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He only said six words...
Only six words, but they were more than enough. I've been a nut case ever since, and it was three days ago now.
I was sitting by the Thames, camera mounted on a tripod, catching jogglers as they went past. I grabbed a few of the hunkier guys, knowing my readership, but really I was making a subtle architectural statement.
Anyway, this bloke joggled past, one out of a long parade, and as he passed at me, he looked me right in the eye, smiled and said those words. I mean, I was appalled, but the damage had been done, and I can't stop thinking about them. They keep on whirling through my thoughts at the most irresponsible moments, and if you can put yourself in the mood, I'll share them with you.
Think of a bilateral pressure in your ears. The iPod strapped to your body. The pain, the burn of a good jog along a mighty river, the pounding, thumping steady rhythmn as you reach a joggers' high and the voice of Frank Sinatra swings softly through your consciousness, those blue eyes and honey tongue. The music swells, you approach some random Australian sitting there minding his own perverted business and you look at him and croon, "I've got you, under my skin..."
And then you joggle along out of range, leaving behind a life utterly shattered by an earworm.
I was sitting by the Thames, camera mounted on a tripod, catching jogglers as they went past. I grabbed a few of the hunkier guys, knowing my readership, but really I was making a subtle architectural statement.
Anyway, this bloke joggled past, one out of a long parade, and as he passed at me, he looked me right in the eye, smiled and said those words. I mean, I was appalled, but the damage had been done, and I can't stop thinking about them. They keep on whirling through my thoughts at the most irresponsible moments, and if you can put yourself in the mood, I'll share them with you.
Think of a bilateral pressure in your ears. The iPod strapped to your body. The pain, the burn of a good jog along a mighty river, the pounding, thumping steady rhythmn as you reach a joggers' high and the voice of Frank Sinatra swings softly through your consciousness, those blue eyes and honey tongue. The music swells, you approach some random Australian sitting there minding his own perverted business and you look at him and croon, "I've got you, under my skin..."
And then you joggle along out of range, leaving behind a life utterly shattered by an earworm.
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Your subtle message on architecture might have been lost except for proceeding comments. I'm a gal that needs to be bludgeoned on the head, at times...
Frank has burrowed into my ear a number of times but never with this particular song. Thanks, skyring, for burrowing under my skin.
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just be thankful he was not singing 'when i think about you, i touch myself' by the dyvinyls. ;p
ROLF!
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'u dont send me flowers anymore u #$%^&^% bastard'
neil diamond and sid vicious duet
hehehe
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