I loves you, Chan






---> Cat Power <---



Empty Shell

All that is left is an empty shell
Of my heart that is crushed
I don't never wanna see
What my mind has seen
When you loved me
Every night every night alone with you
Every night alone now

When she sits on your lap
Try to pretend to laugh
When she does stupid things
Just like I used to do
Do not hate her
Don't you even try
For to leave her is to love her
The same as you and I
I love you
And I miss you too
I really do love you
And I really do miss you too

But I don't know you
And I don't need you
And I don't want you anymore anymore

Every night every night alone with you
Every night alone now






Good Woman

I want to be a good woman
And I want, for you to be a good man
This is why I will be leaving
And this is why, I can’t see you no more
I will miss your heart so tender
And I will love
This love forever

I don’t want be a bad woman
And I can’t stand to see you be a bad man
I will miss your heart so tender
And I will love
This love forever
And this is why I am leaving
And this is why I can’t see you no more
This is why I am lying when I say
That I don’t love you no more

'Cause I want (to) be a good woman
And I want for you to be a good man







Baby Doll

Baby
Black, black, black is all you see
Don't you want to be free?
Baby
Red, red fire is what you breathe
Don't you want to be clean?
Honey, the shape you're in
Is worth every dime you spent
Baby Doll
Turn out the lights
Set yourself on fire
Say goodnight
Did you have a real cool time?
Baby
Black, black, black is all you see
Don't you want to be free?

*fuck christmas,
I've got the blues*







no pun intended. it's just
The Legendary Tigerman.

Merry Christmas Y'all!

© lbs 2006

Bodily Functions Moleskine

© lbs 2006


+



The Woman Who Could Not Live with Her Faulty Heart

I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All heart float in their own
deep oceans of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart's
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitous,
though no twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don't want, I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child's fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don't want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.

Margaret Atwood



------------------------------------
courtesy of Lebre do Arrozal.

Dos subterrâneos #1

© lbs 2006



este post deveria ser dedicado à galinhola. porque há lugares irrepetíveis do outono em que uma coloração de polpa sanguínea escorre da terra para a boca, semelhante aos meandros da fome. tanta alegria pode existir nas pequenas mortes.