"You're pissed again why? Cause i didn't spend ONE fucking night with you?! You just fucked yourself...I'm busting my ass and that's what you send me? I was going to tell you to come out after work today BUT NO CHANCE NOW! No apology will suffice. You are and always will be a jealous selfish gypsy!"
i love eloquent poets. but i really do love gypsies. i never used to get why my mom would pull me close and whisper fiercely in my ear to stay away from the gypsies as we headed into the market to buy fresh green goods in the balmy summer morns back in the old country. the way i saw it, the gypsies had it quite all right. they were dressed in spectacularly dazzling colorful rags and they were barefoot, so what's better than that, what's wrong with gypsies? we dance to gypsy music at weddings, we listen to gypsy songs that make our hearts bend, we throw down gypsy cards when we want to finger the future...what, then, is wrong with gypsies??
i've always had a soft spot for gypsies, come to think of it. my father used to call me a little gypsy, although not always in real terms of endearment, come to think of it, my mother very closely resembled a drop dead gorgeous gypsy before she got all Americanized and starting wearing corduroys, with her long black hair all flowing and a colorful bandana wrapped around her head, dancing like a gypsy makes you think that you're actually as free as one, thinking like a gypsy nearly straight up turns you into a bonafide member of the Roma and years ago, when i thought about what my street name would be if i just starting tagging up the streets of Brooklyn, i came up with Gitana. the Gypsy. i really did think of that, since you never really know where life might go.
but i do love poets.
here's a verse from Bizet's Carmen, the habanera, now this really reads like poetry:
L'amour est un oiseau rebelle
que nul ne peut apprivoiser
et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle,
s'il lui convient de refuser.
Rien n'y fait, menace ou priere,
l'un parle bien, l'autre se tait:
Et c'est l'autre que je prefere,
Il n'a rien dit mais il me plait
that's something about love being a rebellious bird that no one can tame and you're calling him quite in vain and nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer...geeez!
what a great great opera, that gypsy queenie Carmen prancin her stuff all over the place and then tossing that ring right back into Jose's face so that after he stabs her even though he really deliriously loves her, all he can do is cry his arrogant, puny, manboy guilt all over her dead little body.
what a dumass.
i love eloquent poets. but i really do love gypsies. i never used to get why my mom would pull me close and whisper fiercely in my ear to stay away from the gypsies as we headed into the market to buy fresh green goods in the balmy summer morns back in the old country. the way i saw it, the gypsies had it quite all right. they were dressed in spectacularly dazzling colorful rags and they were barefoot, so what's better than that, what's wrong with gypsies? we dance to gypsy music at weddings, we listen to gypsy songs that make our hearts bend, we throw down gypsy cards when we want to finger the future...what, then, is wrong with gypsies??
i've always had a soft spot for gypsies, come to think of it. my father used to call me a little gypsy, although not always in real terms of endearment, come to think of it, my mother very closely resembled a drop dead gorgeous gypsy before she got all Americanized and starting wearing corduroys, with her long black hair all flowing and a colorful bandana wrapped around her head, dancing like a gypsy makes you think that you're actually as free as one, thinking like a gypsy nearly straight up turns you into a bonafide member of the Roma and years ago, when i thought about what my street name would be if i just starting tagging up the streets of Brooklyn, i came up with Gitana. the Gypsy. i really did think of that, since you never really know where life might go.
but i do love poets.
here's a verse from Bizet's Carmen, the habanera, now this really reads like poetry:
L'amour est un oiseau rebelle
que nul ne peut apprivoiser
et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle,
s'il lui convient de refuser.
Rien n'y fait, menace ou priere,
l'un parle bien, l'autre se tait:
Et c'est l'autre que je prefere,
Il n'a rien dit mais il me plait
that's something about love being a rebellious bird that no one can tame and you're calling him quite in vain and nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer...geeez!
what a great great opera, that gypsy queenie Carmen prancin her stuff all over the place and then tossing that ring right back into Jose's face so that after he stabs her even though he really deliriously loves her, all he can do is cry his arrogant, puny, manboy guilt all over her dead little body.
what a dumass.
