I have lost a subscriber to this blog —apparently mu Marc Bolan obsession is to blame.
Mourn mourn morn….
I mean, seriously, I have no idea why some-one, like myself, who practises a religious culture wherein in ancient times, the sweat of Olympic athletes was legal tender, would venerate an apparent mortal for his talents, striking looks, and downright mythic appeal that has crossed generations and continues to fascinate people all over the freakin’ world. Seriously, man, great mystery of life. I have no idea what I’m thinking with this.
Thank you, unsubscriber, for reminding me of what’s important in this life: Songs about Hobbits and unicorns and thinly veiled metaphors about sex and poetry fans have been trying to decipher for over forty years. The Bolanalia shall continue until the Thirtieth, as I had previously promised. Anybody who doesn’t like that is welcome to unsubscribe and (as I say to my house-mate’s cat at least a dozen times a day) go fuck yourself.
(PS: The cat totally deserves to be told to go fuck himself. After all, he literally raped my childhood [sorry, Bagpuss].)
Teen riot structure, ankle deep in fear
Babies lost in bellies and the oracle can’t hear
A demon angel demi-god blasted through the night
Me and Lucy Lightning holding on real tight
An ancient Lord in wonder rung upon my bell
I fed him with my nightmares And he ate my dreams as well
All London was in blazes burning to the sound
Of deep galactic tragedies in stereophonic sound
A tempest teen of stature in Gatsby hat and cloak
Licked upon my lollipop, but I didn’t get the joke
As devastation mounted my wardrobes almost burned
The teens held hands on shifting sands and wonder what they learnt
There’s something oddly chilling about this one when you realise it’s the last song on his last album.