Chelsea Hotel

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet,
giving me head on the unmade bed,
while the limousines wait in the street.
Those were the reasons and that was New York,
we were running for the money and the flesh.
And that was called love for the workers in song
probably still is for those of them left.
Ah but you got away, didn't you babe,
you just turned your back on the crowd,
you got away, I never once heard you say,
I need you, I don't need you,
I need you, I don't need you
and all of that jiving around.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, "Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music."

And then you got away, didn't you babe...

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best,
I can't keep track of each fallen robin.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
that's all, I don't even think of you that often.

Death of a ladies man is a terrible album. The music completely ruins a decent set of poems. What a waste of a download. However New Skin for the Old Ceremony makes me very happy. Chelsea Hotel :)

This probably is my favourite bit from the book -

"People have stars, but they aren't the same...
.... You, though, you'll have stars like nobody else."

"What do you mean?"

"When you look up at the sky at night, since I'll be living on one of them, since I'll be laughing on one of them, for you, it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. You'll have stars that can laugh!"

And he laughed again.

"And when you're consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you'll be glad you've known me.
You'll always be my friend. You'll feel like laughing with me.
And you'll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it... And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you're looking up at the sky.
Then you'll tell them, 'Yes, it's the stars. They always make me laugh!"

Fluid and smoke. Fluid and smoke. Fluid and smoke.
I am so full of shit. I'm ashamed of my behaviour.

Two very different poems by William Blake.

The Angel that presided o'er my birth said,
"Little creature form'd of Joy & Mirth,
Go Love without the help of any
Thing on Earth."

*

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.

I feel hypocritical saying I want to write long letters. I do, I just can't seem to bring myself to. I know a beautiful girl who makes the most ridiculous faces in all her photographs. She probably doesn't mean to but she either chews on her lower lip or her smiles always look artificial. Of all the things I will miss once the next two months end, I will miss spending winter afternoons, sitting on the sidewalk, smoking with N the most. It's engrained so deeply and perfectly in my mind I probably will want to paint the scene when I'm 60. I'm done liking white flowers, I've decided I want my flowers with colour. One thing that I really wish I had the time to do is gardening. Given my way I'd grow yellow flowers the size of a baby's head and tiny purple blossoms. I want obscene shades of red and a violent orange. I want a garden that looks like a gunshot. Unfortunately, since this would require tending to during the day it might just forever remain a pipe dream. However much I love the idea of dirt and green velvety stalks with delicate tendrils, mornings are not a big part of my activities. If not gardening, perhaps I will get some scratchy paper and a bottle of green ink and practice my cursive writing. I will listen to Leonard Cohen all throughout and grow old learning his words by heart and taking them far too seriously. In so many ways the things that I choose to do are completely wrong for me. I love the very notion of carefully chosen words and images becoming the substance my bones are made of. My hair has grown long and secretly I itch for hacking it all off myself. My old bones will be a moor of deep blues and melancholy greens.

Today is just the kind of day where you wake up wanting to listen to Pretty Vegas followed by Kielbasa.