rock-and-roll

Time collapsed into a delicate dark pencil brushed against oureyebrows, the emergent rumble of crowds gathering above our heads. Weslid into our costumes. Pirate, outlaw, futuristic rebels. Red,purple, gold. Chains hanging from our belts, tight black trousers. Wewere moved upstairs, closer to the stage. Finally, we heard thecannon's roar: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome... Tanzarrecording artists... THE MASTER PLANETS!" The world shot forward. Westepped into the spotlight.

It never was about the musician or the instrument - it was about the laser notes in a hall of mirrors, the music itself. It was going to change the world for the better and it has. Maybe not as fast or as much as we wanted, but it has and it still will. Whether your name is Mozart, or Django Reinhardt, or Robert Johnson, or Jimi Hendrix, or whoever is next; who you are doesn't matter so long as you can open that conduit and let the music come through. It is the burning edge, whatever it sounds like and whoever is playing it. It is the noisy, messy, silly, invincible voice of life that comes through the LP on the turn-table, the transistor radio, or the Bose in your new Lexus that makes you want to get up out of whatever you are stuck in and dance. It is Dionysus and the Maenads all over again. No one can control it and I pity whoever tries. I am old now and only a house cat sunning herself in the window - but I was a tigress once, and I remember. I still remember.

When you look at me, tease my desire with a mere gaze, it shreds the edges of my soul_

Does he know you__e with me? Does he know about me? Does he know we fuck each other in our dreams every night? ~ Ripp Collins

When you look at me, tease my desire with a mere gaze, it shreds the edges of my soul_ ~ Ripp Collins

Now, some guys' five minutes are worth other guys' fifty years, and while burning out in one brilliant supernova will send record sales through the roof, leave you living fast, dying young, leaving a beautiful corpse, there is something to be said for living. Personally, I like my gods old, grizzled and here.

I'm forty-two," he said. "That's eighty-four in musician years.

It__ like George always says: being in a rock ʼn_ roll band is very sexy, even when you__e only the keyboard player and your idea of the perfect Saturday night actually amounts to a bubble bath, a Richard Curtis boxset and a seafood linguine.

They are treading water in a sea of retarded sexuality and bad poetry.

When all the birds drowned in the sliver bayWhen the smoke signal went into outer spaceNobody would rememberThe day the world went awayWhen the blood dripped off the rusted blade When the Bible was torn off another pageNobody would realizeThe day the world went away

But tonight, this is what I can give you. I can offer you the vault of heaven, the firmament of the stars in the sky, and me

Life will never be perfect, so we must learn how to make the imperfections work for us.

If I've got a Dad, and his name is Wormwood Rot, and he's in some heavy metal rock band called Grave Dirt . . . then I'm definitely meeting him!She stares at me awkwardly, and I'm about to ask again__aybe even insist__hen she says, "Honey, why do you think he's on the news? Wormwood, I mean . . . your father? Becca, he's . . . dead.

All language is an aspiration to music.