Drew Edward Vanderburg's Journal
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| Monday, February 21st, 2011 | | 9:24 pm |
| | Sunday, September 19th, 2010 | | 2:07 am |
Good Tidings Cyber-Siblings!
I LOVE YOU! WHAT UP? Time is running sharp here in Brooklyn, NYC. I live a life filled with art and love. "Live the good life instantly; it's now or never and it always has been." - Henry Miller I don't update this journal anymore, really, although it shows up surprisingly high on Google search results for my name. Through this Livejournal, you can travel back in time to find out about high-school and college aged Drew. If you're looking for the modern Drew, or information about me, I advise checking my blog HELLO AMERICA!. There you'll find information about organizations and events with which I am involved currently. PEACE. Current Mood:  good | | Tuesday, October 20th, 2009 | | 1:31 am |
A post at 01:34
I am about to do some graffiti about peace and love. It is a discovery, an exploration, and an exercise. I am doing it for fun but also to make a statement about beauty and art and both. If there are any authority figures who have had the audacity to trace me back to this livejournal, I applaud your boldness and determination. This livejournal is a private sanctum for me but it is easily traceable from my online public life. I have no desire to forbid the connection between the graffiti I do and the online entries I post because I am both a human and a graffiti artist. I love you if you are reading this and if you are not. I am going to go do graffiti now. If anyone proposes to stop me I believe that I can thwart their efforts because my motives are just. Listen to my message. Until next time, Drew Vanderburg | | Thursday, August 13th, 2009 | | 6:20 pm |
DREWS NEWS
Hello America! I am back from BREAD AND PUPPET! I LOVED IT! OXYGEN! I learned to walk on stilts! I have created a Drew News Update.Aiiiiiight peace! | | Friday, June 26th, 2009 | | 7:18 pm |
Scar Tissue -> Off to Bread and Puppet
Now I am watching sailboats meander a flow by the pepper pot bridge Citgo sign nearing lighting the river reflection as blue sky dims. Red line chunga chungas over towards Cambridge and back. There was one day that I nearly sank one of those sailboats, delicious murk water in my trousers proudly. Another thousand days too that I chungaed over that same bridge with necktie backpack prowess. This weekend is the last one that I will spend in this apartment with this view. Now my gray old mom and her love will leave this city at last. She has never loved it here. So to Providence. It was only three days ago that I raucoused a rancor party with Camp Frank A. Day freaks. Allison's new yellow house is the door of 27th Street's elevator blown into a mansion and a ping pong table and a sage garden and an air matress and a slop sink. Duke Ellington and Zac Button and I were talking jive at four in the morning. Five. The sun rose me into paint saturation slobber sleep. Peppercorn pastas and rapturous rastas and Harpoon. Jimi Hendrix's Axis: Bold As Love is not symmetrical at all. Every hand is holding a different item. Every forearm has a new tattoo. I would like to get a tattoo. My body is a fleshlog. Anthony Keidis is not helping my Psyche his words though spur my spirit to spit shit on Narcissus. Dark blackgreen ink on pages, in my veins. I would like to expunge every ventricle, slice it with a razor, skewer my arteries on a clothesline and fuck the heroin slump of a horny punk's jawbone's tits. Most of my thoughts are licking an anus or cupping a cunt and homogenizing my mind in a stew of puke so I can loosen my loops and dupe the Duke of Raoul. I've got to go seek Mookie now to shoot drugs or bang heads or pump guts full of lead. I really won't hit these highs I am too nice and have too slender thighs and prize too highly my wise eyes. Biggie got to smack so many asses. I can't break and enter. Jiz homunculous clever hymen. This dick is a mic. Deep throat my spiked rum, cum onstage and blow a line of cups of joe. Two days hence then I will drive North through trees. Rolling hills will soothe my cyberdrug cypher. A smooth musical farm will hypenate my grating screech. Music music music is the hum of my semen and it's seeming that Kurt Cobain had a brain of amplified lighter fluid. I will spark that bowl. I will furl that roll. Courtney Love is a skeletal skull and Flea is a Hole. The anger of my people is a freeing croon, a waxing moon. Flange petal on the tip of a spinal cord to jog any listening consciousness into paining profusion, euphoric illusion, illucidatory hallucinatory conspiratorial bullshit. Once you freebase too much coke you will clamber onto the roof and Richard Pryor will crown your retina with a frown. Low out on the bummer. Michael Jackson will thrill you illly. Find him again once you're out of the pen. If Christopher Wallace dealt rock to a pregnancy then birth is way ahead of me and bums are behind. If Hollywood is aromatic then muscle spasms are automatic and performance is my laundromat and fire is my hat. | | Friday, May 15th, 2009 | | 1:13 am |
