Cocorosie – K-hole – Noah’s Ark

tiny spirit in a k-hole
bloated like soggy cereal
god will come and wash away
our tattoos and all the cocaine
and all of the aborted babies
will turn into little bambies

wounded river push along
searching for that desert song
and mozart’s requiem will play
on tiny speakers made of clay
tell my mother that i love her
martin luther you’re an angel

charming monkey saunter swagger
drunken donkey limbs disjointed
your chest is a petting zoo
mexican pony fucked up shoes
i dreamt one thousand basketball courts
nothing holier than sports

dragonfly kiss your tail
precious robot built so frail
universe of milk and ember
your hot kiss in mid december
what’s god’s name i can’t remember
through the crack eye lovely weather

I could almost write a line-by-line commentary of this song, it speaks such volumes to me. When I discovered ketamine I was so enamoured of this drug that I spent a considerable amount of time researching it and trying to work out what drawbacks it could have, because it didn’t seem to have anything wrong with it. I discovered the term k-hole, and realised that there was a name for the amazing, mind-blowing experience I had gone through. And when I googled k-hole, I found Cocorosie’s song.
I had first heard of Cocorosie about a year earlier, when my Argentinian flatmate Gala had tried to get me to appreciate them. I must have had shit in my ears cos I impatiently walked off after the first song. When I downloaded this song however, I was enchanted by every detail, the voices, the lyrics, the music, the sound effects… I immediately downloaded both their albums, La Maison de Mon Reve, and Noah’s Ark, and fell in love with their style and work.

K-hole is a song which makes zero sense — unless you are a ketamine user, and also a music-obsessed, self-inflicted-misery-fleeing girl such as myself. As well as little phrases which perfectly capture the sensations of a trip on k, there are lines such as
god will come and wash away
our tattoos and all the cocaine
and all of the aborted babies
will turn into little bambies
which speak volumes to me. Tattoos, cocaine, abortions… all purified by the great heights reached on k.

Those beautiful final lines, what’s god’s name i can’t remember/through the crack eye lovely weather immediately conjure up the memory of a Monday morning, where I glided back to earth after the shambles of a night of being somewhere else, and found myself laying on the floor of Steve’s living-room. The curtains were drawn but through a crack in the curtains, bright light was streaming into the house. I crawled towards the window and twitched the curtains. Outside the sky was beautiful, and everything felt so unreal, floaty and unimportant. I was disoriented but content — perhaps content is the wrong word. It’s more likely to be a form of disinterest; nothing matters, and you know that with absolute certainty on ketamine.

~ by orange on June 18, 2007.