I am bad. I can sing. My number is 83. Starlight Express. Mono recordings of my sleep patterns. Josie. The ‘Sippi Hole. Spurt. Tab Cola. Mumps. Knee-high white sports socks. National Geographic World (kids’ version). Maps of Mexico. Yucatan. A shiny red bicycle with a rear reflector the size of a saucepan. Nissan cars with brake lights like hot plates. She went out with me but we never spoke. I didn’t kiss her at the Blue Light. I once overheard. Speedos. Behind the scenes at the Arcadia film clip. Money for Nothing headband. Seven Seas Stamps. Magic tricks. Sea Monkeys suck. Richie Rich comics. Caspar, where are you now. We need. I am Sting on the cover of Dream of the Blue Turtles. Dream of the Blue Pipe Cleaners. Compton’s encyclopedia. Minus Volume A. Tubular Bells. Sky. Kate Ceberano. Young Boys Are Her Weakness. That’s why.
So… it’s YOU.. you’re the one responsible for:
/cue music/
“I’m your Private Poet, a poet for money.”
… now I know who to blame for the head-phuck that happens everytime I hear that song on Gold 104 and I cannot _not_ think of you Clint, singing that song, spinning around on that rooftop somewhere… forever it will haunt me… forever you will haunt me…
Tina Turner would be rolling in her grave if she was dead. ;-) xx
25 June 2005 at 6:10 am