Jerry Lee Lewis
29 September 1935 15:00
(= 3:00 PM ) 05°47' 29°27 Asc. 06°48'
AstroDatabank Wiki Project
Ishwhereitsat!
Bonny Lee Bakley,
fateful, one woman Holocaust, Deathwish dealer, and B- C- D-list celeb seeker, no autograph book or selfie list to complete, extractor extraordinaire of men and their more honorable, by comparison, canonization-worthy, if only through the prism of her serial obsession procuring that celebrity by whichever means expedience prefer to spite men she needed to use them and bruise their arrogant majiscule, by proximity a puffed-up common lizard in the Garden, whose loamy betrayal its flowers still took nourishment, but whose blight grew twice fecundy, twice its malignity and twice the size of its host whose nourishment it stole from within its tendrils; through her offering of false hope and bogus benignity, company in the form of the mercifully photocopied mass mailed lonely antidote to the bottom-hitting Roy Orbison protagonists, the slow sweetness of antifreeze beginning its slow death where a good work ethic may exploit the slow painful crystallization eventually shuts down all organs, the loneliest of all that organ incapable of Lonelyheart, Femme Fatalite, who I now as her consolationBest Slow Dancer at Hernandos Hideaway.
This is the last song from a journey begun through the ill-fated, brief, as briefly as a presumably accomplished fellatrix can muster to the russian roulette of the ride with the Killer - the roughly 30 minutes from Hernandos Hideaway door to across Mississippi's familiar portal often happily free of conciousness, and worry...After all, would you give a DUI to Jerry Lee Lewis at 6AM, leering and laughing innocuously, but genuinely unconcerned about anything you, your department, your mayor, or even your State might met out to him...because, you would be in that long line of contract litigators, fans injured by flying stools, unpaid creditors and the longest list since St. Peter's, of every stripe and intention. But mainly, Jerry Lee Lewis is never sloppy drunk, he somewhere between a Country gentleman, Keith Richards, and, oh, wait, JERRY LEE FUCKING LEWIS! INVENTOR NOT IMITATOR. SWAGGER ADDICT NUMERO UNO. THE MAN WHO WHEN i ASKED HOW HE COULD PLAY WHOLE LOTTA SHAKIN' GOIN' ON EVERY NIGHT, ANSWERED, 'WELL, KILLER, HOW CAN YOU LISTEN TO IT?'
HE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE HAD BIG TITS AND BEEN CAUGHT DRIVING PANTIELESS WITH A PLATE FULL OF DRY RUB ON THE PASSENGER SEAT. BUT INSTEAD HE JUST DRAWLED WITH 40% HALF-TRUTH AND RESPECT FOR AUTHORITY FOR TWO MINUTES BEFORE MASHING THE ROLLS HOME TO HIS RANCH WHERE GUNSMOKE WAS JUST ABOUT TO START, AND WHERE HE HAD BEDROOM WALLS TO SHOOT.
State Line, and first exit to Nesbit MS, green, bucolic, unmolested and unknown former farms and ranches with few neighbors and fewer criminals ridiculous enough to perpetrate its solitude and overmanned home security sentry, Mr. Smith, Mr. Wesson, Mr. Birelli, and various German and Italian fellows whose name was unpronounceable but whose stock was sound and were justified 'good people,'
... hamlet where sits for at least his (unless you are the IRS asking), beautiful sprawling gated Ranch Style home in the middle of what looks like very respectably appointed upper middle class Nesbit denizens who happen to live side by side their infamous neighbor, who, should he ever venture intointervention by both Lewis sisters, the recently deceased Frankie Jean Lewis Terrell, elder sibling, and eventually led to my meeting and subsequent one-night-stand (a dance, not that), where I encountered briefly, the brief assignation Death must surely employ to quickly appraise and apprise doomed, damned, Bonny Lee Bakley the association found.
