Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Un peu de flu
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Some Thesaurus wisdom
Friday, April 17, 2009
Another Donnie Darko night.
19 heures, Page st.
So Rich, So Pretty
I like a girl with caked up makeup
In the sunshine smoking cigarettes to pass the time
Who wakes up to a bottle of wine on the nightstand
Bites and scratches the blinds
But I ain't found one quite right yet
So I step with pep to the park or supermarket
Her apartment best be messy
And Lisa don't mind when I call her LeslieShe's gotta dress with class and Jean Paul Gaultier and a Hermes bagAnd four inch tips made of ostrich
Sharp enough to slit your wrists her lips spread gossip
Won't say sorry when she offends
She comes over to my place in her old man's Benz
In gold and silver and jewels of all colors
And she doesn't take them off when we're tearing up the covers
Come on and get it before I change my mind
Come on kid, don't waste my time
So rich, so pretty
The best piece of ass in the whole damn city
So rich, so pretty...
I like a girl who eats and brings it up
A sassy little frassy with bulimia
Her best friend's a plastic surgeon
And when her Beamer's in the shop she rolls the Benz
Manis and pedis on Sundays and Wednesdays
Money from mommy lovely in Versace
Costly sprees, it's on at Barney's
And I love to watch her go through fifty g's calmly
She gets naughty with her pilates body
And thinks it's really funny when her nose goes bloody
'cause the blow is so yummy and it keeps her tummy empty
And makes her act more friendly
Dance the night away
And she won't say nothing when she makes your man stray
I've had your kind before, Mickey
Go get my purse, Mickey
Lock the door, Mickey
You're just a midnight snack
Shhhh, don't talk back
You're just a boy Mickey
You're just a toy Mickey
You're just a boy Mickey
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Impatience et Empressement
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Les Mots*
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Hot List #2
Un après-midi si doux
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Nectar de lyrics noirs
Météorologie
Friday, April 10, 2009
Le poème de Nabokov
Thursday. We are paying with hail and gale for the tropical beginning of the month. In a volume of the Young People's Encyclopedia, I found a map of the states that a child's pencil had started copying out on a sheet of lightweight paper, upon the other side of which, counter to the unfinished outline of Florida and the Gulf, there was a mimeographed list of names referring, evidently, to her class at the Ramsdale school. It is a poem I know already by heart.Angel, Grace
Austin, Floyd
Beale, Jack
Beale, Mary
Buck, Daniel
Byron, Marguerite
Campbell, Alice
Carmine, Rose
Chatfield, Phyllis
Clarke, Gordon
Cowan, John
Cowan, Marion
Duncan, Walter
Falter, Ted
Fantasia, Stella
Flashman, Irving
Fox, George
Glave, Mabel
Goodale, Donald
Green, Lucinda
Hamilton, Mary Rose
Haze, Dolores
Honeck, Rosaline
Knight, Kenneth
McCoo, Virginia
McCrystal, Vivian
McFate, Aubrey
Miranda, Anthony
Miranda, Viola
Rosato, Emil
Schlenker, Lena
Scott, Donald
Sheridan, Agnes
Sherva, Oleg
Smith, Hazel
Talbot, Edgar
Talbot, Edwin
Wain, Lull
Williams, Ralph
Windmuller, LouiseA poem, a poem, forsooth! So strange and sweet was it to discover this "Haze, Dolores" (she!) in its special bower of names, with its bodyguard of roses--a fairy princess between her two maids of honor. I am trying to analyze the spine-thrill of delight it gives me, this name among all those others. What is it that excites me almost to tears (hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)? What is it? The tender anonymity of this name with its formal veil ("Dolores") and that abstract transposition of first name and surname, which is like a pair of new pale gloves or a mask? Is "mask" the keyword? Is it because there is always delight in the semitranslucent mystery, the flowing charshaf, through which the flesh and the eye you alone are elected to know smile in passing at you alone? Or is it because I can imagine so well the rest of the colorful classroom around my dolorous and hazy darling: Grace and her ripe pimples; Ginny and her lagging leg; Gordon, the haggard masturbator; Duncan, the foul-smelling clown; nail-biting Agnes; Viola, of the blackheads and the bouncing bust; pretty Rosaline; dark Mary Rose; adorable Stella, who has let strangers touch her; Ralph, who bullies and steals; Irving, for whom I am sorry. And there she is there, lost in the middle, gnawing a pencil, detested by teachers, all the boys' eyes on her hair and neck, my Lolita.