(Source: ikilledjackjohnson)
Right now
Pushing for Genius by Owen Gent
Things are just a bit nicer over some coffee
You can tell me all about your day
it’s your heart that gives me this western feeling
I thought I felt your shape but I was wrong
Really all I felt was falsely strong
I held on tight and closed my eyes
It was dumb I had no sense of your size
It was dumb to hold so tight
But last night
On the birthday in the kitchen
My grip was loose my eyes were open
I felt your shape and heard you breathing
I felt the rise and fall of your chest
I felt your fall
Your winter snows
Your gusty blow
Your lava flow
I felt it all
Your starry night
Your lack of light
With limp arms I can feel most of you
I hung around your neck independently
And my loss was overwhelmed
By this new depth I don’t think I ever felt
But I don’t know
The nights are cold
And I remember warmth
I could have sworn I wasn’t alone
Sharon Stone
(Source: hypem)
“The thing about me is …” I announced to the assembly, “is I’m a sorcerer with the birds, an alchemist, you put a dame in front of me and I will hypnotise her with my sheer magne …”
I was planning to say magnetism, in fact I had a whole brilliant speech to give on the subject of my supernatural ability with women but I had to stop to observe the bottle that was arcing towards my head at some pace from the other side of the room.
Thud. Ouch. The bottle hit me right on the head and although it was plastic, it was half full, or half empty, depending on your perspective, and it hurt.
Everyone laughed.
What had I done to deserve such insubordination? I surveyed the missile’s trajectory for clues to reveal the culprit - and there she stood.
Beaming and pleased with herself, hidden by sunglasses, a beanie and a yellow sweater the sleeve of which was a giraffe glove-puppet concealing her right hand, Katy Perry stormed into the laughter she had created.
“Hey, Brand!” she cockily cawed.
“Come on brain, let’s go,” I thought, but my brain wasn’t working properly, I think perhaps because of the bottle.
Plus my stomach felt odd. Sort of sick. “Got you on the head there, huh?” she said. “Kind of an easy target, it’s big and you’ve got that ridiculous hair …”
The lads, MY LADS, laughed. As did the MTV folk, plus a few of the crew stopped working to watch.
“Come on,” I appealed silently to myself in a split-second prayer. Wit, don’t fail me now. The audience looked on.
“Yes, your aim was impressive. Particularly as, judging from the fact that you’re wearing sunglasses indoors, you must be blind …” “Which would go some way to explaining your decision to wear that ridiculous sweater.”
Katy, though, doesn’t miss a beat.
“You know it’s hard to take fashion advice from a man who looks like a lazy transvestite.”
“Yes, I suppose I do look feminine …” I parry neatly, “… compared to you.”
I was doing well, especially given my head injury and the strange feeling in my stomach. I march up to her and command that she remove her glasses.
“I’m not removing anything I’m wearing around you, I could get herpes.”
Sensing this slanging match may not be going my way, I expertly sequester her away from the gawping crowd which now numbers about thirty and see if I can dazzle her better without an audience.
She takes off her sunglasses, which I thought would give me an advantage, but it just made me feel more queasy.
She has very beautiful eyes. Big and questioning, playful and tender. Away from the crowd my wit will surely return to full strength.
“Your bracelet,” I announce, “… is nice.”
“You think so. Thanks.” It is an Alexander McQueen bangle, a simple hoop with two skulls facing each other at the ends.
Wordlessly she smiles, removes it and places it on my wrist, gently handcuffing me.
The floor manager bellows that we are needed on stage to rehearse the intro.
We separate, and by now I’m feeling really weird like when you do acid and resist its mercurial pull - when you don’t, as Jim would say, “ride the snake”.
Crammed in my glamour pen like a reluctant Houdini I listen as Katy half-heartedly sings, the way they do when they rehearse, like they can’t be bothered, every syllable subtextually screaming, “I’ll do it better on the day.”
“We will, we will, rock you …”
I look at my big daft name on the back wall and nervously come down the stairs. I look at her and it makes the vertigo worse.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “please welcome the biggest queen I’ve ever met, Russell Brand!”
I smile as I walk past her and sort of want to pull her hair.
When I reach the end of the runway from where I will deliver the monologue , the stage that Katy is standing on is being lowered to make room for the next performance set-up. Slowly she descends, the ground swallowing her. My wit returns, like I always knew it would.
“Thank you for that introduction,” I began, then gesturing behind me, “And, before your very eyes, in a chilling foreshadow of the next twelve months, Katy Perry disappears without trace.” Just as her head passed from view.
Katy and some of her friends are hanging around by the mixer.
I feel the bracelet on my wrist. I really don’t want to give it back but consider it would be ungentlemanly to stroll off with it.
“Erm. I’m going now, so …”
“OK,” she says and smiles.
“Well. We should stay in touch,” I mumble like a twit even though I am going to see her the next day at the award show we just rehearsed .
“Oh. Yes?” she replies. “And how are we going to do that? Smoke signals?”
She’s flirting. I think this is flirting. All my instincts are being affected by the head wound and stomach disruption.
Plus now I’m getting short of breath and hot.
“I could give you my phone number?” I say. She takes it.
“Right. Bye then.” “Oh, I forgot to give this back,” I say, flimsily attempting to remove the bracelet, but she interrupts.
“It’s OK. Keep it. To remind you of me.”
And I begin to understand what all these symptoms are. I look at her and it makes me feel still. Then looking into her eyes, quietly I say, “I don’t need anything to remind me of you.”
That is how I fell in love.
The next day we did the show. Throughout I carried the bracelet in my pocket. Even though she was there.
That night we went on our first date and she was so funny and pretty but more importantly she emits some gentle power that makes me want to be good.
You’ll think it frivolous of me to say I knew I’d marry her on that first date, but the truth is I fell in love with her when she hit me with that bottle.
Like Cupid in a riot.
From the first date I changed. No more women. Well, actually, thousands of women. I wake up to a different one each day, but they’re all her.
She’s sleeping next to me now, tranquil and silently beguiling, it’s impossible to ally her with the incandescent girl that blazes through the day.
Her hand rests on her shoulder and I can see the ring I gave her when I asked her to marry me, at midnight on New Year’s Eve in India, under a full moon, a blue moon.
Once in a blue moon. She said yes. She chose me, bottled me and cuffed me. And now this is my life, my girl, this beautiful woman. Just her and the revolution.
Maybe I’m crazy to suppose
I’d ever be the one you chose
Out of a thousand invitations you’d receive
Ah, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doing New Year’s
New Year’s Eve?
(Source: jornadadejack)
