I’m afraid of Americans.
There’s a terror in knowing what the world is about.
If you want it, boys, get it here, thing.
We slit the Catholic throat, stoned the poor on such slogans as wish you could hear and love is all we need.
I’m a phallus in pigtails, and there’s blood on my nose, and my tissue is rotting where the rats chew my bones. And my eye sockets empty, see nothing but pain, I keep having this brainstorm about twelve times a day.
I turned myself to face me, but I’ve never caught a glimpse of how the others must see the faker.
If I put faith in medication, if I can smile a crooked smile, if I can talk on television, if I can walk an empty mile.
I read the news today, oh boy.
I believe in Beatles, I believe my little soul has grown.
Visions of swastikas in my head, plans for everyone. It’s in the Whites of my eyes.
Making love with his ego.
I’ll ruin everything you are, I’ll give you television.
I got a bad migraine that lasted 3 years, and the pills I took made by fingers disappear.
Some make you sing and some make you scream. One makes you wish that you’d never been seen. But there’s a shop on the corner that’s selling papier mache, making bullet-proof faces, Charlie Manson, Cassius Clay. If you want it, boys, get it here, thing.
What I do is I write mainly about very personal and rather lonely feelings, and I explore them in a different way each time. You know, what I do is not terribly intellectual. I’m a pop singer for Christ’s sake. As a person, I’m fairly uncomplicated.
Rebel, rebel, you’ve torn your dress. Rebel, rebel, your face is a mess. Rebel, rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so.
I had a fantasy that i’d drift up to Scotland and spend my life as a faux bodhisattua.
Someday, I’m gonna write a poem in a letter; Someday, I’m gonna get that faculty together.
You can’t go on stage and live – it’s false all the way. I can’t stand the premise of going out in jeans and a guitar and looking as real as you can in front of 18,000 people. I mean, it’s not normal!
Pop stars are capable of growing old. Mick Jagger at 50 will be marvelous – a battered old roue – I can just see him. An aging rock star doesn’t have to opt out life. When I’m 50, I’ll prove it...