If our darling Rev. doesn't play these tonight I think I might just cry.
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Friday, 30 December 2011
She ain't "da" one.
Dear me, I have always had a soft spot for Rihanna (a trait certainly appreciated by the ex manwithcatwithbeard) but I just don't get how she is capable to lower herself so far to release a track named You Da One. It's actually despicable, disgusting and pretty much abhorent. And, it's just gross as an entire track when you listen to the pathetic lyrics, and the shabby production.
Also, I don't believe the she can even pull of the blonde haired bob she sports in the video. What a crying shame, silly girl.
Messtivals
I miss messy festivals and fields and mud and cows and boys in bands and tents and picnics so freakin' much.
When what hugs stopping earth than silent is
More silent than more than much more is or
Total sun oceaning than any this
Tear jumping from each most least eye of star
And without was if minus and shall be
Immeasurable happenless unnow
Shuts more than open could that every tree
Or than all life more death begins to grow
End's ending then these dolls of joy and grief
These recent memories of future dream
These perhaps who have lost their shadows if
Which did not do the losing spectres mime
Until out of merely not nothing comes
Only one snowflake and we speak our names
- Edward Estlin Cummings
Thursday, 29 December 2011
What are you doing New Years Eve?
Well, I'm gonna be making out like a mad dog with The Old Maid. Yeah, that's right guys - GIRLS LIKE TO KISS EACH OTHER (but we prefer kissing Joseph Gordon-Levitt types so get yourselves down there boys and pucker on up).
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
What's a girl to do?
night in on my tod. what to do?
well, there's that film with aggy and cher, what's it called? oh
yeah, Burlesque, that i'm gonna sit down and watch all by
myself. in fact, i'm nearly half way through it already.
well, there's that film with aggy and cher, what's it called? oh
yeah, Burlesque, that i'm gonna sit down and watch all by
myself. in fact, i'm nearly half way through it already.
whoops..
Monday, 26 December 2011
Comfort Blanket
My adopted twin sister, the Penny to my Lainne, does just this with her eyes. It's almost like a comfort blanket, keeps her calm in times of need.
Clearly, they are destined to be together - watch this space for a wedding-shaped blog post...
The song for the soul mate who isn't yet mine
I'm slowly counting down the days 'til I finally know your name.
Oh, the way your hand feels round my waist,
The way you laugh, the way your kisses taste.
I've missed you, but I haven't met you.
Oh, but I want to. Oh, how I do...
Don't go without me
My dad bought my mum the gorgeous debut album that this beautiful track is from, Barton Hollow, for Christmas. They're a very well received duo who go by the name The Civil Wars and who who, in this song at least, are singing more about death than life. More about heartbreak than love. More about Hell than Heaven, "or somewhere in between"...
"It's life, it's death." What a factually accurate song. And stunningly lovely too.
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Best Day Of My Year
postchristmasmealchristmasdaywalkwithmotherinabrightbluepaperchristmashat.postchristmasdaywalkslumpwithfriendsmarathonsandnewandoldmoviesgalore.lovejamesfrancoalmosttoomuch.abucketofrosesnearlyconsumed.slightlygoldenblackpeartartsoontobeconsmed,alongwiththestandardchristmasdaysupperofmocrowavedchinese,tepidmashedpotatoand,ofcourse,cheeseontoastwithlotsofworcestershiresauce.toogoodnotto.merrychristmaskids.
Happy Hammy Messy Merry Christmasy Christ-mess.
champagneglassesofchilledbucksfizzaplenty.blinisto
come,ofcourse.presentsopenedmerrily.andmerrychrist
masesforyouall,reall
come,ofcourse.presentsopenedmerrily.andmerrychrist
masesforyouall,reall
Friday, 23 December 2011
Tonight is tonight is tonight, part one
Tonight the Loyal Minder is taking her Old Maid out on the town. Let's see if the purpose of this entire mess of a blog is possible...
Home is home is home, part one
So, being the kind of girl who hasn't ironed a piece of clothing (let alone a borrowed shirt of beautiful washed-out very creased denim) since before I left school, I had to ask my poor mother how to use her bizarre new contraption that is called something unpronounceable and seems to breath steam and smoke when you press the on button.
My little sister found the entire conversation hilarious.
My little sister found the entire conversation hilarious.
It's that Christmas Morning Kiss
We were looking at the bed
Wondering if any other colours
Matched any of the names we knew on the tags
Yyou said "See look that's yours
Stacked on top with your brother's.
See how they resemble one another
Even in their little plastic covers."
And I say "I know it well"
That secret that you know
That you don't know how to tell
It fucks with your honour
And it teases your head
But you know that it's good, girl
'Cos it's running you with red
Then the snow started fallin'
We were stuck out in your car
You were rubbing both my hands
Chewin' on a candy bar
You said "it's just like the present
To be showin' up like this
As a moon wanted to crescent
We started to kiss
And I said "I know it well"
That secret that we know
That we don't know how to tell
I'm in love with your honour
I'm in love with your cheeks.
What's the noise up that stairs, babe?
Is that Christmas morning creaks?
And "I know it well.
I know it well.
I know it well.
I know it well."
Epistle To My Brother George
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.
But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.
These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.
These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.
But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.
These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.
These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
- John Keats; 1795-1821
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now, at once adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
...
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now, at once adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
...
- John Keats; 1795-1821
Dedication To Leigh Hunt, Esq.
Glory and loveliness have pass'd away;
For if we wander out in early morn,
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these,
And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time, when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
For if we wander out in early morn,
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these,
And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time, when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
- John Keats; 1795-1821
Bright Star
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
- John Keats; 1795-1821
Thursday, 22 December 2011
A cheap dig at the Middle-class Mansion
The irony is it's not about giving is it? It's really all about buying.
