Morror less to sey.
Posted on 2017.07.29 at 14:20
With every bottle of wine sold, Morrissey should be required listening. There is no greater waste of time, than languishing in the squalour of his bemoaning nomenclature. There is no greater elevation of the art of self-pitying, self-loathing, self-defeated depression, than in the self-imposed imagining that one is the very same grinning, winning, lost douche-bag spinning amongst the panties of one's old auntie's unrequited antics, like some Gothic Dorothy on her way to Oz.
It is soulfully ennobling to heed the words, and maybe attune to the music, and then to be suddenly hit by some strange feeling that comes out of... out of nothing more, but means everything else. How he can summon and convey emotion so transcendentally, so immaterially, is beyond me. But, at certain junctures, moments of feeling leap out of his music like entirely familiar blood-sucking lizards, already under one's skin. It's more than music, it is the honour of death itself, laughing at us, as we bide away like lemmings. Like hanging chads in a drunken god's pathetic attempt to keep track of us all. Like inducements and enticements from the devil which turn out to be nothing more than vacuous promises of trumpianism.
And the consolation is - that it's all funny. It's all good. Stale, moulded bread for the homeless has become a food of the gods, for wanton ducks like you and me.
In a Philly restaurant, with friends, I was offered the, "pressed duck."
"Depressed duck? How sad!"
"Quaaaack! Quaaaack!" he pined mournfully, as much in comedy as in grief.
It is soulfully ennobling to heed the words, and maybe attune to the music, and then to be suddenly hit by some strange feeling that comes out of... out of nothing more, but means everything else. How he can summon and convey emotion so transcendentally, so immaterially, is beyond me. But, at certain junctures, moments of feeling leap out of his music like entirely familiar blood-sucking lizards, already under one's skin. It's more than music, it is the honour of death itself, laughing at us, as we bide away like lemmings. Like hanging chads in a drunken god's pathetic attempt to keep track of us all. Like inducements and enticements from the devil which turn out to be nothing more than vacuous promises of trumpianism.
And the consolation is - that it's all funny. It's all good. Stale, moulded bread for the homeless has become a food of the gods, for wanton ducks like you and me.
In a Philly restaurant, with friends, I was offered the, "pressed duck."
"Depressed duck? How sad!"
"Quaaaack! Quaaaack!" he pined mournfully, as much in comedy as in grief.
