:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::17.2.04:: DA SÉRIE: MÚSICAS FOFAS DEMAIS DA CONTA, DOS BEATLES. São muitas. A de hoje é essa aqui. Porque, graças aos céus, guardo boas memórias. Two of Us Lennon/ McCartney Two of us riding nowhere Spending someone's Hard earned pay Two of us Sunday driving Not arriving On our way back home We're on our way home We're on our way home We're going home Two of us sending postcards Writing letters On my wall You and me burning matches Lifting latches On our way back home We're on our way home We're on our way home We're going home You and I have memories Longer than the road that stretches out ahead Two of us wearing raincoats Standing so low In the sun You and me chasing paper Getting nowhere On our way back home We're on our way home We're on our way home We're going home :: Marcia Furriel 1:39 a.m. [+] :: ... Comments: Enviar um comentário

[::..perfil..::] "...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--" DO LIVRO The Subterraneans [::.. perfil sarcástico..::]