Veronica Cake

Being a musician is the dog's life, but it is the only life worth living.. Seperated at birth? I've got cunning plans. and now for some screams of unconsciousness:Incessant rant alert: A hubcapped diamond star halo, john lennon in a world full of ringos, A certain realism, blitzkrieg baby come and fly with us, the peter pan crowd doesn't relent. Scouser madcaps and hubcaps, Liverpool calling. We make mad, passionate genius, Oh you pretty thing!A Joycian mess of a Brechtian nightmare, have a Baal everyone...Don't say you are an erudite, unless you really, really mean it. I can read Gide like Peter Noones business..Finding ali g spots, I am the sidewalk existensialist, reverence for Ike, gyspy moonshadow dancing, entrancing...Kill the memory, kill the pain, there are no boundaries in the blue room. The story of O-livia, coquette regret in the constable of my mind. suffer the child...Bukowski pain~ glass shards deep in the vulnerable vein, how did I love thee? Its brain gaol. I wake up life in death's sleep..Muse. muse bring us more sacrament, we get no sleep lest we weep, A sage in a rage, Messiahs on fire, Prophetic profits and transients in transubstantiation, the allegory story, Mon cher, when was the first taste of your fear? For we want not this darkness..They propogate and we invisibly listen, Cruel flowers, Schooling the bad boys again, missions, submissions, until we meet again,dichotomies still shaking in thigh high boot. What grows in empty garden, nature fails, a life derails.., thin skinned, Hester Prynned, Horatio's fellatio, crushed velvet personas lost in a dacquiri,broken dolls, sunday wasting, sensational cessationists, epistle whipped..Seers in tears, Satyr Martyr give me to your hand. 21st Century Caeser undone, do you walk with Pan, mystery man? The Island of Dr Morose. .Midnight oil that burns deep, sheds more than sacred skin, dark love, Underneath I belong, under blackened suns with torn, withered dress, forgetting my name, my country, who created me...In isolated language, I communicate...You are the unsinkable, unthinkable, work of wax with human heart..Fearing your laws of nature..the transformation game...child by increments, reverting in Orwellian compromise. War is over, still we fight Dragged by our own horses, the life march.. Schooled tongue, left in the neverending noose, vice or virtue..not ready for your Socratic parades, the cancer of a soul. Bleeding my words...passion is poison yet, he loves my dancing hair.With hungry loined vigilance, he is juxtaposed betwixt..Rapacious for our perfect malisma..le petit mort sustained, stained..Bleed me once more. an excerpt of stream of consciousness written 2002 by Veronica Jones.OOR WEE HOOSEODE TAE GLESGAOh where is the Glasgow where I used to stay? White, wally closes done up wi' pipe clay, Where you knew everybody, first floor to third, And to keep your door shut was considered ubsurd.Where are the weans that once played in the street? Wi' a jorrie, a peerie, a gird wi' a cleet, Can they still cadge a hudgie or dreep aff a dike, Play hunch cuddy hunch, kick the can, and the like?And where is the wee shop where I used to buy, A quarter o' totties, a tuppenny pie, A bag o' broke biscuits, a wee sodie scone, An' the wummin aye asked , 'how's yir maw gettin on'?And where is the cludgie? That cosy wee cell. The string fae the cistern. I remember it well. Where I sat wi' a caunle, and studied the rags, A win for the Auld Firm, a loss for the Jags.Where is the tramcar that once did a ton, Doon Great Western Road on the ol' Yoker run. The conductress aye knew how to deal wi' the nyaff, 'If yir gaun, weil, cumoan -- if yir no, weil gittaff'.I think o' the days o' my tenement hame. We've got fancy new hooses, but they're jist no the same. I'll swap your gizunders, flyovers and jams, Fur a tuppenny ride on the old Partick trams.Gone is the Glesga that I used to know. Big Wullie, wee Shooie, the Steamie, the Co. The shilpa wee bachle, the glaikit big dreep, Yir ba on the slates and yir gas on a peep.These days wurnae rosy, and money was tight, The wages hauf finished by Setterday night, But still we came through it and weathered the ruts, The reason is simple, our parents had guts.The Real King. Beauty personified. SHE IS SUBLIMATION, SHE IS THE ESSENCE OF THEE.