Okkervil River - You Can't Hold The Hand Of A Rock And Roll Man(140 visits)

This week's cash for last week's grass your crew collates, while you sit in the van and wait. Gassed and trashed and smashed young cads roasting away on a sunny summer day (or, okay, an August night anyway), and you're living on air, while on the 25th floor, up there, they'd fan a million bucks before your face. Marie's passed out in a chair with her once fussed-over hair all mussed into an I've just been fucked shape.

Just an hour before, she crashed, all cashed. She said, "I'm done with looking back, and you look your age - which is thirty-seven, by the way, and not twenty-eight. And fucking let them stare, because at this point I don't care. I have been your bride stripped bare since '98. And our silver-screen affair, it weighs less to me than air. It's a gas now. It's a laugh just how far several mil can take it."

This week's as fast as last week's flash of interstate, when you starved and never ate. This week's splashed a sick, gold cast across your face, as you roam on silk, ripped tippy-toe alone through Silver lake - splayed astride a snow-white mare, on a non-stop all-night tear. What a ghastly sight you smear in every face. In that fat, fur-trimmed affair that your lawyer lets you wear, you'll destroy your chance to ever get repeatedly engaged.







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