Heaven's Band
Only extant document shows pathology and powerlessness
which poor, soon to be murdered, I will now say and mean with every reservation to which I am unreservedly avoiding, SEXY, Bonny Lee Bakley, irresistably BAD, unfussed trashy loucheness, and a singular attention span whose sole purpose as deception was a charming secret to share for a cool Memphis evening, slow dancing around Hernandos Hideaway on Brooks Rd. among the only other Memphis Honky Tonk Soul Cowboys to ever anachronistically confuse the city whose Welcome Sign should be a solitary graphic art depiction of a pilled up woman pulling up her skirt while holding her heels in her other hand with a lascivious grin and evil on her mind.
i call these little stray words or unused phrases, grillades or black rice. they are free and have no value anymore, having been pushed downwards by a tangent of doubtless irrelevant departure from Beginning, Middle, and End.
to stop,
which poor Bonny Bakley woud go and do to realize completely devoid of even the most primitive self-awareness, whose existence would have prevented her murder, but more significantly, may have prevented the almost impossible- to-defend motive and mayhem for which her murder came guaranteed, pre-ordained and prepared by her from the day she was born in New Jersey until the day she climbed the ladder to the stars, stepping gingerly from rung to rung, finally fixed among them on a warm black Los Angeles night, eating her favorite food with unarguably one of the last legends of old Hollywood, whose patience for what she brought down was fatally tested and easily carried out, con artists and grifters preferring to weave their cons alone and untold to anyone at all. This most storied Little Rascal, Singularly intuitive lifetime member of Hollywood's most exclusive club, blurred the line easily and inevitably from the bizarre black book which sealed her fate by invading and attempting to disrupt the fate of its contacts, the American Royalty of former fame and preserved star quality which she craved to mendacity, told by a pathological bucketlist of celebrities, Rock legends, and the lure of the compulsion to stand in their light, experience it for a moment, and leave it as it dimmed; her celebrity family finally did what they do best, inspire strangers' adoration, through their manufactured method, their process, and through this overvalued, mimetic savantism, Robert Blake's Baretta's parroting parrot finally masters its miniscule vocal chords magically through neither intelligence but evolution to repeat without understanding, and to learn for the craker not the approval, what amounts to the familiar warren of chimpanzees with one hundred typewriters finally producing Shakespeare's Othello. Blake produced Blakley, Foster through Salinger made Hinkley, and Lennon produced Chapman; their commonality sharing one mutual imperative: to destroy those who deemed perfect, were own celebrity had inspire their own ego's need for the tragic Bonny Lee Bakley herself, and the self-LEEBONNY) Bonny Lee Bakley Let's Not Dream (70s Psycho Stalker Pop)
— @mrjyn June 8, 2018
From Astro-Databank
Vocation : Entertain/Music : Instrumentalist (Piano)
Vocation : Entertain/Music : Vocalist/ Pop, Rock, etc.
Notable : Awards : Hall of Fame (1986)
Family : Relationship : Number of Marriages (Six)
Notable : Book Collection : Culture Collection
Vocation : Entertain/Music : Country-Western
- Family : Relationship : Number of Divorces (Six)
- Family : Relationship : Other relationship (Married 13-year-old cousin)
- Notable : Famous : Top 5% of Profession
- Vocation : Entertainment : Child performer (Pro at 14)
- Traits : Mind : Education limited
- Family : Relationship : Marriage more than 15 Yrs (Sixth marriage 18 years)
- Diagnoses : Body Part Problems : Gastrointestinal (Stomach problems)
| Name |
| ||
| Birthname | Lewis, Jerry Lee | ||
| born on | 29 September 1935 15:00 (= 3:00 PM ) | ||
| Place | Ferriday LA, USA, 31n38, 91w33 | ||
| Timezone | CST h6w (is standard time) | ||
| Data source |
| ||
| Astrology data |   05°47'  29°27 Asc. 06°48' |
You Might Also Like this Perfect American Jerry Lee Lewis/Bonny Bakley/Robert Blake Murder Story
Posted By THE PERFECT AMERICAN to THE完 PERFECT完 AMERICAN な at 7/08/2007 06:39:00 AM
AND THERE'S
MORE ASTROLOGY AFTER THE CUSP
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Biography
American musician. A dynamic vocalist and pianist of rock 'n roll since the '50s. Self-taught on the piano, he projects arrogant self-confidence on stage and uses his whole body in his performance. He started playing piano by ear at age eight and was a pro from the time he was 14. In the early '60s, he mainly did pop and rhythm and blues and changed to county western in 1968.