SURVEY
WHO IS READING THIS? WHO IS IN NYC READING THIS? I want to know so that I know how much energy I should put into posting blog updates on here.... I really don't write substantial entries on here much anymore. But the times will come. Skat roffle toejam jar jostle hilariofunjam jarring jarhead barring heliogliding baffle toss. BLOG BUPDATES. Current Mood: awake | | Friday, May 8th, 2009 | | 8:19 pm |
| | Monday, April 13th, 2009 | | 5:47 pm |
Hungry Hummy
I've been working hard at being alive recently. I don't mean like it's been a challenge. I just mean I've been focusing on that, solely, since it's basically all there seems to be to do. That means music to me because I'm most alive then, when I'm playing. Other kinds of playing too. This has all led to BLOG UPDATES HUMANS yep yep yep. Current Mood: cat scratch fever | | Tuesday, February 24th, 2009 | | 3:07 pm |
| | Friday, January 16th, 2009 | | 5:10 am |
I liked George Bush's final speech. It made me smile. I forgive him for everything. NEXT! | | Friday, January 2nd, 2009 | | 12:08 am |
The streets are Roman But we don’t speak Latin Got swords like Conan But I’m not a barbarian I’m throwin the hat in From the corner of Manhattan The girl’s a Caesarian The streets are skattin’. Be Bop The Doo Wop Chop crops of pears and yams Give respect to your gams Flex your plans hold my hand Clap your hands Chop crops of corn and barley Ska bob Marley Biggie Smalls Bravo Charlie Shred’s not dead To change your mind All ya gotta do is change your head. That’s Baba Ram Dass Yes you can floss Or you can toss it Brush ya shoulders off! Ω Om It’s flowing I took another dose My palms are wet and I feel the holy ghost Seeing a taste of robust Egyptian flava Disrespectin’ monarcy => Unorthodox behavior Take as sip of ginseng Rippin’ on the ying-yang Or drippin’ some Yuengling All over the ping-pong table Who’s Clark Gable? Who’s Bettie Page? Who’s that dude on TV Land whose suit was all the rage? Johnny Cage? Johnny Cash? Rage Against The Machine? 4.33 on MTV try not to question the moment respect it if something is wrong your mind can correct it. Ω So don’t sit back and wonder why Like sabotage But fly with it It being time It being space Let it uplift you Since it’s all in your face. Rock ride roll rail You don’t need bail if you aren’t in jail You can’t ride the railroads without any dough But you can ride the railroads with no place to go Rock on the ride time Roll on the red line Roll on the rain days Roll on the rain dance. Move to the rhythm Rhyme is a romance Feel the music Let it make your brain dance. | | 12:07 am |
Rapscallion rapsters raised on the streets Constantly told that they gotta compete Have found a new groove called movin’ their feet With tongues of shoes tying knots laces in the middle of their faces And the rubber sole kicks up the soul, sore Ain’t seen anything like this before Drop the beat and the booty too Erase the hate and highlight the true. ---------------------------------------- --------------------- Ease in the new sound Float two feet off the ground Just levitatin’ Not fussin’ or fightin’ or hurtin’ or hatin’. Cheer laugh squeeze jump fly try run Take a hit from the pipe and then I’ll take one Or let’s be drug free you and me we may see That the submarine is the lock not the key. Why you gotta have palm trees in summer? Why you fall in love with a heavy metal drummer? I too would like to take my tea with Bono and Joe Strummer. But my heads in the clouds And my wife’s in a shroud Cuz I’m dead but I’m loud And Strummer’s right here We’re having a beer It’s all in the clear in the clearing The mystical hearing when Skynet’s online And they tell you, “It’s fine, please don’t undermine My authority cuz it’s mine.” And I cling to it like my stockings to me and my wobbly knee And this power suit’s too loose Although I’m a size nine. (Loose caboose.) The authority is mine mine mine. You wield your ax like a book of facts Post shit up with thumb tacks So you walk in, grin, see within The glazed over media, hemopaedia Belchin’ and fartin’ like a piece of Commedia De L’arte and I told you I farte Take me out with karate I got no resistance to the force of your body. 04:53, 1-29-06 | | Wednesday, December 31st, 2008 | | 8:35 pm |
This Year's Books
