eight tooth remaining (eight tooth left).

Good yawning to thee, and welcomb to the silliest little blot you ever did sawn. My name is the Lohn Jenny, and I am a famous (not to mention famous) gueetarist (and mouth organist) for a famous band, a band from a far, far away land called Great Broodin'. This blonde is wear I do the writty, and sometimes even a little bittle of inter(as well as outer)acting with ye fool-born devil mons. Yours crudely, John Lennon xx Writing/RP blog for the 'Writing Beatle'.

[amerrysight]

i'm beginning to say "reckon" regularly. it'd be cute if i didn't live in the deepest, most reckon-iest part of the south in the entire US.

[fuckindiva]

Visit Original Link

I’m Only Sleeping features the then-unique sound of a reversed guitar duet played by Harrison. He perfected the part with the tape running backwards so that, when reversed, it would fit the dreamlike mood. At about 1:57 into the song, a barely audible voice (probably Lennon’s) can be heard saying, “Yawn, Paul”, followed by a slightly more audible yawn. The first draft of Lennon’s lyrics for the song suggests that he was writing about the joys of staying in bed rather than any drug euphoria sometimes read into the lyrics. While not on tour, due to his lack of routine, Lennon would often spend his time sleeping, reading, writing or watching television, often under the influence of drugs, and would often have to be woken by McCartney for songwriting sessions. Maureen Cleave, a friend of Lennon’s, wrote in 1966: “He can sleep almost indefinitely, is probably the laziest person in England.” x

[misanthrope1993]

[amerrysight]

-profusely clicks pen in ear- M'gointer need y'er siggy, ye' feckin' wordsmith.

Lennon’s dormant psyche hardly registers the monotonous din in his ear, though he manages to sift this disturbance out in the midst of idle rumination. Wrist slovenly plunges backward, haphazardly seizing the utensil from his partner’s malicious grasp. He depresses its mechanism, transpiring in the uptake of its ink, sly oculars vetting over its shaft as though it had just occurred to him that he’d managed purloin it from the perfectionist. Bleary orbs make no endeavor to regard his partner, a subtle form of consequential retaliation for having disturbed the surly beast in the wake of drunken torpor. Despite having imbibed strong waters, he is remarkably coherent, capable of ‘rational’ cogitation — as well as the swollen complacency incited by his partner’s unabashed plea.

     “'Course ye' will. Reckon tha's not th' only thing ye' need 'nyway, y'cheeky twat.”

John’s nearly prostrates onto the adjacent couch cushion as he extends the occupied hand to drum a fastidious rhythm into McCartney’s cranium with the utensil he now wields, a way of pushing his vague implication along. His tongue meticulously ensconces itself into the pocket of his lip before a pearly frontier of bottom denticles, brows vanishing beneath copper locks as they ascend.

     "Can’t very well expect t’ be growin’ crops when there’s not a trace a’ sunlight t’ be found in tha’ dull dome a y’ers, eh? Never ‘ave ‘ad much of a green thumb, 'ave ye', lad?”

Albeit the rejoinder is excessively abrasive, it is not nearly uncharacteristic of the pleasantly facetious guitarist. Despite its corrosive nature, the delivery is entirely jocular, intentions wholly innocuous. It is no secret that McCartney is the only balladeer within their ensemble to which Lennon can rightfully pay his respects, and he is confident that Paul is acutely aware of this fact.

[amerrysight]

Once up on the times, there loved a lived girl name Potted Patty who was potty for pretty poppies. “Me thinks me take meself a whiffle, I will,” she seed, plucking petty poppy pettels from the mum mums pretty pot and stuff up her nairy hose. Anyway she do this every day nigh for six weak (or was...

[amerrysight]

-holds out an alphabet block to-

Lennon remains crouched beside the distrait tot, spectating with mild curiosity as he assembles a pyramid out of his assortment of blocks. "Ho! ho! Look! Th’ lad’s already good with ‘is hands —- jus’ like his Uncle Johnny, eh?” Lennon proceeds with his aloof observation, though the illusion is shattered as a block is proffered to the snarky guitarist. 

"Wha’s this?" The inquiry purports more bemusement than it merits, decidedly fitting for his audience. He gently pries the block from diminutive digits, squinting as he vets over the token. "Why, I couldn’t possibly take this off y’er hands, no matter ‘ow much ye’ insist. You’ll thank me one day, mate —- the block exchange may very well be rubbish t’day, but it won’t stay tha’ way f’erever, y’know.”