Lewis played over 250 engagements a year until 1981 when he was hospitalized with stomach problems. After 1986 he did mostly club work. Two of his great hits are "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" and "Great Balls of Fire."
He went through a period of bad publicity when he married his 13-year-old cousin, whom he later divorced. By 1986 he had racked up a total of six marriages and divorces.
He took his sixth wife, Kerrie, in 1984 and they had a son in 1986. Kerrie managed Lewis' business affairs, but the marriage began to unravel in 1996 and concluded two years later.
On 4/22/2002, she finally served divorce papers, two days short of their 18th wedding anniversary. On June 15, 2005, his divorce from his sixth wife was finalized in Hernando, MS.
Events
- Relationship : Divorce dates 15 June 2005 (Divorce finalized from sixth wife, Kerrie)
- Relationship : Marriage 1984 (Sixth wife, Kerrie McCarver)
- Family : Change in family responsibilities 1986 (Son, Jerry Lee Lewis III)
- Health : Decumbiture 1981 (Hospitalized for stomach problems)
Jerry Lee Lewis L'hippodrome de Pantin (1:00:00)
Jerry Lee Lewis L'hippodrome de Pantin (1:00:00)
*YOU GET dropped cæsura-deep (13:00) into Paris with its amour profondément respectueux des ténèbres pour tous les Lewises, Jerry et Jerry Lee, semblables, a passionate combustibility more deeply profound than our ownership allows in the States.
This 1981 model (mon âge de tendresse, 18 ans. ma découverte), Jerry Lee Lewis seems to enjoy it all night long.
Here is the Killer at FULL zenith, God-given talent, comfortably couched among his three other first-person invoked, proclaimed posse, 'Stylists,' whose number obeys its powerful odinal Trinity, triumverate, tripartite, rule-of-three, and whose position, he damn sure assumed and filled with his idols and fellow fuck-ups, each one, though, possessing the one quality of which he is authenticaly instilled: the fully recognized unwavering acknowledgement, first, at the age of four, from his mother, and then soon and prodigiously praised as if to and of a god, both of Heaven, whose Pentecost they served and sang to, of, and with, the undeniable presence ordinanced and testified by fire, this religion's matriarch and munificent moralizer, founded on love, but fulminate of the Holy Spirit, whose paltry presence was not private, but more forcefully a mounting rider in charge of gesticulation, ululation, and its ultimate Gift,
λαλιά (laliá, “talk, chat”).
-laliaSuffix
- Forming nouns denoting abnormal or disordered forms of speech.
THE SPEAKING IN TONGUES TOLD ELOQUENTLY IN AN UNKNOWN LANGUAGE ONLY DISCERNABLE BY IT OR ITS CHOSEN RIDERS TO SUBMIT AND GIVE IT ITS WORDS BACK TO IT SO THAT IT COULD UNDERSTAND THEM AND CONTINUE TO INVEST ITSELF IN THE GIFT OF THESE WORDS OF RECOGNITION AND RITUAL.
fully formidable oratorial expression, the very embodiment of one's self-expression defined and denied to all others by virtue of its virtuosic puissance d'elegance; libraries of unironic, gliss-blissed, 88-key-solos, finger-flying, volant, digits barely touching ivory; and not unlike Dorothy in Oz, shotcalling solo is his YOLO: no set to distract, no chart to GPS from modality to modulation, inflection to invention, disinhibition springs forth as muscle memory to a Lewis - speak badly of them, they KNOW it as jeaousy, but the final fuck-yous are either unheard or, being deaf, perhaps not understood from the laughing overconfidence, ignorance of self-loathing and its ugly child, apology, their schadenfreuden, your glimmer of doubt, predict and interdict your disbelievers - no problem.
