Made by my head
Music, Ireland. Grey, name. My name. A step ladder. This house was built in a bog. Music is the window. I fell off a step ladder.





Saturday, February 25, 2006

 

Music. The Chalets.


I've never been more here. Here has never been more now. My foot is stuck in the box I kicked and I'm going to kick it again as soon as I get my foot out. They just fall into swimming pools with Greta Garbo, and where's Greta Garbo? "She's in the swimming pool." No she's not, she's dead. My car is on fire.


Did I just say my car was on fire?


Repeat of the paragraph where I said my car was on fire:

I was talking to a bar maid in a bar, and a speech bubble suggested that I asked her if her ankle used to be in Depeche Mode, but I was really just telling her about Greta Garbo and the swimming pool. I don't know if she slapped me across the face because of what I said or because of what the speech bubble suggested I said.


Band: The Chalets.

Album: Check In.


They're one of the few bands who know what their feet, hair and ears are for.


Website:

http://www.thechalets.com


Kitty didn't know that when she wrote the letter to Bizet (I think the thing that Kitty didn't know was that Bizet is dead) but (but I think the real question is 'who is Kitty?') although (you might be thinking that the real question is 'why can't you answer these things?') but you're wrong. A thought bubble over my head says that Kitty is a fool. Her speech bubble says my car is on fire.




He shoots, he scores, he glues himself to a lilac tree. Let's kick him.

A walk in the rain - Poetry. Ireland. Reading the news with no trousers.
Very Slight Stories - Very short stories.
Henry Seaward-Shannon - Slightly longer short-stories.






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