trágicos domingos

um dia vou arrepender-me do tempo que perdi a ter pena de mim própria.

Afinal é com dois t's

Nick Cave - The Curse Of Millhaven

I live in a town called Millhaven
And it's small and it's mean and it's cold
But if you come around just as the sun goes down
You can watch the whole town turn to gold
It's around about then that I used to go a-roaming
Singing La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they all gotta die
My name is Loretta but I prefer Lottie
I'm closing in on my fifteenth year
And if you think you have seen a pair of eyes more green
Then you sure didn't see them around here
My hair is yellow and I'm always a-combing
La la la la La la la lie
Mama often told me we all got to die
You must have heard about
The Curse Of Millhaven
How last Christmas Bill Blake's little boy didn't come home
They found him next week in One Mile Creek
His head bashed in and his pockets full of stones
Well, just imagine all the wailing and moaning
La la la la La la la lie
Even little Billy Blake's boy, he had to die
Then Professor O'Rye from Millhaven High
Found nailed to his door his prize-winning terrier
Then next day the old fool brought little Biko to school
And we all had to watch as he buried her
His eulogy to Biko had all the tears a-flowing
La la la la La la la lie
Even God's little creatures, they have to die
Our little town fell into a state of shock
A lot of people were saying things that made little sense
Then the next thing you know the head of Handyman Joe
Was found in the fountain of the Mayor's residence
Foul play can really get a small town going
La la la la La la la lie
Even God's children all have to die
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, old Mrs Colgate
Was stabbed but the job was not complete
The last thing she said before the cops pronounced her dead
Was, "My killer is Loretta and she lives across the street!"
Twenty cops burst through my door without even phoning
La la la la La la la lie
The young ones, the old ones, they all gotta die
Yes, it is I, Lottie. The Curse Of Millhaven
I've struck horror in the heart of this town
Like my eyes ain't green and my hair ain't yellow
It's more like the other way around
I gotta pretty little mouth underneath all the foaming
La la la la La la la lie
Sooner or later we all gotta die
Since I was no bigger than a weavil they've been saying I was evil
That if "bad" was a boot that I'd fit it
That I'm a wicked young lady, but I've been trying hard lately
O fuck it! I'm a monster! I admit it!
It makes me so mad my blood really starts a-going
La la la la La la la lie
Mama always told me that we all gotta die
Yeah, I drowned the Blakey kid, stabbed Mrs. Colgate, I admit
Did the handyman with his circular saw in his garden shed
But I never crucified little Biko, that was two junior high school psychos
Stinky Bohoon and his friend with the pumpkin-sized head
I'll sing to the lot, now you got me going
La la la la La la la lie
All God's children have all gotta die
There were all the others, all our sisters and brothers
You assumed were accidents, best forgotten
Recall the children who broke through the ice on Lake Tahoo?
Everyone assumed the "Warning" signs had followed them to the bottom
Well, they're underneath the house where I do quite a bit of stowing
La la la la La la la lie
Even twenty little children, they had to die
And the fire of '91 that razed the Bella Vista slum
There was the biggest shit-fight this country's ever seen
Insurance companies ruined, land lords getting sued
All cause of wee girl with a can of gasoline
Those flames really roared when the wind started blowing
La la la la La la la lie
Rich man, poor man, all got to die
Well I confessed to all these crimes and they put me on trial
I was laughing when they took me away
Off to the asylum in an old black MariahI
t ain't home, but you know, it's fucking better than jail
It ain't such bad old place to have a home in
La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they all gotta die
Now I got shrinks that will not rest with their endless Rorschach tests
I keep telling them they're out to get me
They ask me if I feel remorse and I answer, "Why of course!There is so much more I could have done if they'd let me!"
So it's Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy
Singing La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they all have to die
La la la la La la la lie
I'm happy as a lark and everything is fine
Singing La la la la La la la lieYeah, everything is groovy and everything is fine
Singing La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they gotta die



A murder ballad typically recounts the details of a mythic or true crime — who the victim is, why the murderer decides to kill him or her, how the victim is lured to the murder site and the act itself — followed by the escape and/or capture of the murderer. Often the ballad ends with the murderer in jail or on their way to the gallows, occasionally with a plea for the listener not to copy the evils committed by the singer.
Some murder ballads tell the story from the point of view of the murderer, or attempt to portray the murderer in a somewhat sympathetic light... Wikipedia

E para hoje...

I propose a toast to my self control

You see it crawling helpless on the floor

All Music, No Dogma

"The first poster says "Black people are the future of music.” The second: “Hard Rock is the Real Cultural revolution,” and the last one explains: “I bless America for Rock ‘n Roll.""

Roubado daqui:

http://www.fabrica.it/blog/

Diário da minha dor de corno #3

És uma merda. Andei tanto tempo à espera de alguma coisa de ti. E agora, quando eu me estava a habituar aos silêncios, às tuas ausências, a não sorrir à tua lembrança e a não poder dizer o teu nome... Vai-te foder sim? Não me dizes nada de jeito, não me procuras, não mudou nada. Porque há muito não me ouvias pedir, apareceste outra vez só em jeito de "estou aqui, não estejas tu a pensar esquecer-te de mim, a atrever-te a refazer a tua vida".

E têm erros, as mensagens. Continuas pouco esperto.

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Depois de seis meses sem fazer nada, de uma actividade cerebral no limite do coma, dou por mim a dois dias de recomeçar a trabalhar. Odeio trabalhar e acho que sou incompetente.

Fantasies about...

Vi-te sair do comboio. Vinhas de óculos escuros mas reconheci-te das fotos por causa do cabelo. Fiz-te logo sinal por isso não sei se também me reconheceste. Cumprimentámo-nos e eu ri e disse uns disparates, sempre nervosamente. Não me lembro se nessa altura cheguei a sentir o teu cheiro. Pusemos o teu saco no meu carro e perguntei-te onde querias ir. Respondeste-me que eu é que sabia. Eu é que era de cá, eu é que conhecia os sítios. "Sim, mas tu é que sabes se te apetece comer qualquer coisa, se queres descansar, se queres ir a algum sítio". Disseste: "Quero fazer amor contigo já". "Então vamos para o teu quarto." Metemo-nos no carro. Não me tocaste na mão, nem ao de leve no cabelo. Entrámos como se fossemos velhos conhecidos com um destino banalíssimo. Perguntaste-me se não me surpreendeu o que disseste. "Acho que já nos conhecemos suficientemente bem". Sugeri que parássemos antes. Comprar uma garrafa de vinho, por exemplo. Água. Não tinha ido preparada, por isso também uma escova de dentes. Na área de serviço peguei numa embalagem de toalhetes, daqueles para tirar a maquilhagem e fiz uma piada. Outra piada nervosa "com isto, amanhã acordas ao meu lado e apanhas um susto". E nessa altura, se calhar para me calar, é que me agarraste e me beijaste. E senti tudo o que uma pessoa que é beijada por ti pela primeira vez deveria sentir.


Fantasias são isso mesmo. Irrealizadas/irrealizáveis. De outro modo podem tornar-se muitas vezes desagradáveis, ao contrário do seu objectivo inicial. Não seguem normas morais nem sociais. Isto para os que possam ter fantasias, ou, mais ainda, para quem possa sentir-se alvo delas