my heart is singing with my longing for love.'
She is in love with love, but not as a mere adolescent,
not as a girl of seventeen, but as the embryonic artist that she is,
the one who will fecundate the world with her love,
the one who will cause suffering and strife because she loves too much...
Henry Miller


Quise cortar la flor
más tierna del rosal
pensando que de amor
no me podría pinchar
y mientras me pinchaba
me enseñó una cosa
...

1. a) of the color rose
b) having a pinkish usually healthy looking complexion: blooming
c) marked by blushes
2. characterized by or tending to promote optimism


y la deje caer
rompieron a sangrar
las llagas en mi piel
y con sus pétalos
me la curó mimosa
Mecano



if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)
ee cummings



I have been sweetly asleep for
a few centuries,and I am
erupting without warning.
Anais

please let me get what i want

Apparently, according to Grace Slick, makin it with The Lizard King was like

"making love to a floating art form with eyes"

which is, oh, peut-etre...the most cacophonously wondrous description you could

imagine resulting from that combustion. It's a wonder he even needed anyone to light his fire, strangeling.



I kiss his throat. When his throat shows in the open shirt I can't talk, desire moves me so. I whisper hoarsely in his ear 'I love you' three times in such a tone that he is frightened.
Anais

'You become a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old--you are a thousand years old'
Henry to Anais


par·ox·ysm
Etymology: Middle English paroxism, from Medieval Latin paroxysmus, from Greek paroxysmos, from paroxynein to stimulate, from para- + oxynein to provoke, from oxys sharp —oxygen
Date:
15th century
1 : a fit, attack, or sudden increase or recurrence of symptoms (as of a disease) :
2 : a sudden violent emotion or action : outburst
MerriamWebster


You are my center when I spin away, out of control.
Radiohead



HAVE ANOTHER CHERRY.
Jack Nicholson via Witches of Eastwick

come to my window

When I am laid
Am laid in earth
May my wrongs create
No trouble
No trouble
In thy breast.

Remember me!
But ah
forget my fate...
Remember me, Remember me
but ah
forget
my
fate.
Dido's Lament

Now, when we live with the same fervor, the same temperature, the same extravagance,
I am in bliss.
This is the life, the talk, these are the emotions which belong to me. I breathe freely now.
I am at home. I am myself.
Anais


Wake from your sleep,
the drying of your tears,
Today we escape, we escape.

Pack and get dressed
before your father hears us,
before all hell breaks loose.
Breathe, keep breathing, don't
lose your nerve.
Breathe, keep breathing,
I can't do this alone.
(Radiohead)

Is how one is loved always so important? Is it so imperative that one should be loved absolutely or greatly?
Anais

Obviously with love, absolutes are only hallucinations. But please, don't lose faith.
Who could stand dimness, placidity, in the one field where we should demand
reverence?
Why would you try to diminish the only living thing that is self-containing
in its luminescence?
Sometimes you have to hold your breath to make sure you won't
gasp?
Sometimes you bite your lip so you won't slip up, shriek?
Are you afraid of being enraptured with the resplendence of this moment?
Maybe some things are too good to be true--but maybe this is neither
good
nor what you've known as truth?

'And when you have waited-- has it made you sure?'
James Baldwin