1.) The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac 2.) I, Robot by Isaac Asimov 3.) Nana by Emile Zola 4.) Tiny Cities by Italo Calvino 5.) Siddhartha by Herman Hesse 6.) Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut 7.) The Stranger by Albert Camus 8.) Tales of Mystery by Edgar Allen Poe 9.) The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger (again) 10.) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (again) 11.) The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery (again) 12.) Longitude by Dava Sobel 13.) Strange Pilgrims by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 14.) Big Sur by Jack Kerouac 15.) Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller 16.) The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder by Henry Miller A good run, I feel. | | Friday, December 12th, 2008 | | 12:40 pm |
Chapter 5
Chapter 5 Valerie loves music. Valerie loved music. In her office there was a monitor from the stage hooked up. Frequently, and always if it was just Valerie in there, it was on. Sounds from the great symphonic reverberatorium could float through wires and coils and boom into Valerie’s eager eardrums. Boom. And these sounds helped her stay alive all day, made her want to be fully wildly alive. Valerie had a palpable problem, however, and that was that she felt largely dead. What did it mean to be alive to Valerie? It meant, she thought, to feel as much as possible with all five senses simultaneously as frequently as possible. She would have loved a chance to test this theory, of what it meant to be alive. Valerie knew that in the past 25 years of her life there had been a good deal of feeling alive! She felt that way when she was swimming, or playing some sports, or having sex, or laughing heartily, or crying direly. She felt alive when she was scared of physical harm, which had fortunately been infrequent in her life, and she felt alive when she was eager for physical pleasure. One example of such physical pleasure is the sherbet she used to get from a familiar vendor on the boardwalk near where she grew up. Valerie had once lived near a beach and so she had once felt alive often. Conclusively, Valerie was still 100% alive and only felt dead about 90% of the time because her senses were not being stimulated for shit by her surroundings. Valerie had moved to Boston when she was 18 and had since then grown grayyyyyy. Valerie’s favorite color was a shade of ORANGE. Here’s that color:  Presently there was a cellist playing a concerto in a dress rehearsal for a show that would be performed that night. The cellist was a student of a life long music teacher and composer named Ubreck Von Strausenlinden. He had flown in from Austria to receive the Berkley College of Music’s honorary doctorate of music, and the event that evening would showcase some of his American students. There would also be cocktails and shrimptails. If one were to stare into a rectangular field of orange and absorb the vibrations of that cellist’s strings as they pumped through the monitor and bounced through the air molecules of the office, give or take the air-conditioner’s mumblings, you would perhaps understand the enticement lifeline of Valerie. What did she do at work? She was a secretary. Specifically she was the head secretary for the artistic director of the music hall. So, all day, she typed a lot of messages into the internet and received a lot of messages from it, and she spoke on the phone a lot and pressed a lot of buttons on the phone and the computer and overall. She drank a ton of coffee and read drivel on her blogosphere in between typings and phonings. Occasionally she would get to print something out and maybe put it in an envelope, or open an enveloped and then put a paper into the paper shredder. This task, because it was three dimensional and involved muscular movement and the sense of touch, made Valerie feel a tad more alive than the other junk. But, once again, overall, she was gray. Of course Val never had wanted this job, at least not in this way, and she hoped perhaps foolishly that she could eventually be allowed to surround her senses with delicate classical and jazz music all day every day for money. When she took the job it was in hopes of working with the artistic director melodiously. Turned out later that he sucked. More on that to come. Anyways. | | Thursday, December 11th, 2008 | | 2:04 am |
Chapter 4
Step. Step. Step. Sets of three are pure. So are sets of four. Our walker in the woods was a runner at the moment. Sets of two are fun. So are sets of one. One step at a time. | | Tuesday, December 9th, 2008 | | 12:45 am |
Chapter 3
