It isn’t Christmas without this song
The Pogues - Fairytale of New York
Set and go, apply breaks, puts the car through the window — and sounds weird, but that’s just how it happens and it’s something like when gravity blinked and, more especially, the homeowner who’s stuck with a Buick on the upholstery. A Goddamn. It’s night outside, and you can see the sky that’s been chalked up there. The stars. Moon. Burned-out streetlights like snuffed-out candles. And the Buick. The right, left edges of the hood curled like a smile. Smoke filtered into the home and the driver with a face missing teeth peers like a voyeur over the airbag andhesaysFuck.
When she’d finished, she walked on tiptoe over the planks that wobbled beneath her feet. She gathered up her skirts with her hands, leaving her white leggings exposed, tinged with hues of mud and urine. Once she joined them, she sighed deeply. She looked ecstatically at first light breaking over the green water and she took Pinedita’s arm in her own and she released all the air she held in her lungs.
–The sacrifices we make for the revolution! – she sighed.
I wanted to play a painter, blind from birth, who hears the murmur of colors in his paint-tubes and considers himself a musician.
This is the time that’s yellow and gangrenous on the flesh, that makes black impressions that run across the top, winds around hairs and pricks pores. It’s the time when tired humors, mocked — they’re brittle specks of ink on the page — rise like some phoenix molting, tearing up prematurely and deciphered by the madman.
