I'm in love! - "West Coast" (video)

Ashley Wells, Pfc. Sandoval, Wisdom Quarterly; Lana Del Rey (lanadelrey.com), "West Coast"

In "Ultraviolence," out June 17th, Cuban Lana Del Rey sings about the West Coast

Love is a burning thing. With eyes half open we step into a ring of fire, like Johnny Cash

Part 1. As a primer to love addiction and sex addiction, it might be good to start with this new smash hit all over Los Angeles radio. Now that Amber Larson and Seth Auberon have taken the helm as Wisdom Quarterly's Features Editors, it might give me time to explore affection, emotions, love, and sensuality as addictions the Buddha warned about. But we don't listen. We love it, which is why we were reborn into this Kama Loka, the "Sensual Sphere." And this song by Lana (of "Summertime Sadness" and "Maleficent" fame), better than any, suggests how we are seduced into coming here rather than forced. More importantly, what keeps us here now, like monkeys with our paws in this honey trap? And having been burned again and yet again, what could keep us coming back?

Lana, superstar, H&M supermodel

Down on the West Coast they got a saying
"If you're not [th]inking then you're not playing."
But you've got the music; you've got the music in you, don't you?

Down on the West Coast I get this feeling
Like it all could happen; that's why I'm leaving
You for the moment, you for the moment, Boy Blue, yeah you.

You're flying high at the show, I'm feeling hot to the touch
You say you miss me, and I say I miss you so much
But something keeps me really quiet, I'm alive, I'm a lush:
Your love, your love, your love

I can see my baby swinging
His Parliament's on fire and his hands are up
On the balcony and I'm singing
Ooh, baby, ooh, baby, I'm in love

(MM) Lana Del Rey performs "West Coast" on the West Coast, Coachella 2014

I can see my sweet boy swaying
He's crazy y Cubano como yo la la
On the balcony and I'm saying,
Move baby, move baby, I'm in love

I'm in love (I'm in love)
I'm in love (I'm in love)

Down on the West Coast they got their icons
Their silver starlets, their Queens of Saigon
And you've got the music; you've got the music in you, don't you?

Down on the West Coast they love their movies
Their golden gods and rock 'n roll groupies
And you've got the music, you've got the music in you, don't you?

You push it hard, I pull away, I'm feeling hotter than fire
I guess that no one ever really made me feel that much higher
Te deseo, cariño; boy, it's you I desire
Your love, your love, your love

I can see my baby swinging
His Parliament's on fire and his hands are up
On the balcony and I'm singing,
Ooh, baby, ooh, baby, I'm in love...

• VIDEO: Have you ever had a threesome? (Jimmy Kimmel) 
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Love, Sex, and Death (video)

Pat Macpherson, Dhr. Seven, Amber Larson, Ashley Wells, Wisdom Quarterly; Jeff Walker, the "Carneous Cacoffiny" of Carcass; Nancy Updike (ThisAmericanLife.org, 4-25-14)

Oh the Occupy hippies of Claremont (B/W)

April, of course, is National Poetry Month in the US. Happy birthday, Shakespeare/Edward de Vere. And Wisdom Quarterly did an in house call for submissions. The rules were easy: "Repurpose something fun that tells a higher truth." Lately, we have been listening to a lot of grindcore, an extreme genre of death metal from Earache Records most people cannot swallow.

 

"Do it, do it, do it, you know you want to"

Three British vegans invented it (because vegans rock harder), and it changed American music. It was Occupy Los Angeles close to the end, before the literally "jackbooted thugs" of the LAPD Riot Squad stormed the peaceful encampment to cheering LA Times reporters sitting in the sidelines, after the "American Spring" was subvert by police state spies. And if Aleksa, the "face of the movement," can be a Cradle of Filth fan and a great kisser, why wouldn't Wisdom Quarterly have been listening to Carcass?

Then MARA [the personification of death in Buddhism] said to me:

 

Selena G. listens to more than Justin B. (wwtdd)

"Strike up

The discordant underture,
This carnal cacophony,

Perversely penned,
Transposed and decomposed

On strings fashioned from human twine."
 

I ask why,

But Mara carries on:

 

"Lovingly wound and fretted upon my bow,
Garishly incinerated.

All the dead resonate
In final death-throes."
 

I was vibrant as I thrashed
In movements scripted for the dead...
Orchestral horrors Mara vehemently conducts.

My corpus concertos were cordial.
I was disinterred and detuned,
All six feet below

In harmony with the deceased.

• Dear Maya: "Are you guys crazy?" Take this quiz and find out: Bipolar Depression Quiz or try the Free Personality Test

D.I.Y. (store.thisamericanlife.org)

In our pre-teens we walk around every day with the knowledge that our body is about to change. We don’t know exactly when or how. All we know is that it will happen and we will come out the other end a different person. This American Life hears from kids who are reluctantly facing puberty...any minute now.  Producer Nancy Updike takes some personal questions about death and dying to a place where they are happening all the time, the hospice. LISTEN

Golden King Tut the teen pharaoh (ancient-egypt.co.uk)

Mara explained:

"My inspiration is your disintegration.
You're my latest masterpiece!
The score creeps your flesh."
 

All my notes seeped from sinewy frets.
 

"But, no, don't hold your breath," Mara added,

"As you wait for your God, or The Void, or the
Abyss of Nothingness."

Mara knew, Mara knew, and said:

We live our lives in blue bras and wretchedness.

"Your usefulness is not through.
Your productivity will resume
In sordid, soiled handicrafts."
 

It was my afterlife's handicap.
The corrupt crescendos
Leaving me out on a limbo
And down on my knees.
I could not rest in my piece, rest in my piece.

 

Christian terrorists in Egypt (us.msn.com)

With deadly dynamics
I'm dead, buried, and barred,
My remains dampened and fingered,
My mortal coil barbed.
 

The death-bells are peeling
Ringing out as I flake
Shrieking out their recitals
In celebration of my wake.
 

Egypt my Egypt (nocaptionneeded.com)

Enter my funereality
My world two metres under
A curious habitat
A muddy trench to plunder.
 

Pass on to ethereality
Churned out under the sextant's blade.

We live our lives in wretchedness,
And death is no escape.
And Death is no escape.

Another good poem was based on Boxxy and Carlie Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," the bestest song in the history of music...except for Katy Perry's pre-girl kissing Christian rock. But it's X-rated, so let's just remind readers who "Boxxy" is, the most beautiful girl on the WW Web.