“I love this fucking song!” The shuffle setting on iTunes had just provided the room with a crunchy beat. The song was a throwback for some in the room to more innocent times, which made them eager to destroy its reputation, erase innocent associations, revel in the beat. “ I love fucking shuffle!” was the response. An eager finger caressed the mousepad of the computer that was hooked up to the bassheavy speakerboxxx. In the dim orange tracklights on the ceiling you could vibe with the sweat on the mousepad. The glow of the laptop, ever faithful, protector, loved being rubbed. A little smudge of grease was shining. The rest of the monitor showed a website full of images of females wearing mostly expensive clothing or very little clothing or both. The eyes that met this monitor were those of the speaker of the first sentence of this chapter. His name: Nicholas Goodheart. The person who had responded to him was named Samantha Shannon, who now said: “Shuffle is so smart.” “Oh my fucking god! Look at Miley Cyrus. Oh that bitch,” Nick emphasized. Samantha shifted over to look at the glowing monitor. From the celebrity gossip website UsWeekly.com, Nick read aloud: Miley Cyrus is continuing to speak out about her infamous Vanity Fair photos. She called the shots "a mistake" during an interview on ABC's Good Morning America on Tuesday. “That bitch! She’s fucking hawt good for her showing it off. She shouldn’t deny it uck what a bitch,” said Nick. Miley Cyrus was a celebrity who started off as a little girl but then became attractive to many grown-ups and so was paid a lot of money to have her picture taken. She also liked to sing music, like Valerie did, and frequently was paid to do so. Samantha stood up. “Dude turn it down a sec my phone is ringing.” Nick’s eager finger thumbed the mousepad. His thumby finger moused the eagerpad. To turn down the volume. The song, by the way, was by a popular rapper called Soulja Boi. His lyrics went: Soulja Boi off in this ho
Watch me crank it, watch me roll
Watch me crank dat, Soulja Boi
Then Superman dat ho. Samantha walked briskly over to her purse, which was lying on the carpet near her shoes. We were in her apartment. She was beautiful. “Hello?!” Yelling, a bit. Then: “Whatup! Yeah totally. We’re just pregaming.” Pause. A girl’s voice on the other end. Probably it was Erin. “No I’m all ready I think we’ll probably get going soon.” Pause. “Yeah just come over.” Pause. “Whatever, it’s fucked up, it’s fine. Yeah word bye.” It was a really trite conversation, I judged, and from listening it sounded like Sam didn’t care about Erin but she did. They were close friends. They knew, amongst friends, that words have no meaning. They are dancers and all that, so they know. Samantha came and sat back down next to Nick. He was using her computer, clicking clicking on the internet. Now he shifted over from Firefox to iTunes dexterously and changed the song and turned it up again. He was sitting at her desk. He was hunched. He was a muscular spinach-filled man of 26 years with a babyfaced, sweaty, five-o’clock shadowed, dreary, eager, sparkling look about him. He wore a maroon polo t-shirt and some expensive grey denim trousers with functionality-impairing tears. He also had Adidas sandals on through which his toe tapped vapidly and rapidly to the new song he had chosen, (usurping the shuffle), by Kayne West, who had just gotten arrested for smashing a camera in an airport. Nick worked very hard on weekend nights such as these to get inebriated and to entertain Samantha and her friends. They entertained him, and what’s more allowed him to command the energy of their pregames. Presently Nick took a sip of his Smirnoff Ice. Samantha, jettisoning her cellphone onto the desk now after sending a text, also took a drink of her Smirnoff Ice. The phone landed amongst metrocards and bobby pins and receipts, amongst paperback books and cigarette ash and sunglasses. Surrounding the desk, taped to the wall, were some polaroids of Sam and her girls, Nick being fiendish at some club, Sam’s parents and little sister. There was one of me from college. There were also a lot of postcards from foreign countries and on the shelves above a lot more books and cd cases and technology boxes and DVD’s and a bunch of empty Jack Daniel’s bottles. You might think Polaroid film was out of print or out of vogue, but Apple had bought Polaroid and had started producing it again. I took a drink of my Smirnoff Ice. We were perching finchlike on the 14th floor of a luxury condominium in Manhattan. The view showed sparkling cornices of the machine maze city. Below my eyes beheld the Brooklyn Bridge. The bridge was famous because it was the first suspension bridge ever made and The Bends was a wonderful album commemorating the nitrogen that got into the blood stream of many loony Americans who helped to build it. Below that my eyes beheld a dark expanse of dirty water, which was of course the East River. There was one boat that I could see, with a loud green light on its prow, sauntering wavely