my hair would turn brittle, limp, it would die at my shoulders. the skies would rain death, and my eyes would cry blood. and I could feel. I could feel the harsh and uncomfortable fabric of carpet under the soft soles of my feet. but I wouldn’t see its color…-e.v.
if you end up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom,...– zappa
safe sex, safe music, safe clothing, safe hairspray, safe ozone layer…too...– lemmy
in my dreams the world would come alive, become so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
She’s in her room. The bedspread, white, and the soft cushions on which she rests her head, bright red. The morning light creeps through the window and her heavy eyes break open slowly, stinging from the harsh wind that hit her face the night before. But she smiles, even though the corners of her eyes are sticky and her pillow’s stained with make-up. He lies next to her, and he’s still asleep. His...
to some i’m a junkie madman who should be dead, and to others i’m a...– k.richards
[time can bring you down, time can bend your knees]
my God is rock n roll. it’s an obscure power that can change your life....– lou reed
my own words
You must get out, get out, get out. “I always knew she was unusual.” There’s this lump in my throat—stuck, and my fingers won’t move. I’m constantly uncomfortable, shifting my weight from side to side. My neck will crack three times a day, and I’ll roll over on my back and snap, and snap. My eyes tear up and it hurts to even open them when I wake up each morning. My nails bend, weak, and I dye...
it’s the sense of touch. in any real city, you walk, you know? you brush past people, people bump into you. in L.A., nobody touches you. we’re always behind this metal and glass. i think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.
it’s funny though, isn’t it? all that poetry and all those songs,...– ‘an education’ on sex.
we pass the billboard on Sunset. Disappear Here. wonder if he’s for sale.
“God is gonna get you, God is gonna get you,” and then, louder, “father, father, father,” and the little boy who has eaten the pack of butter is pointing at his father, eyes wide, tiny mouth parted, looking up at him for guidance. The father belches, pulls out another Parliament, lights the cigarette then looks at me and he’s not bad looking.