Marc Bolan Quotes

I think I am a child. Everything blows my mind.

THERE WAS A TIME" "There was a time, everything was fine. You got drunk on the day like it was wine. And all the children, They put flowers in their hair. And all the grown-ups, They put daggers there instead.

A DAY LAYE" "Every dawn of our lives a heart is forged and Linked with lore to one so similar Born with blessed life dust Stored beneath its soul To bless and pass onto its children Even though the wind may blow it all away Don't ever worry 'cos I'm your friend.

glam rock and progressive pop, preferably British and often of the androgynous variety: David Bowie, Sparks, Mott the Hoople, Steve Harley, Marc Bolan, Small Faces, Roxy Music, with Suede as a contemporary bookend.

We have all lived through that shriveling moment when a parent walks into a room and repeats, with sardonic disbelief, a couplet picked up from the stereo or the TV. 'What does that mean, then?' my mother asked me during Top of the Pops. "Get it on / Bang a gong"? How long did it take him to think of that, do you reckon?' And the correct answer - 'Two seconds, and it doesn't matter' - is always beyond you, so you just tell her to shut up, while inside you're hating Marc Bolan for making you like him even though he sings about getting it on and banging gongs.

ISCARIOT" "A box of doves I placed beside your chest Liar A stork of silk With rubies in it's nest Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. A mare of wood Elder, elm and oak Liar Will keep you fair If you jest me no joke Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. I'm old and bruised But my fate is that of youth Liar Trickster you Be a grisly dragon's tooth Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. You gashed the heart of my heart Like a Portuguese Witch, I'd planned for you this land But you devoured my hand.

COSMIC DANCER" "I was dancing when I was twelve I was dancing when I was aaah I danced myself right out the womb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself right out the womb I was dancing when I was eight Is it strange to dance so late I danced myself into the tomb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself into the tomb Is it wrong to understand The fear that dwells inside a man What's it like to be a loon I liken it to a balloon I danced myself out of the womb Is it strange to dance to soon I danced myself into the tomb But then again once more I danced myself out of the womb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself out of the womb.

Our bed of love is like a glove, tender and warm, that we creep into

Of course there was no more T. Rex. Marc Bolan had wrapped his sports car around a tree and was lucky not to be alive.

SUMMER DEEP" "Summer deep is in the hills again His lady is a lioness Winds of birds blow through the fields again Invaders from the true worlds A coat of grapes is on my back again I ride upon my zebra Pterodactyl beak hat on my brow The truth is like a stranger Be like you could All my friends say.

BALLROOMS OF MARS" "You gonna look fine Be primed for dancing You're gonna trip and glide All on the trembling plane Your diamond hands Will be stacked with roses And wind and cars And people of the past I'll call you thing Just when the moon sings And place your face in stone Upon the hill of stars And gripped in the arms Of the changeless madman We'll dance our lives away In the Ballrooms of Mars You talk about day I'm talking 'bout night time When the monsters call out The names of men Bob Dylan knows And I bet Alan Freed did There are things in night That are better not to behold You dance With your lizard leather boots on And pull the strings That change the faces of men You diamond browed hag You're a gutter-gaunt gangster John Lennon knows your name And I've seen his

PAVILIONS OF SUN" Swans do fly High above you All the time Prince of Sun From his pavilion Makes you shine Come, come, come into my garden, lady love Maybe I can hold your gold hand Glide within my gold grove, lady love Know the earth and you'll understand

DOVE" "All my days are leafy blue Because I'm not with you All my words are ragged steel When I'm not with you See how the sun shines Like an arc where you walk All my fears are water clear When I'm not with you All I hear is wicked dear When I'm not with you

MAMBO SUN" "Beneath the bebop moon I want to croon with you Beneath the Mambo Sun I got to be the one with you My life's a shadowless horse If I can't get across to you In the alligator rain My heart's all pain for you Girl you're good And I've got wild knees for you On a mountain range I'm Dr. Strange for you Upon a savage lake Make no mistake I love you I got a powder-keg leg And my wig's all pooped for you With my hat in my hand I'm a hungry man for you I got stars in my beard And I feel real weird for you Beneath the bebop moon I'm howling like a loon for you Beneath the mumbo sun I've got to be the one for you

Our lives are merely trees of possibilities.

