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, August 26, 2006


Music. The Guggenheim Grotto.

Sing, little pieces of angels. They'll sing as soon as they assemble all of their pieces. In the meantime I'm going to look at the kitchen sink, pressing buttons on a tape recorder, play and record, I'm solving a detective, or the plans, and everything is a street and everything else is a hair pin, and this is the hair pin that everything else is. I'm going to erase that from the tape.

Band: The Guggenheim Grotto

Album: ...Waltzing Alone

They might sound like a lot of other bands if you only half-listen to them, but closer inspection reveals a very distinctive band. They're better than having walls and doors in your head that keep out all the things you want to keep out and let in all the things that bring head-warming presents and say they love what you've done to your head. Most other bands are worse than walls and doors that let in most other bands.


The alphabet can be used for two things and one of them is the same as the other. I'm going to erase that too.

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.

More blogs about music.


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