Monday, October 31, 2005

how perfectly gorey

want to hear a delightfully spooky story
no one does it better than my main man, edward gorey.
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  • read the whole A to Z of the gashlycrumb tinies
  • and obitchin' obituary about eddy himself
  • Monday, October 17, 2005

    from s.o.s. to w.o.w.

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    you were just what I needed and didn't the cars say that
    And mr darcy aint got nothing on this prejudice and pride
    See, I was too effed to notice that my heart went splat!
    chalk it up to the romance of smoking outside

    same neurosis different faces
    new places, stasis, putting me through the paces
    scenester parties full of blazers and blasé
    more cute hats here than a day at the races
    and sometimes I wonder if I'll emerge ok

    and it was past the fall of folly, the summer of scandal
    stubbing toes on life like I do in sandals
    realizing that I am more than I alone can handle

    and so it was and it was, through a haze of writing
    wistful-- full of it- girl - power - switch!
    caught up in the in-jokes, flirtations, play-fighting
    suddenly it all seemed way less exciting/ inviting
    time to make like muddy road & ditch.

    got a bit lost in the baggage claim
    so full of old moves and new designs
    but worries along with wildness tamed
    and now i sap instead of pine

    and it was past the summer of scandal, the fall of folly
    tumbling head over tails, or was that the stoli
    realizing that life lately more surreal than a Dali

    And now, what what, can't can't figure out
    how to map the months and the days & weeks
    so I'll sit under covers and over any doubt
    and watch 12 hours straight of freaks & geeks.

    and it was far past fall of folly, through the winter of what?
    listening to why? And wondering how I didn't get cut?
    realizing that things can be open even when they seem shut.

  • like that robot? you'll like dis too
  • Saturday, October 15, 2005

    in paris with you

    eyes glazed over, mind in bliss
    how i wish i'd written this.
    but if i said i wrote it, i'd be a lyin' skid
    'cause the wonderful james fenton did.
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    in paris with you.

    don't talk to me of love. i've had an earful
    and i get tearful when i've downed a drink or two.
    i'm one of your talking wounded.
    i'm a hostage. i'm maroonded.
    but i'm in paris with you.

    yes i'm angry at the way i've been bamboozled
    and resentful at the mess that i've been through
    i admit i'm on the rebound
    and i don't care where we are bound.
    i'm in paris with you.

    do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
    If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
    If we skip the Champs Elysees
    And remain here in this sleazy
    Old hotel room
    Doing this and that
    To what and whom
    Learning who you are,
    Learning what I am.

    Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
    the little bit of Paris in our view.
    There's that crack across the ceiling
    And the hotel walls are peeling
    And I'm in Paris with you.

    Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
    I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
    I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
    I'm in Paris with... all points south.
    Am I embarassing you?
    I'm in Paris with you.
    -- James Fenton

    Tuesday, October 11, 2005


    Ah, Semiotics, how you opened my eyes
    how you defied the norms, how you tore down the wall
    I got a degree in poking holes in the whats and the whys
    the result? I learned everything about nothing at all.

    Shall i show you my very best attempt at a Barthes-wheel?
    or would a quick Lacan-can round the room suffice --
    i could tell you how sex and death gave birth to the high heel,
    or lecture you on racial symbolism of soy sauce on rice.

    On any topic, no matter how silly, i'll happily wax synthetic
    postmodernism? poststructuralism? post cerealism?
    don't get me started
    'cause my nonsensical ramble doubles as an anaesthetic
    See, i'm one hundred and thousand percent Baudrilltarded.

    Ah, Semiotics, how you now give me pause
    though looking back my mind and heart they do flutter
    Four years i dedicated to your most unworthy cause
    and still your theories make me stutter.

    Monday, October 03, 2005

    thanksgiving literary stylees

    in a world of bad bad bad (not bad-ass, just bad) writing, let's give thanks for the good good gooders.

  • thanks for sole-soothing streams of anticon-sciousness

  • merci pour le clever words that help me cope

  • praise heavens i got me something to re-joyce about