PDF Bury My Clothes

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It should add to the picture to know that the nightgown was white lace, and the car was powder blue; it might add to the myth to know that the grave was then covered in concrete to keep out the looters.

Prior to her death — which was, although I hardly feel I need to write it given the context clues, from an overdose of drugs prescribed by a Dr. The Queen of the Nile mixed these more modest gowns with seductive Egyptian fashions, much in the same way that modern women mix designers and styles both high and low.

Style has evolved: the specifically feminine power of glamour, in life and in burial, has not and never will. Cleopatra was not a silver witch, but a golden one. Sandra West is easier by far to align with the rhinestone; but power, like money and celebrity, is marked by degrees.

We have always behaved like lunatics when it comes to our best-looking, most noted dead. Anna Nicole Smith was not a good actress. She was a good gold-digger. Much the same volte-face occurred at the funeral of Zsa Zsa Gabor, whose life spent in pursuit of millionaires and billionaires left her wanting a death spent in Gucci, Cartier, Versace and De Beers. The pall-bearers wore pink ties and pink roses in their buttonholes.

She was not a world figure. She was not a queen. She was not a president. She was not anything. Zsa Zsa Gabor, likewise, started from nothing and earned more through marriage. Both were laid to rest while dressed for a fantasy that had nothing to do with male fantasy — after a lifetime in service to men and their sex drives, it followed that Zsa Zsa and Anna Nicole armed themselves for the next world in line with the tastes of young girls, or at least girlie girls.

Where were you, and at what age, when childhood first ended? Anna Nicole Smith certainly knew. All the beatings and the whippings and rape? It was a weakness for Marilyn, certainly. Anna Nicole Smith may have agreed deep down with Gabor, given that she seemed to love no man more than her son, Daniel, and that she once claimed to hate the way men wanted sex all the time.

A princess dress does not invite male attention. A rhinestone blanket for a shroud does not signal sex. It does signal something like pre-adolescence.

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Having your ashes placed in a handbag by Louis Vuitton is another way of writing a love-letter, not to a man, but to commerce. The squandering of the spoils of war when the war in question is the battle of the sexes is, when all is said and done, a great middle finger in Cartier diamonds. Bela Lugosi died for real in , and in the song in ; the first of these deaths was the cruelest, for reasons other than those you might at first suspect, i. The cruelty lay in the presentation — Bela Lugosi was buried as Dracula rather than Bela Lugosi, which meant that his wishes were roundly ignored, and his coffin became a prop-coffin instead of a dignified resting-place.

He will never again play Dracula on the stage, he says. If the wide distribution of the film did not make such a venture unprofitable, he would refuse because of the nervous strain the gruesome character puts upon him. I can think of several modern celebrities who, if pressed hard enough, might agree with this idea: that playing a character costs lives.

  1. Burn My Clothes, Bury My Crown Lyrics.
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  4. Burn My Clothes, Bury My Crown.
  5. Similar to Isaac Gracie Burn My Clothes, Bury My Crown at The House of St Barnabas.

It costs us the self. As I said about the mask celebrity being, as John Updike once wrote, one that eats at the face , it obscures, and it obfuscates. Michael Jackson used his costume as a means of either disguising his monstrous, real self, or disguising his bad reputation. Lugosi stayed hidden behind his regalia. One might argue that the same thing had happened again and again in his life, and that necessity forced him to play at the vampire, the ghoul, even when his desires ran counter.

He had never wished to spend his eternity acting the bloodsucker, but this is sometimes a Hollywood symptom. The whole town is full of extortionist evil; almost everybody who is very rich or very famous has sucked and is sucked on. The very best route for appropriating horror is, after all, capitalism.

I guess I brought a pound. I just took the drugs. I got sicker and sicker. Seeing him lying there feels less like evil than seeing, for instance, the picture that covered the National Enquirer when Whitney Houston had died: another dope fiend or dope ghoul under cover of darkness, who drowned in the coffin-like space of the bathtub.

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The notable thing about Houston is that she is just Houston , lying there. Barefaced and wearing a basic black dress, there is no mistaking her. This makes it easier to see that a spark has gone out. Ebullient in life even when life was not necessarily easy, a person like Whitney whose fame does not and has not ever relied on a costume, a marker style, or on a falsified character — someone whose particular famousness is rooted in talent and joy qua talent and joy — is a different thing.

Kings, Queens, gold-diggers, sex symbols, monsters and Hollywood vampires all end the same way. To die with style is still to die; the rest is debated by history. Philippa Snow is a London-based freelance writer and features editor of the magazine Modern Matter. Post my meaning Write my explanation new To explain lyrics, select line or word and click "Explain". OK, got it!

And how tenderly would I have to whisper That it's ok, that we can go?

Bury My Clothes ' Bonair-Agard, Roger | eBay

But how cold the touch of your tongue Your weighted words make no sound [Verse 2] But how violent must my loneliness become To burn my clothes, bury my crown? And how blessed is the diamond in the rough Who would offer her embrace? And how foolishly the lonely mind can wander And blinding lights falling down And I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner So burn my clothes, and burn my crown [Outro] 'Cause would it be enough for you to love me? Oh no, it wouldn't I'd never be enough for you Explain Request. To explain lyrics, select line or word and click "Explain".

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The Clothes They Were Buried In

More Isaac Gracie lyrics. You Only Live Once. Darkness Of The Day.