April 14th, 2005

satyr, drool you bastards, bosom

On shopping for spring clothes

This season, fashion mavens are wearing:

  • Short-short "jackets" over matching shirts, sort of a twinset and pearls for the Britney Spears slutazoid set, guaranteed to make stick-thin 13-year-olds look pregnant

  • Shirts so short that they actually go backwards in space and wrap themselves around your ears, leaving your torso fully unclad

  • Spiced-up sequiny India-meets-hippies gear

Actually, no one's wearing the last one, but stores are trying desperately to sell them for the third year in a row. They've been getting brighter and more ornate with each passing year; next year, peasant shirts will come with built-in LED displays.

And the fashionable fabric of the season is:

  • Colored toilet paper.

All in all, a couture season to go down in history.
satyr, drool you bastards, bosom

Song of ME! ME! It's about ME! It's interesting because it's ME!

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, the distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, it is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath, echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, my respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, the sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, a few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, the play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, the delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, the feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.


Walt Whitman was the world's earliest emo nutjob blogger.