Stumbling out of my dorm this morn'in, I was engulfed by a wave of sultry air that reminded me of a handshake with carbon monoxide. If I desired to live in a jungle-like climate, I would move to Burma. Why has the Northernly breeze and permafrost abandoned me? How does one prepare for the upcoming foliage (safe word) and the pounding sunbeams saturating the pale and fleshy?
Perhaps my journey into the chick incubator was a dreary dream; my senses have abandoned me too. I am afflicted with some strange pestilence that is massacring some of my favourite blood cells. Accursed be you acute coryza or Irukandji Syndrome! or whatever you are. I adore suffering and you fill my heart up like a landfill. I would elaborate on my plagues but that would maudlin and I've no desire to babble about Radiohead B-sides or Luc Besson.
My only bandaid is Marissa Nadler, and oh, she is a butterfly bandaid! Ethereal and dreamy her neo-folk heroin injects me with profound pleasures like these:
I know that I'm glad to see you
Even though you're comin' home
In a box of cedar
Shannadee- ah dee ah dee
No, Nadler, no; please don't be my undertaker.
I'll just wait for the train to the other world.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment