This song is listening to a Helmut Newton photograph. Nothing in it is supposed to fit but it does, there's a juxtaposition difficult to explain but when viewed it clicks and registers with a part of you brain impossible to access without the proper kinky stimulation. Maybe it is the old brain, possibly it is the perverted hemisphere not yet discovered that Freud was obsessed with discovering. In black and white there's a stupidly thin woman, impossibly tall with a dark beauty mark on her upper right arm, mermaid wavy brunette hair to match the color evidenced by a lack of waxing below. Laying on a Louis XVI bed with gold leaf piping and stained sheets, there's a nightstand with a glass of water sweating, standing in a small puddle that magnifies old ringed water stains next to a .357 King Cobra with a six inch barrel and a pair of tortoise Persols, the left temple missing. The bed sits on six inch black and white checkerboard tile with ambient sunlight peeking through white curtains, the shadows of the balcony loom and project contortedly across the room. She's not biting her lip, smiling or possessing any other come hither countenance, but is looking through you and breathes slowly, visibly through the expansion and contraction of her rib cage. You just walked into the room and this song is on.
And maybe I have no idea what I am talking about, maybe it is better to check it out yourself and let it melt, let it melt like a black candle and permeate the cotton of whatever hemisphere feels the connection.