Fawned- fussed-over prodigy, appreciated in his day, Jerry Lee is Mozart; Mickey Gilley, Jerry Lee and Jimmy Lee's 'double-first cousin,' his Salieri), or possibly endowed, though less through savantism, but equal, same grandiloquent summoner of genius whose job it is to author Stanley Booth, to reverently appraise, reference, reanimate a memory - whose soothsayer in Ralph Kramden, Jackie Gleason one night in the its perversely black and white night, "You can't put your arms around a memory,' never fearful of perjuring, and now I know, he was correct, and, I say too, PN is the true Memphis Bud Powell on steroids, Monk sans Haldol (more, Sweet Bird of Youth, Tennessee Williams, than Bud Powell), his glass, half-enclosed, never half-empty:
Phineas Newborn Jr. was Genius.
Whoops! Ohhh, the Carrera Sunglasses.
Yes, and the Jordache JEANS 'for men' (don't get it twisted, Killer).
This was also the year...was it Shawn Michelle Stevens Lewis?
No.
Maybe, Pumpkin, or Kay Kay?
Ask Peter Checksfield, https://peterchecksfield.com he knows a bit about the subject: Jerry Lee was being dressed for success, or the Senior Prom in powder blue, ruffled tux shirts (check), Cat 5 SEVERE, denominated by my fascination and adoption of its macho... 'Thy name shall be
a/the 'Ferriday Roll!'
highest, choked-up cuffroll a white man ever unnecessarily employed, self-identifying argot (to whom?), bicep deep, Skoal high; signifying to other Rednecks, as surely as stomach contents to gastroenterologist; organs aflame;
liver
bileful,
overburdened,
and beligerent, along with spleen, his two most belicose, offal instigatators - body pockets as dangerous and remorseless as his temper
*that sentence got away too...
from Ferriday to McComb, embellishing the fine sensibility of perfectly hard, full-length, seamed and glassen, his jeans, straight as true north or Charles Bronson, unashamedly self-identifying, or should that be defying any person with the balls enough or their bile engine, the spleen, again, to comment: HIS FUCKING JORDACHE JEANS FOR MEN COST HIM A HALF-DAY'S WORK, AND WHILE INITIALLY, FEELING EPICENCE AND BOA-CONSTRICTED, EVENTUALLY GAVE WAY TO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT CONFIDENCE NEVER BEFORE FROM ANY ORGAN HE POSSESSED. This he knew for certain, was not an organ: HIS DICK WAS PACKED IN FUCKING TIGHT LIKE A CANNON WADDING, READY AND FUCKING IMPATIENT TO FIND SOME COWGIRL WITH HIS SAME BRAND AND SENSE OF COMPACT SECURITY IN HER PUSSY, SO SURE WAS HE, THAT THIS WAS SO, HE WAITED LIKE A GIGOLO AT THE CORNER OF THE BAR AND WATCHED 'EM STEP IN AND OUT OF PARTNERS OF DIFFERENTLY BRANDED JEANS, LIKE FUCKING STRANGERS... WORRYINGLY TIGHT; culminating in the superstructure perched snugly atop his follicularly fulsome vainglory, which grew from his geneticaly superior family of hirsute foreigners, whose ego was only met by their mendacity, and though the follicles had long been tamed, greased down and forcibly prostrated through severe chemical hazards; embalmed-then-sedated, traumatized, jet-stained (or one-under jet noir), like Elvis, but without Larry Geller's Psychic Reading List, or Dilaudid Shampoo, dyed ever day (night!) and only occasionally betrayed by a sweaty bead dyed but unnoticed even as his bizarre ritual of scarfing the instamatic worshipers, screamed, fought, showed tits for the next Sweat-stained article briefly but lightning fast like Sichuan Opera's master Facechange artists, who changed faces more deftly than un salope de Paris en le Pigalle a minuit avec ne d'argent pas, et cravent de le Soupe d'oignon ... shroud of Turin, his spiritual hairdressing hairdresser, on call for almost anything.
