There must be some brainfood in those Dogtablets. It is as rare as hen's teeth to find a person as deep and well-spoken as Jared Louche. It was a heady time, once the fevers had passed.”Īnd with that, one of the most insightful and poetically beautiful interviews ever given concluded. 'The light that gave now too must leave.' Courtesy of a long string of voluptuous teenage boys and girls I shared my time with, that tiny garret room saw many night-drenched loves, piles of journals and books, sybaritic explorations, laughter and lusts, oceans of wine and reams of pretentious poetry. chemlab exile on mainline (radio edit) lyrics : hundred dollar demon in my pocket and a scr-pe in the hole digging up a bruise that darkens calibrated to. The lyrics loosely recount my surroundings and the nightmare shadows that flickeringly cast themselves upon the sandstone walls of my mind while I crawled through seemingly endless illness. Electric Molecular lyrics - Chemlab - Album: other songs, Electric Molecular ringtones, search. Minuscule and void of electricity, my spot was still home, thus it was with a deep, exhaled relief that I stretched out on the thin mattress and gave in to a ferocious fever that had been building in me for a few days. Lick your daughter suck your son Inside, Im the truly Holy one. Louche continued, "I finally managed to score a rooftop, garret room in the old swamp neighborhood of La Bastille, hard by the roiling street markets and the decrepit old prison. I crashed in gorgeous bird-bedecked parks under chilly skies, slept under the sweeping, majestic bridges down by the banks of the Seine or in the enfolding, cloying warmth of the fetid subway tunnels after hours. With my belongings clutched jealously close to me, I scrounged and thieved food in alleyways. When I first arrived in the city that last time, flying solo, I was essentially homeless. a Jesus painting or crucifix in a room? How are they all connected as you see it?,” by this author, Louche answered, “It’s a fever dream inspired by a few nights I suffered through when I was living in Paris in the late ’70s. It is implied that images of Jesus and perhaps a bust of the surreal poet Albert Rimbaud is in a room when something horrible crashes through the window.
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