- Mama Theokritoff, Christmas time, 2011
Some questions...
So, as I sit here, inhaling pistachios and being mildly if not entirely infuriated over a boy hardly worth my time, my frustrations have poured out over the pages of my owl-covered notebook. "Is it time to share them?" I ask myself.
And you know what, I think it is...
How is it possible that each and every time the right track finds my feet,
Each time I take a step and need not falter furthermore,
How is it possible for such chaotic mess to come here, to me, to meet?
How is it even reality for everything to feel so wrong in my life,
For no reason, no rhyme, no beat and no song?
How is it reality for this to become merely trouble, trouble and strife?
How do I hear things from people's cruel cutting tongues and take them so deeply to heart?
How do the words of one never as fine as those ones in my past,
How do they cut me so deeply, how do they twist me, to play that ever predictable part?
How do I fall so swiftly below the fingertips of a loving lover's liar's lie?
How do I descend beneath their words until I myself am nigh?
And you know what, I think it is...
How is it possible that each and every time the right track finds my feet,
Each time I take a step and need not falter furthermore,
How is it possible for such chaotic mess to come here, to me, to meet?
How is it even reality for everything to feel so wrong in my life,
For no reason, no rhyme, no beat and no song?
How is it reality for this to become merely trouble, trouble and strife?
How do I hear things from people's cruel cutting tongues and take them so deeply to heart?
How do the words of one never as fine as those ones in my past,
How do they cut me so deeply, how do they twist me, to play that ever predictable part?
How do I fall so swiftly below the fingertips of a loving lover's liar's lie?
How do I descend beneath their words until I myself am nigh?
When are you coming home?
Fuck knows how I came across this, but it's rather terrific.
"You won't get far from where you started.
We're coming through your front door.
Home is where your heart is
This just makes you acceptable targets.
Let's all play a part in the dearly departed."
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Night Night Life
bathtime.valiumtime.teatime.booktime.readtime.
writetime.fagtime.anotherteatime.bedtime.
writetime.fagtime.anotherteatime.bedtime.
Guardian Top 40
So below is the Guardina Music's Top 40 songs of the year list. Every video I've linked underneath is my own personal but public nod of agreement with their choices. Enjoy. It's a fucking good and highly appropriate list to sum up this shambles of a year.
Happy 2011 kids, happy 2011...
1 Lana Del Rey – Video Games
2 Azealia Banks – 212
3 Tyler, the Creator – Yonkers
4 Joe Goddard – Gabriel ft Valentina
5 Frank Ocean – Swim Good
6 Nicki Minaj – Super Bass
7 Beyoncé – Countdown
8 Adele – Rolling in the Deep (Jamie xx Remix)
9 Rihanna – We Found Love
10 A$AP Rocky – Peso
11 Tune-Yards – Bizness
12 PJ Harvey – The Words That Maketh Murder
13 St Vincent – Surgeon
14 Nicola Roberts – Dance to the Beat of My Drum
15 Battles – Ice Cream
16 Gang Gang Dance – Glass Jar
17 Michael Kiwanuka – I'm Getting Ready
18 Lady Gaga – Born This Way
19 Anna Calvi – Blackout
20 Cults – Go Outside
21 Wilco – One Sunday Morning
22 Junior Boys – Banana Ripple
23 Lykke Li – Sadness Is a Blessing
24 Drake ft Rihanna – Take Care
25 Metronomy – The Look
26 Willy Moon – I Wanna Be Your Man
27 Rustie – Ultra Thizz
28 James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream
29 The Horrors – Still Life
30 Beyoncé – 1+1
31 Jamie xx and Gil Scott Heron – I'm New Here
32 lll Blu – Meltdown
33 Cloud Nothings – Heartbeat
34 Maria Minerva – A Little Lonely
35 Machine Head – Darkness Within
36 Diddy Dirty Money – Coming Home
37 June Tabor & Oysterband – Fountains Flowing
38 Radiohead – Morning Mr Magpie
39 Canibus – Brainwash Reversal Remix
40 King Krule – Bleak Bake
Happy 2011 kids, happy 2011...
1 Lana Del Rey – Video Games
2 Azealia Banks – 212
3 Tyler, the Creator – Yonkers
5 Frank Ocean – Swim Good
6 Nicki Minaj – Super Bass
8 Adele – Rolling in the Deep (Jamie xx Remix)
11 Tune-Yards – Bizness
12 PJ Harvey – The Words That Maketh Murder
14 Nicola Roberts – Dance to the Beat of My Drum
15 Battles – Ice Cream
16 Gang Gang Dance – Glass Jar
17 Michael Kiwanuka – I'm Getting Ready
18 Lady Gaga – Born This Way
19 Anna Calvi – Blackout
20 Cults – Go Outside
21 Wilco – One Sunday Morning
22 Junior Boys – Banana Ripple
23 Lykke Li – Sadness Is a Blessing
26 Willy Moon – I Wanna Be Your Man
27 Rustie – Ultra Thizz
28 James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream
30 Beyoncé – 1+1
31 Jamie xx and Gil Scott Heron – I'm New Here
32 lll Blu – Meltdown
33 Cloud Nothings – Heartbeat
34 Maria Minerva – A Little Lonely
35 Machine Head – Darkness Within
36 Diddy Dirty Money – Coming Home
37 June Tabor & Oysterband – Fountains Flowing
38 Radiohead – Morning Mr Magpie
39 Canibus – Brainwash Reversal Remix
40 King Krule – Bleak Bake
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