looking rather discombobulated.
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you?
I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee, and
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you?
Well, I hear you went up to Saratoga
And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun
Well, you’re where you should be all the time
And when you’re not, you’re with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend
Wife of a close friend, and
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain (so vain)
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?
Dedicted to Lawz and MusicBoy (who also doesn’t count ‘Honour’ among his many virtues)
Three laptops broken. My flat is a laptop cemetery. This explains why I have been off-line for so long. It’s a disgrace. I should be reported to the RSPCL (the Royalty Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Laptops). ‘You should treat it like a little flower,’ the guy in the repair shop said when I took one in. Someone hand me a bucket. ‘When you pluck a flower from the ground, you turn it into a corpse,’ I told him. I got that odd look I am beginning to find so familiar and, yes, even comforting. I don’t belong. I am different. I am special.
Or maybe I am just deluding myself.
I have a PhD in self-delusion.
And manipulative self-deprecation.
Above and below, a great abyss
The sea and the sky, they unify
They come together to greet me
This is it. I have anticipated it.
The end. My personal precipice
I do not know why but I have always
Longed to fly, to surge though the sky
For I was raised in mountainous country
As close to the clouds as you could get
While still being anchored to the earth
Agape, I traced the shape
Of the stars by night
Of the clouds by day
I wanted to hurl myself
Into that everlasting
Darkness or the everlasting blue
I’d watch the stars stream past
Forming a pattern I could not comprehend
And my last inner visions of those mountains
My last thought is of a village – desolate and decaying
As I plunge into the ocean
Once a combatant, now I capitulate
There is no desolation, no wasteland here
I am what I always wanted to be
A part of the waves; a part of the sea.
I am empty. I have no desires. I do not need 3-D people. In short, I am a professional misanthrope. I want to live in an empty,dark room and stare into nothingness. I want oblivion.
But I am being bombarded by people. I go to work and am assaulted by demands – helping people fill out their benefits forms, on the ‘phone all day to employers, arranging work experience. ‘Give these people a chance. Yes, I know they’re nus. Yes, I know they’ve never done any paid work. But they have potential.’ (It takes some effort to summon up the conviction it takes to utter these words. And when I get home there’s socializing, partying,whatever you want to call it. In these dark days it’s compulsory, apparently. Making ‘witty’ remarks, indulging in bland conversations with people I cannot stand.
It’s all meaningless.
I’ve got to get up and turn off Patch Adams. It’s really pissing me off.
Flossy the Sheep…
An eternal comfort
An eternal memory
I hope you’re reading this…
Mr. Mathmo.
I miss you.
(Sinead O’Connor)
Margareth Thatcher on TV
Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing
It seems strange that she should be offended
The same orders are given by her
I’ve said this before now
You said I was childish and you’ll say it now
“Remember what I told you
If they hated me they will hate you”
England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving
Young mother down at Smithfield
5 am, looking for food for her kids
In her arms she holds three cold babies
And the first word that they learned was “please”
These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave
“Remember what I told you
If you were of the world they would love you”
England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill blacks boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving.
Courtesy of: http://www.lyricscafe.com/o/oconnor_sinead/050.htm
Sailors are mad. It’s official. It came straight from the Neighbourhood Oracle – Doug – himself. In his Uncle Albert mode Doug – ‘During the war…’ (I mean that affectionately. I am fascinated by his war stories. So fascinated, in fact, that I frequently visit him accompanied by by my Ipaq)- told me so. He worked as an auxiliary nurse in the R.A.F. before he joined the Commando Unit and was sent to Sicily. He worked in a military psychiatric hospital and most of his patients were sailors. The worst case he encountered was that of a Swedish sailor who was in the final stages of syphilis who was homicidal and suicidal and heading towards death.
More Tales from the Neighbourhood Oracle to come…
So Sick of Drowning 