ultimately from Ancient Greek θηριακή (thēriakḗ, “antidote”), feminine form of θηριακός (thēriakós, “concerning venomous beasts”), from θήρ (thḗr, “beast”). Compare theriac, theriacle.
a treacly-nosed fumée of Vitalis, Pomade, and hair dye; it caused some to tear up like the stealthy odorless effects of a furtive WMD, without warning, some people were immune, but others, it did repel without a cause.
This wisecracking peckerwood, Oscar Wilde, less wit, more fucking gusto, might vary from overly foppish to authentically uncaring of his wardrobe, not to the detriment of his red neck, saying by hue and flouresced glow alone: be careful after I have 4 drinks. I promise!
Enfin, la collusion errante entre digits et d’interior a l'archétype l'ivoire baise fin, l'ivoire baise bang, whose Steinway spellcaster sits sheepishly smoking stage left curtain, waiting for any sign of deference, but Jerry Lee, never diminishes, only burns until extinguishing his self-immolation (dreaming of Champ and Gene Autry, a recent Twilight Zone episode, or if they don't rerun Gunsmoke in his baby-grand stocked suite a la George V, he could tell JW to find Festus and Matt Dillon in the Pigalle, after, but c'est la vie. Now lets modulate out of G up to puttin' this motherfucker into bright white A).
it's just the best most flawlessly inspired, 'amphetamine-torqued, Ferrari engine with sexy leather, seamlessly stitched seats you ever fell for, or as Jerry Lee used to keep handy his favorite joke, rarely offered for his replaceable cast of rarely invested fellow flockers and thrill-killer acolytes from Paris to Pasadena:
"A female reporter comes aboard the Killer's tourbus before show. She takes a booth behind a comfortable table top and begins to untangle and arrange her necessary devices, camera, microphone and notebook.
While engaged and observing a 15-minute limit,
she demurely makes un petite parlez
to the Killer, ashen faced, fixed, half-rye, half-lie, assessing her corporeality;
more rejecting its unwholesome carriage and posture from too much fucking, an occupational hazard requiring short but frequent bouts of lasciviousness only he and Jimmy Swaggart could see.
She thinks, "Perhaps, he wants to eat me. Or just intimidate me."
She blurts out, "Jerry Lee, what is the wonderful fragrance you have on?"
The Killer replies whip-ready, cobra-quick; envenomated with highly lethal, bitumen-black gallows humor (way more, 'gallows'), more neurotoxic than immediate; multi-fanged, and full from boredom and business; part-test, part get-the-fuck-away, and part, I'll remember that look on your face, but not this town, trip-wired, never tired (he told me, 'I can hear the grass grow'); timing like Pryor,
reams of material from the
only
man whose huge prick made it impossible to not be cocksure (the Killer, still, not too sure about that dress, though), Uncle Milty Berle;
and finally as dry and secure as that great made up religion, whose founder, because of his preternatural horniness, prayed to regular Jesus, without his affirmative desired result, Joseph Smith encountered a different more progressive Jesus, whose Old Testament childhood felt more comforting to the horny Mormon than any other horny cult leader in town.
