prolly going to learn the bagpipes now. soz housemates.

unfortunately, every good celtic band is too busy running around windy moors with bonny lasses to build myspace pages, and so i can't prove how nice their music is. so um, IT'S REAL FUCKING NICE. although... i'm concerned that my love for folk music might be slightly in bad faith, because it's the only solid dose of fast-paced-slow-building-major-key-music i will allow myself to listen to/ enjoy without having to be ironic about it. so maybe what i want to tell you all is that, at heart, i love a catchy tune a little more than i love a complex deconstruction of song genres.

after a few hours of bagpipe listening, i watched vertigo. lol at the 50s. also, isn't it amazing that people in old movies all dress like old people do now? ho ho ho GOD I NEVER WANT TO BE OLD. what makes the aged neck so incandescently carmine? explain that one, Darwin. unless it's a defense mechanism, in case they get lost wandering in the traffic and need to be easily seen. clever.

and that's more or less all i have. but, do you see what i'm doing here? posting when i don't even really have anything to post? it's an indication of several things. one of them being that i'm bringing the blog back. that's right, i'm going to make blogging a big thing again, just watch. another thing being that i have... so much uni work to do. if by monday i have nothing overdue, i'm buying bagpipes. or a bouzouki, baby.

We had a rule. Attack,
Attack, back.
Fighting kept us suspended,
A pen over an ending,
A sentence refusing sense,
A court without law.

But you used rhythm against me
After you won words in that poker hand
And all I won were those naked photos.
You turned our fights into rhymes,
You turned your life into moments,
Weak and final.

I wanted infinity and you
Needed an apocalypse
To feel time. But
How can continuity compete,
With something so complete
As a fucking line?

Dada Spam Poem no. 3

Screw her every hole,
Cause I don’t see any changes happening
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee,
And her tears began to flow.

Try it for good luck,
They’ve killed everybody,
Wailed nicholas
in a kinder voice.

In their turn the people sent messengers to the palace;
About your college diploma,
It’s one old jug without a handle
Except now you’re four years older than me

But the Frog and the Fimble Fowl
Ventured upstairs
For the owner of the castle
Swam across the Bristol Channel.