Lennon would certainly, hastily deny the look of contentment that taints his impervious countenance, the genuine simper that embellishes angular physiognomy as he meets cherub’s dumbfounded gaze.

[amerrysight]

John snatches the remains of George's sandwich from his hands. He waits until he's commanding George's undivided attention to propel it into his gullet, denticles emphatically bearing down upon the sliver of sandwich remaining. Orbs facetiously goggle, apples of his cheeks inflating as he maintains a steady rhythm in his chewing. Then, he swallows, plunging into a false climax. He throws his head back, moaning his approval as it proceeds down the narrow canal into oblivion. When all is said and done, he claps a condoling hand upon the juvenile guitarist's shoulder.

     "Should'a been a deli worker, son. Would've really put those grimy digits a' y'ers to work, 'nyway."

[amerrysight]

lennonx → amerrysight

[tangerine-and-heartbreaker]

John Lennon by Astrid Kirchherr,1966.

[amerrysight]

keep a clean nose ;; 1965

     Meticulously slathering shaving cream onto an angular mandible, Lennon unceremoniously bows into the vicinity of the complimentary loo mirror, virtually unaware of the comely bloke engaged in a similar occupation adjacent to him. At the reminder of his presence, roguish optics spare a hasty glance, squinting menacingly at the reflection of his engrossed counterpart. Lanky digits plunge into the excess of shaving cream as he beckons the attention of the taciturn bassist.

     “‘Ay Paulie, ye’ missed a spot!” He innocuously imparts on the insensible balladeer, musculature pivoting to confront the opposing male. Without ascertaining consent, Lennon slaps the softener onto the diminutive sniffer of his unassuming coequal, humming with obnoxious fervency as he procures the razor from its resting position atop the counter. “’Ow-nly taek eh minute uf ye’ tiem, ser.” He commands, scouse pointedly emphasized, tone befitting of an urchin as he clamps rounded nostrils between trustworthy digits, humming proceeding at maximum volume. He tugs the feature every which way in order to ghost the blade across the surface of its flesh at every angle.

     “Stop ye’ warblin’, y’git. Got t'keep ye' good name, sir, Mr. Proctor, sir. Can’t very well be playin' f’er a bunch of Americans with a grimy noser, eh?”

[thegilly]

John Lennon photographed by Robert Whitaker and coloured by Martin Sharp.

[fuckindiva]

Visit Original Link

She Said She Said was described by Lennon as “an acidy song” with lyrics inspired by actor and counterculture icon Peter Fonda’s comments during an LSD trip in 1965 with members of the Beatles and the Byrds. Paul McCartney does not appear on the track; the bass is played by George Harrison. McCartney later recalled: “I’m not sure but I think it was one of the only Beatle records I never played on. I think we had a barney or something and I said, ‘Oh, fuck you!,’ and they said, ‘Well, we’ll do it.’” x

[amerrysight]

Once up on the times, there loved a lived girl name Potted Patty who was potty for pretty poppies. “Me thinks me take meself a whiffle, I will,” she seed, plucking petty poppy pettels from the mum mums pretty pot and stuff up her nairy hose. Anyway she do this every day nigh for six weak (or was it three) until one day a peppered old bladdered old olden who was anything but young walk down to her and say he, “Where fourth arth thouth thigh?” he says, and shaking his own feast in his face he did. “Dicky docky you are you are, pretty Patted Potty.” And he poles his peppered old bladdered old trousers to his earring lubes, and he say to her, he say, “Ought not ought to touch nom noms pity poppy pretties four you get yourself potted, you potted git!” 

Well this didn’t bode too well for Potted Pammy and so she a kriss the young chapstick on the floorhead. “Syrup you warbling swhine fer I beet you cross the fatty bead til you denseless you balmy bum bum!” (Ho! ho! good one Patty) And she skip anyway from he and she take moo moos pinky ponky poppy pots. So then Pappy Patty pick the last penny poppy (because she is pooty for panty loppies) and he sniff so hard she done picked her noser so hard with that last pretty puppy that she become quite bum bum herself. And so they found potted Potted Piper in they have a good larf an they say, “Now pretty Potted Patty who patty for giddy knotted ploppies is a pretty poppy too horf horf horf!!!” And now she weight for someone tutu pick her potty pedals befur she wilt away.