Whereupon that day, the new Jesus, descended from the American Indian, a Space Alien, a Bradu Bunch-sized family, whose wives were fucked in rotation by days, and whom you were constantly paying for sessions with a box and some bad memories (i tend to get the Latter Day Saints and Scientology way spun out, into some real weird hybrid religion which, depending on the iteration, generally comes together as either a super cool other religion, peopled with aliens, sisterwives, and everywhere, golden plates with Nautical designs signifying absolutely nothing but landlessness, as played by Tom Cruise, whose clearness is next to godlessness for its impossible-to-see see-through quality, representing perfectly Cpt. L. Ron Hubbard's magnificent majiscule religio-anti-scienfic fiction with one of the best while least credible origin stories, which if one is both receptive and of the mind with which to receive, accept and pay money to follow, then take solace in its understanding, find solace at its word salad of Jung meets Joyce Brothers, meets Isaac Asimov, meets Thor Hyerdal, meets, Goebels, meets Philip K. Dick, meets Tom Cruise AND Vinnie Barbarino, scenario, defined by its not thereness (Walker Percy would like that), whose absence makes the heart grow fonder by the minute, and whose obedience to its Orson Wellesian funhouse means that from one day to another, you don't know if you're praying to Lana Turner or you know the little creepy German actor, Peter Lorre, who if, excusing Bella Lagosi, I would have it in me to create a religion, I can think of no two other personages both endowed with celebrity and insalubity whose shear dichotomy and seeming unjuxtaposability seems both impossible and incredibly Match.com-perfect (only if John Huston can be God, however).
*This leftover word lagniappe from some poor sentence or paragraph above, whose punctuation was no match for my parenthtical antithetical desire to keep moving, unsympathetically forward, to the beat trilled lowly of Kerouac playing snare accompanied by Barry Hannah blowing something spare but complex as Russell's space jazz, to the more orthodox, less-tickertape process of, say, Grisham, than, say, Joyce; them together as cohesively, cogently, concupiscent.
Instead enjoy these words, and take them as a gift from me, for free to use and or directly insert into a sentence fragment or a trouve de le bon mots, libre, concordance-friendly, word-fix:
*too-clear while at the same time reserching your entire family tree at the huge golden domed HQ on Sunset Blvd. where you can check it out anytime you like, but you can never leave.
Science Fiction author, tax-exempt status (finally! good work, FBI), whose plan, now that he is dead and has time to plan things, calls for his return, but unlike, Jesus, no caves are involved; there are at least 6 prime plots of real estate in DMs realtor role as current Cpt., all multi-million dollar properties with incredible curb appeal, and available at a moments notice or later...no rush.
Mormon underwear, his favorite, Mr. Benny (he'll play Kenny Lovelace's fiddle sometimes after a show, by himself, frailing thoughtlessly, Benny's theme song, and he'll say to no one in particular,
'Jack Benny'll never die as long as I'm living.'
ready?
He replies before you answer; before you even know it's a question - now!
With his lip moving up his right face-side...
he used to yell at producer/pedophile Huey Meaux, the Crazy Cajun during the Southern Roots recording sessions in Memphis.
'Hey, hey, hey,
hey,
Thibadeaux!
You coonass bastard!
You'd look funny blowin' a horn without a lip!'
be here all week.Hippodrome de Pantin was a permanent circus-style tent venue located in the Parc de la Villette near the Porte de Pantin Métro stop in north-eastern Paris. It was constructed in 1974 as the Paris
Jerry Lee Lewis L'hippodrome de Pantin (1:00:00) * VOUS OBTENEZ une chute profonde de c'sura (13:00) à Paris avec son amour profondément respectueux des ténèbres pour tous les Lewises, Jerry et Jerry Lee, une combustibilité passionnée plus profond que ce que notre propriété permet aux États-Unis. Ce modèle de 1981 (mon âge de tendresse, 18 ans, ma découverte), #JerryLeeLewis semble en profiter toute la nuit.