against the tide. That is to say, towards the Atlantic Ocean. From up here I could have seen a lot of glowing clouds and blinking airplanes if I had cared to look. But at the moment my eyes returned to Samantha’s living room. What time was it anyway? “Erin’s coming,” Samantha said then, to Nick. She knew I had known about her conversation but that Nick had been quite rapt with Us Weekly and wouldn’t have known if at that moment his shoelaces were on fire. He wouldn’t have even realized that that was impossible because he was wearing sandals, like I said. Nick was inebriated. “Great!” he said. “What time is it anyway?” “11:30,” Samantha told him. Time didn’t matter, anyway, but none of us knew that yet. “I am going to dance my buttooty off tonight!” “Me too, girl. I know we’ll have a good time, I always have a good time when I go to Sanctum.” “I remember you told me about that time you met those Russian weirdos there? Was that there?” “Yah. They were so weird don’t even get me started on that night!? I was wrecked.” “Yeah. Umm those Russian dudes were sketch city. You’re sure you’re not taking us to a crack den or something?” “Sam you’ve been here before you know it’s chill!” “I know I know. Ian have you ever been to Sanctum?” I looked into Samantha’s eyes. “No. I hear it’s cool though.” “Guys seriously it’s so chill. We’re gonna dance and I’m gonna drink like sixteen more vodka drinks. I want to get wrecked tonight. I’m going all out. Buttooty buttooty buttooty!” “Buttooty!” Samantha squealed in a mermaid voice. I was thus made aware that there was some sort of inside joke happening around that word. Sam and Nick did a unison hand gesture and then Nick made an outlandish laugh! “Oh my god remember that night?!” “You’re such a fuck up!” “That was totally the night, like the first night we went out with Elias, like out out.” “I know.” Sam was semi-playing along with Nick. She had started texting on her phone again though suddenly. I took a big swig of my Smirnoff Ice. “Whateverrrrr let’s do another bump,” Nick pronounced. Just then the door of Samantha’s bathroom swung open. It was twenty feet down the hall from the orange living room in which we sat. A white light made a parellelogram on the varnished wood floor for a second and then went out. Out of the door and towards us then flounced a stout energized curvaceous softskinned warm smiling woman named Jonelle. She was speaking quickly about her hair, specifically that the hair curler was really burning her hands so she was worried and in pain or something, I guess I wasn’t really listening. But she looked pretty, and she knew it. She was suddenly really talking up a storm. She stormed over to the laptop and demanded that Nick change the song because Kayne West was a “bitch”, and then she pushed some of Sam’s junk into the corner of the desk and got out a pen and paper from her purse, which had been pertly within her armpit. She said: “Nicky, by the way, I was thinking when I was curling my hair and shit that you definitely owe me about sixty bucks for that eight-ball last week. Butcha know what don’t fucking worry about it because I am about to write down some important shit for you. And you know honey you know I don’t like to write shit so don’t lose this note ok? Go to gMail for a sec, K?” “I’ll fucking go to gMail!” Nick said. Now he was just fucking with everyone. He said it as he was choosing a new song. He chose “La Isla Bonita” from Madonna’s album True Blue. | | Friday, December 5th, 2008 | | 4:35 am |
Chapter 2
One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Words have no meaning. These were words in the head of a walker in the woods. These are those words. Dear Simon,
I am grateful for the multitude of banana trees in these woods and their distribution. There were times early on when I was tiring of roots and berries. Grateful, but tiring. Grateful too for my father’s teachings, and what not, about what berries and roots were right to be eaten and in what season. The seasons, though, in these strange woods, are not distributed as evenly as any fruit trees. Often there may be a banana tree before a sunset or a winter.
I have been traveling now for 24 years. I do so miss you and my family and the city and home. I know I should write more. Thank you for your last letter. I got it at the last village I passed through. How did you know where I was going to be? I have not received a letter from anyone else during all these travels. You, Simon, are a beacon to me.
Well, anyway, times are less rough now. I have gained more control over my perception and proprioceptive sense. I have meditated on rivers and fields. I can speak to many animals now. The banana trees, like I said, are plentiful now.
I’ll write again next season. Be well you freakazoid.
