Photo by Philippe Halsman
Alfred Hitchcock’s wife, Alma Reville, poses lovingly with a refrigerated prop head of her dear husband.
Ok, we already had that poem on Meerschweinchenreport. But be honest: Wouldn’t it be a tremedous miss and loss not to use this unique opportunity repeating it? Any time more appropriate than right now?
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I thought I was sleeping under Brooklyn Bridge
When I woke up in my five star fridge.
I smelled so smoothly like ham ‘n eggs
With Snoopy peanut butter melted on my legs.
Cool Coke was running over my lips,
A trout was dangling between my hips.
In this position I felt so fine,
The trout was turning milk into wine.
I drank the stuff – spirit with function –
Deeply impressing my extreme unction.
I touched my body and I touched my shape,
I got no idea babe how to escape.
“Open the door, open my mind”
I was begging, gonna being nearly blind.
To be is like kitsch – oh what a mind file:
The living fridge – My new lifestyle!
The case is open, I’m still alive
The door was closed by my jealous wife.
It’s dark in here and also narrow,
Revenge is stronger than armor’s arrow.
My fridge is my castle and my castle in my home:
So welcome to the pleasure dome.
First I was shocked when I got locked
but the highest, highest kick is living unplugged.
“Open the door, open my mind”
I was begging, gonna being nearly blind.
To be is like kitsch – oh what a mind file:
The living fridge – My new lifestyle!
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via: Cakehead Loves Evil
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Sensitive topic. Therefore comments off.
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Tags: Alfred Hitchcock, Alma Reville, art, Fotografie, Kunst, Philippe Halsman, photography, Sonntagsgedicht
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