Direct Dirty Conversation to Me (Poison)

Language: Russian

Really only the chorus of this song ("The baby of reason will be governing us, etc.") worked out. But I really like it.

As I get older, I find I have fewer and fewer opportunities to swear, and when I do, I'm more likely to use euphemisms of some kind, like the Battlestar-Galactica-inspired "frakkin'." It's not like I'm holding back for the kids' sakes -- we don't have any. And it's not like I'm suddenly more concerned that people think I'm uncouth. I just don't have as many moments during the day when I feel like it.

What do you suppose that's about, then? Maybe some kind of peer-group thing?

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You don't know me.
I look to you in order to see.
Well, you act expensive; therefore it is you,
but I never love you,
and I know your loves: they are too
expensive. I want you,
I gotta have you,
oh, yes, I'll make you.

You know, I never
remain. I'm never late, which is always . . .
You know that I can await difficulty
in order to see you,
and I know you cannot await it
in order to see me too. In expectation,
I gotta contact you.

The baby of reason will be
governing us, in
the Ford of an old person.
After, the bushes
will be screaming for more.
Lock the basement down from
the door. We will converse
about the baby, and the dirty cellar.

You know I call you,
I call you on the telephone.
I only hope that your domestic
can hear you. Therefore, I
speak those words, when you gotta
whisper to me so softly,
and I hear you.

C.C.: they select that guitar; they speak up to me.

Each Rose Has Thorns (Poison)

Language: Russian

The throat problems I mentioned in passing in the last post have gotten worse. The story is basically that I somehow scratched the right side of my throat (food? toothbrush?), and it's failing to heal up properly. As yet, no fever, no swelling, no visible changes at all, really. But the pain is getting worse, and moving around.

I've enjoyed having a throat in the past: it's handy for, you know, eating, drinking, speaking, and so forth. But I'm beginning to reconsider whether they're really worth all the trouble.

Well I guess that's why they say
Every rose has its thorn. . . .

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We both lie silently still
at the night's dead people.
Although we lie close together,
we feel miles apart inside.

Something I said or something I made
from the right gave you words; however,
I attempted not to hurt you; however, I attempted it,
but I guess that's why they talk.

Each rose has thorns,
as each night has our dawn,
as each cowboy sings his sad, sad song,
each rose has its thorns.

Yeah, that.

I listen to our most favorite song, playing on the radio.
I hear the loves of the game DJ. His opinion – easy to come, and easy to go.
But I find it interesting: I know I've always felt this way,
and I know that you were here somehow.

If I could've prevented it, you know, somehow,
then however much the time interval was, I guess
I could still feel only so much pain.
Like a knife which wounds you, they cure it, but
the scar: I know those scar remnants.

I could preserve that night's love if
I knew to say instead
to make love with us.
They both made our roads separately.

Now I hear that you're considering someone new,
and that I never meant that much to you.
In order to hear that, I break upward to inward,
and seeing you cuts me as a knife, I guess.

Unskinny Bop (Poison)

Language: Russian

I know what a "She-Bop" is, but I never quite understood whether "unskinny bop" was supposed to mean something or not. Perhaps it's a guy thing. This may turn out to be Part I of a "Bop Trilogy," along with "She-Bop" and "Mmmbop." Stay tuned.

-Jessi

So. Have you gotten jumpy?
Yeah? Why can't you sit still?
You wanna force me, like gasoline, and
leave your filling when you got me? Yeah?

Every time I touch honey,
you get hot. By you,
you want to make love,
you never stop. Which are you?
You come up for air after
you press me to the floor:
it goes further into your head.

Unskinny bop
I blow absently. Exactly.
Unskinny bop, bop
The entire night and day.
Unskinny bop, bop, bop, bop,
Which is it exactly? It plays at love.
Unskinny bop,
in order to say more nothing.

You look so funny. My bite
got you to love; therefore I was acting strangely. Oh.
Too many bees were in your copper; you got
another. In your will, I'm exactly a page, a word. Yeah, yeah.

Every time I touch honey,
you get hot. By you,
you want to make love,
you never stop. Which are you?
You come up for air after
you press me to the floor:
it goes further into your head.

"Love won't make you what you'll be," is my saying: it
won't be your love. But write on that.
I can see to your good copper side correctly.
At the end of the race, let's see who's riding us.

Right will be,
untruth will be by.
Left: hell. It goes on.