November 2011
“What was she for Halloween? The ugliest girl you’ve ever seen. Someday she will die alone.”
—~ Old Age, Hole.
October 2011
Cicadas And Gulls
Feist
Cicadas and Gulls-Feist
I am the call of the heartless,
the heart full,
alone, alone, alone, I say,
please don’t dredge my heart from the sea,
let it die,
let it have its time to bleed,
the cavernous thing smells of rot,
bloated corpse too tired to dig itself a grave
hollow is what it wants
let the love drain out
for the lover is too weak
to carry such a load.
let me be hollow
let me rip apart
give me the sadness
and your wounds
and let me leave.
“I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.”
—Sylvia Plath (via thechocolatebrigade)
Play
just waking up hurts
Love in a Cold Climate | Vanity Fair (full article) →
vanityfair.com
We’re speeding through the English countryside, Courtney Love and I, on our way to the Glorious Goodwood Ball. It’s an annual event that takes place at 314-year-old Goodwood House, seat of the Dukes of Richmond; our host will be Charles Gordon-Lennox, the Earl of March and Kinrara. “We’ve been extended to the house,” Courtney says with a triumphant gleam. “We’re being butled.” Sitting beside me on the backseat, Courtney is long and lean and iconic-looking, with an energy about her that crackles like a jolt of electroshock; she’s wearing oversize sunglasses, slacks, heels, and a vintage peach bed jacket with shoulder pads she worries makes her look “too Mommie Dearest. ”
“Teenage Kicks” by the Undertones, the 70s pop-punk band, is playing on the radio. Courtney asks her driver to turn it up. “That’s what I love about this country—they love their music,” she says. “My plan to make it was always about getting in through the back door here.” Pretty on the Inside (1991), her band Hole’s first album, topped the charts in the U.K. before anywhere else; the U.K. music press loved her brash style and sardonic wit.
Now, 20 years later, Courtney has been talking of her desire to marry into the British aristocracy and become “Lady Love.” She’s developed a fascination with the royals and keeps a worn copy of Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage on her coffee table in New York. “I’m sick of dating people who are poorer than me,” she says, by way of explaining her sudden interest in becoming a character out of Henry James. “It would be really nice if someone I dated had really great lawyers. Johnny Pigozzi”—the Italian multi-millionaire—“[jokingly] said, ‘We should get married, ’cause you’re only two lawyers away from being richer than me.’ ”
(Read the rest at Vanity Fair)
Heartlines (Acoustic)
Florence and The Machine
Heartlines (Acoustic)-Florence and The Machine
“But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.”
—Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid (via alchemy)
“And all I wanna know is,
is it okay?
is it just fine?
or is it my fault?
my lack?” —
is it okay?
is it just fine?
or is it my fault?
my lack?” —
“
I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you vomit them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.
Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.
Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won’t even
drive a car again and all of that.
When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?
I’ll work nights.
I’ll dance in the city.
I’ll wear red for a burning.
I’ll look at the Charles very carefully,
wearing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there’ll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by
Play
Listen
hole - dying.
Play
“
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission —
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound —
for the burying of her small red wound alive —
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call —
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
knives fly at my back
from the one
I once loved,
he and his nameless redhead
have plotted my death,
have plundered what was once mine,
the once good,
the once hopeful—
all of my pretty things have been rotted through,
carrion lining my streets,
smothering me,
turning me to limp, spoiled meat.
*
he and his woman
live in my house now,
living my life like man and wife—
she dresses in my clothes, my skin,
but she wears them well,
better.
he gifts her with his hands, his lips—
things that once belonged to me,
that I used to love,
but can never have again.
*
and I,
I writhe alone in the dark,
watching as my love dies slowly,
counting every drop as it drains from me,
hour by hour
it is siphoned from my veins,
snatched away from me by the two of them,
they storm in to rape and pillage me nightly,
setting fire to all that was good,
leaving me skeletal
and pale.
*
something that was once precious
once sacred,
once my savior,
is now the poison my body rejects.
“This hatred overtook me, and I couldn’t help myself. I wanted so much to forget the past, but it wouldn’t go away, it hung around like an open wound that refused to scar over, an open window that no amount of muscle could shut.”
—Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation
“Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.” —Nina Cassian, Lady of Miracles
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.” —Nina Cassian, Lady of Miracles
“Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.” —Sylvia Plath, Lesbos
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.” —Sylvia Plath, Lesbos
I’d put a match to your skin,
watch you erupt in bloody flames—
the beautiful plains
of your guilty face,
the scent of your cheekbones
as they combust,
your iron heart turns to rust
*
I am your judge
your jury
your victim
your jailer
your lover
*
I’ll hang you both with her red hair.
“If you treat a girl like a dog, she is going to piss on you.”
—~ Courtney Love (via terradoll)
my sunny,
sunny dream
doesn’t match up
to our reality.
did you kiss her?
did you like it?
you did,
i know you did—
you loved her,
your prize,
your little red lie.
*
with your slippery
lying tongue
dug deep in her mouth,
buried safely away from me,
you broke all that was good.