All my love,
Noah And he looked up from the parchment. At the moment of signing his name a yellow finch had just landed on the strap of his satchel. Noah noticed then that the strap was perching on a vast ant colony. The finch regarded the ants with disdain, had not even given them the honor of seeing them with her bird’s eye. She pecked a few and swallowed them whole. Incidentally, this yellow finch was one whose nest, containing five eggs, had just been destroyed by a napalm fire. Soon she would get revenge. Noah regarded the finch with admiration. He watched the breathing of yellow feathers and the shine of an onyx eye. The bird’s eye met Noah’s. Noah thought about how miraculous birds were: little puffs of oxygen squealing squeakingly amongst zephyrs and treeleaves. The finch heard Noah’s thought and chirped for him. Only shortly, curtly. Then it took flight. Noah watched the finches flight back above the canopy of the forest. Then he followed a stream of light back down to the forest floor. That angle, that stream, of solar warmth, finchcolored, meant that it must have been nearing 18:00 hours. But what was time worth, to Noah, who knew no seasons? He looked at his watch. Then he looked at his satchel. Then he looked at his feet. He had no shoes on at the moment. Sometimes he wore leather sandals and sometimes he wore leather boots. “Where am I?” Noah asked himself. “On the path,” he answered. He took the letter he had just written and folded it in three sections. Then he grabbed the green hemp satchel from the ants and got out one white paper envelope and a roll of stamps. He pasted three stamps, priced at $0.53, on the enveloped in the upper right corner. The stamps featured a flag with thirteen stripes (six white and seven red) and fifty stars (upon a blue square in the upper left). “Simon DePauvre, 326 Porto Blvd., Valencia, Spain 38476-00217 88DR” is what he wrote on the envelope. And also, in the upper left corner he wrote “n/a.” Noah had just been taking a break from walking and was eating some spinach that he had found growing out of the ground. This spinach would make Noah muscular and fit for more travels. He really had been on his forest path for twenty-four years. It was sort of a jungle, actually. Maybe even a rainforest. And his time-tracking machine called a watch, affixed to his left wrist, told him to keep walking. So finally he stood up, slipped the letter in the envelope and licked it shut, put it in his bag, zipped it, and swung it onto his back. “All equally to be loved,” he said, turning towards the sunlit future. And then, step, step, step. Now his feet had glamorous new red and blue Air Force One brand basketball sneakers on them. He felt like running! He bolted forth down his path. | | Thursday, December 4th, 2008 | | 1:42 am |
Chapter 1
Valerie walked up each step of the marble staircase with care and dignity. She entered the great revolving door. The lobby into which she entered was draped with maroon bannerflags of musical swagger. This month a Wagner symphony was featured by the Philadelphia Philarmonic Orchestra. One banner celebrated the bicentennial life of the Boston Symphony Hall. This was a valorious construct to bounce the sound of warbling strings, metal tubes, and larynxes into the auditory canals of paying customers, usually well dressed and always magnified. The sound is magnified, that is, not the customers. Unless you count the aperitifs. Boston Symphony Hall was, overall, a swanky joint. Valerie looked up at the bannerflags of maroon. Then she took a left and entered into the elevator alcove. She could have used an apertif. When Valerie had commenced her employment as a part of the permanent office staff of the Boston Symphony Hall, she had frequently started each day of work with a glance into the main auditorium. She liked to take deep inhales of the old oak seating, absorb the deepred cushionage, maybe hum a few notes and hope to hear their reverb. Now Valerie sighed, and then hummed, as she waited for the brass doors to part in front of her eyelids. She hummed “Nice Work If You Can Get It”. Specifically, the piano intro from November 1st, 1937, which had been recorded at another symphony hall, Carnegie Hall, in a nearby city called New York City. While she waited for the elevator a man with a large black case shaped like an upright bass entered the onesame elevator alcove and pressed the down button. Valerie had pressed the up button. After he pressed the button and it lit up with an orange glow, Valerie looked over at him and watched him wipe sweat from his temple. To do this he used a brown handkerchief. He was wearing a tuxedo. Valerie was wearing a turquoise silk scarf that draped her white blouse like bannerflags, and she had a stiff black skirt and some annoying high heels. And sunglasses. The brass doors parted, Valerie got in, and she went up. | | Thursday, November 20th, 2008 | | 5:54 am |
Semi-Charmed Life
I do not Understand What it is I've done wrong Full of holes Check for pulse Blink your eyes One for yes Two for no I have no idea what I am talking about I am trapped in this body and can't get out Oh You killed the sound Removed backbone A pale imitation With the edges Sawn off I have no idea what you are talking about Your mouth moves only with someone's hand up your ass Oh Has the light gone out for you? Because the light's gone for me It is the 21st century It is the 21st century It can follow you like a dog It brought me to my knees They got a skin and they put me in They got a skin and they put me in All the lines wrapped around my face All the lines wrapped around my face And for anyone else to see And for anyone else to see I'm a lie I've seen it coming I've seen it coming I've seen it coming I've seen it coming | | Tuesday, November 11th, 2008 | | 10:24 pm |
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