Voici le tueur de FULL Zenith, talent conféré par Dieu, quelque part parmi ses trois autres personnages autoproclamés, "Stylistes", dont il a fait le numéro et dont il a assuré la position); solos gliss-blissard sardoniques puissants, élégants, doigts qui touchent à peine l'ivoire, pas de ligne, pas de graphique, pas d'inhibition, pas de problème; et, probablement à son époque, Mozart (Mickey Gilley, son Salieri), ou possiblement doté de la même grandiloquence invoquée par le génie dont Stanley Booth fait référence avec révérence, fait référence à, ne donne jamais vie à la pudeur de l'or, le véritable Memphis Bud Powell sur steroids , Moine sans Haldol (plus doux oiseau de la jeunesse, Tennessee Williams, que Powell Bud), le Phineas Newborn vitré était un génie. Phineas Newborn Jr.
Oups! Ohhh, les lunettes de soleil Carrera. Oui, et Jordache JEANS "pour les hommes", c'était aussi l'année (était-ce Shawn Michelle Stevens Lewis? Non. Peut-être Pumpkin ou Kay Kay? Demandez à #PeterChecksfield https: // peterchecksfield .com - Jerry Lee a été habillé pour le succès , ou le bal de promo - poudre bleue, volants, chemise de smoking, Cat 5 SEVERE, je l’ai nommée 'Ferriday Roll, étouffé, un homme blanc jamais employé inutilement, s’identifiant (à qui?); biceps profond, haute montagne , projetant tout dans son estomac, son foie et ses poches aussi dangereux ... jamais vu de Ferriday à McComb, beau et long comme un verre, comme Charles Bronson, le tout aboutissant au penthouse de la superstructure où, au-dessus de l'ego et de la mensonge, les follicules ils étaient depuis longtemps apprivoisés, graissés et prosternés devant leur teinte au jet sévère, embaumée, puis sédative, chimiquement traumatisée ou noire comme Jeton, comme Elvis, mais sans la coiffure spirituelle de Larry Geller; la fumée paisible de Vitalis, Pomade , et teinture pour les cheveux, faite par d'autres. perçant dans le bois, Oscar Wilde, cependant, moins d'esprit, plus d'enthousiasme, pourrait varier du haut à l'authentique sans se soucier de sa garde-robe, mais pas au détriment de son cou par sa seule lueur: soyez prudent après avoir bu 4 verres. J'ai promis!
Enfin, la collusion errante entre les doigts et l’intérieur a la fin fétiche en ivoire, ivoire, dont le magicien de Steinway est assis ridiculement en train de fumer, attendant le moindre signe de déférence, mais Jerry Lee ne diminue jamais, ne fait que brûler jusqu’à ce qu’il s'éteigne. immolation (rêvant de Champ et Gene Autry, un épisode récent de Twilight Zone, ou s’ils ne rediffusent pas Gunsmoke dans son gigantesque bébé après le George V, il pourrait dire à JW de trouver Festus et Matt Dillon dans la Pigalle, après, mais c'est la vie ... Maintenant faisons une petite différence pour cet enfoiré au blanc éclatant A).
c'est tout simplement le moteur Ferrari le mieux inspiré, le plus impeccablement inspiré qui soit, avec son cuir sexy, ses sièges parfaitement cousus, ou comme Jerry Lee avait l'habitude de garder sa blague préférée à portée de main, rarement offert pour ses personnages remplaçables et ses frissons tueurs acolytes de Paris à Pasadena:
"Une journaliste vient à bord du tourbus du tueur avant le spectacle." Elle prend place derrière une caméra et un microphone. et fait une petite conversation avec le tueur, la face cachée, figée dans un demi-seigle et demi-mensonge, en face de sa corporalité, mais sentant de plus en plus une malhonnêteté de la part de son port et de la posture de son risque professionnel, nécessitant de nombreuses extrémités d'une longue lascivité pense, "Peut-être, il veut me manger. Intimide-moi simplement."
Elle explosa: "Jerry Lee, quel est ton merveilleux parfum?"KublaKhan
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
By Samuel Taylor Coleridgeplease take my Bonnie Lee Bakley test on that linguist site i use. i just want to see if it works and scores correctly.
Text: BONNIE_LEE_BAKLEY |
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