R.I.P. To Everyone Who Died This Week
Tags: Death, music video, the dead
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Meta
RIP to everyone who died ever
and to everyone who ever will die…
rip in advance to george ‘sell my baby’ lucas
The youtube tags are like caviar.
RIP to everyone who died ever
and to everyone who ever will die…
rip in advance to george ‘sell my baby’ lucas
Guys, “RIP” is not like a salutation.
The youtube tags are like caviar.
lol funniest shit i’ve read all week
Guys, “RIP” is not like a salutation.
Peter Orlovsky died. He was a friend of my mother’s, Ginsberg’s boyfriend, and would throw me up in the air when I was a wee lad. Maybe not all that famous, but a big influence on a lot of people (including folks who read this blog I would guess if indirectly).
Instead of resting in peace though, I’d hope they would be reborn in a nice place. Eternal peace sounds rather boring.
lol funniest shit i’ve read all week
Peter Orlovsky died. He was a friend of my mother’s, Ginsberg’s boyfriend, and would throw me up in the air when I was a wee lad. Maybe not all that famous, but a big influence on a lot of people (including folks who read this blog I would guess if indirectly).
Instead of resting in peace though, I’d hope they would be reborn in a nice place. Eternal peace sounds rather boring.
one time i saw george lucas order a latte and tip the barista a crisp twenty, it was like watching a klimt being unpainted
the view counter is like the fight in that abandoned castle at the climax of karate kid 2
RIP RIP
maybe heaven exists if you have faith in it
i googled him & found this poem
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking “Do you have bigger tears
then I do?”
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
one time i saw george lucas order a latte and tip the barista a crisp twenty, it was like watching a klimt being unpainted
the view counter is like the fight in that abandoned castle at the climax of karate kid 2
RIP RIP
maybe heaven exists if you have faith in it
i googled him & found this poem
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking “Do you have bigger tears
then I do?”
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
He wrote a book called Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs, maybe that is where this is from.
Kazuo Ohno, guys.
http://xthirdfacex.blogspot.com/2010/06/dancer-of-darkness.html
Heaven, really?
I like the echo on the verses and the psychedelic overlays, Mark. Are you on the West Coast? We should “jaaaam,” man.
He wrote a book called Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs, maybe that is where this is from.
Kazuo Ohno, guys.
http://xthirdfacex.blogspot.com/2010/06/dancer-of-darkness.html
Heaven, really?
I like the echo on the verses and the psychedelic overlays, Mark. Are you on the West Coast? We should “jaaaam,” man.
yeah i think whatever you believe in has a way of becoming true, for better or worse
would love to jam, but i live on the west coast of massachusetts
yeah i think whatever you believe in has a way of becoming true, for better or worse
would love to jam, but i live on the west coast of massachusetts
In some ways I’m with you, Mark. I believe prayer works in some cases b/c it taps into the collective belief (conscious intention) of so many people, and given the sheer numbers, say, of folks praying to Catholic saints, certain “miracles” do sometimes manifest. I’ve seen them. It’s freaky, unexplainable any other way, I’m convinced.
Western Mass, erg. Some day, if we belieeeeeeve…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEqb3qmU3h0
“And every liquor store in Compton sold out the day Eazy dropped…”
In some ways I’m with you, Mark. I believe prayer works in some cases b/c it taps into the collective belief (conscious intention) of so many people, and given the sheer numbers, say, of folks praying to Catholic saints, certain “miracles” do sometimes manifest. I’ve seen them. It’s freaky, unexplainable any other way, I’m convinced.
Western Mass, erg. Some day, if we belieeeeeeve…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEqb3qmU3h0
“And every liquor store in Compton sold out the day Eazy dropped…”
hell yeah
hell yeah