Log in

The Absinthe Prince

Or, the Incoherent Rantings of a Happy Noodle Boy.Really,democracy u say? Not!

1 May
External Services:
  • lux_lithium@livejournal.com
"You're made of my rib or baby, you're made of my sin
And I can't tell where your love ends and where your lust begins.
The moon asks for permission and she enters through my eyes.
She's losing her virginity all her will to compromise.
You know I didn't mean to hurt you but you're pretty when you cry.
I didn't mean to hurt you but I'm pretty when I lie"

I'm still here, in my head, ironed out the last of the starch in my bloodstream, long time overdue. My name is Malachi/Malachy, but please remember me as the last drop of grenadine in your Dr. Pepper, the photographer of faeries and all sweet things. I am a writer, had a few things published, sweet FA in comparison to my life-by-numbers planned out five years back, start and tart of it all. I have a guitar but I cannot pay it. Hell, I have rent but I cannot pay it! So I'll stick around a while, drinking ginger wine and writing songs about bars I've never been in, feel a little shit on New Orleans, maybe play a little Marianne Faithful. Nothing much else to say. I'm still here. Missing my Adam's rib. Missing my snake. Missing the heart in the throat of the loon.

be faithful. In a vida na gadda, baby.