You slide so good with bones so fair, you've got the universe reclining in your hair...

I don't like telephones.

Book after book, I get hooked, every time the writer talks to me like a friend.

LIFE IS STRANGE" "Strange, life is strange, life is strange, Oh life is strange. O god, life is strange, People come and people go, Some move fast and some move slow, No, no, no, no, no. O god, life is good, Some are fat and some are thin, Some don't even ask you how you've been, No, no, no, no, no. Strange, life is strange, life is strange. Oh life is strange. O god, life is strange, Some are fast and some are slow, Some believe, me don't even know, No, no, no, no, no. Strange life is strange, life is strange. Oh my life is strange

RIDE A WHITE SWAN" "Ride it on out like a bird in the skyway, Ride it on out like you were a bird, Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam, Ride it all out like you were a bird. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long,babe,you can't go wrong. Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead, Say a few spells and baby,there you go, Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder, And in the morning you'll know all you know. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long, babe ,you can't go wrong. Da di di da, da di di da

SPACEBALL RICOCHET" "I'm just a man I understand the wind And all the things that make the children cry With my Les Paul I know I'm small But I enjoy living anyway Book after book I get hooked everytime The writer talks to me like a friend What can I do We just live in a zoo All I do is play the spaceball ricochet Deep in my heart There's a house That can hold just about all of you I bought a car It was old but kind I gave it my mind and it disappeared I love a girl She is a changeless angel She's a city it's a pity that I'm like me I said how can I lay When all I do is play The spaceball ricochet I'm just a man I understand the wind And all the things that make the children cry With my Les Paul I know I'm small But I enjoy living anyway, yes too Deep in my heart There's a house That can hold just about all of you How can I lay When all I do is play The spaceball ricochet Oh Baby, the spaceball ricochet Oh Mama, the spaceball Oh, do the spaceball ...

Johnny Rotten slouches at the front of the stage, propped up on the mike stand. He's leaning so far forward he looks as if he might topple into the empty space in front of the audience. · His face is pale and his body is twisted into such an awkward ugly shape he looks deformed. He looks ordinary, about the same age as us, the kind of boy I was at comprehensive school with. He's not a flashy star like Marc Bolan or David Bowie, all dressed up in exotic costumes, he's not a virtuoso musician like Eric Clapton or Peter Green, he's not even a macho rock-and-roll pub-band singer – he's just a bloke from Finsbury Park, London, England, who’s pissed off. Johnny sneers at us in his ordinary North London accent, his voice isn't trained and tuneful, it's a whiny cynical drawl, every song delivered unemotionally. There's no fake American twang either. All the things I'm so embarrassed about, John's made into virtues. He's unapologetic about who he is and where he comes from. Proud of it even. He's not taking the world's lack of interest as confirmation that he’s wrong or worthless. I look up at him twisting and yowling and realise it's everyone else who's wrong, not him. How did he make that mental leap from musically untrained, state-school-educated, council estate boy, to standing on stage in front of a band? I think he's brave. A revolutionary. He's sending a very powerful message, the most powerful message anyone can ever transmit. Be yourself.

Well you're slim and you're weak You've got the teeth of a hydra upon you. You're dirty sweet and you're my girl.

Rock ’n’ roll, the superhero to a new generation of misfits, was my lifesaver. A magical conduit to a celebration of outrageousness, sexuality, and decadence came through the music. I could hear it, see it, and feel it. I knew Bowie or Marc Bolan would never have fit in where I was either. The same guys who dug their music would have tortured them as schoolmates.

If God were to appear in my room, obviously I would be in awe, but I don't think I would be humble. I might cry, but I think he would dig me like crazy.

Wanting to use someone he had not worked with before, and who could give him an up-to-date sound, he settled on Tony Visconti, a New Yorker whose work with David Bowie and Marc Bolan’s T. Rex made him one of the hotter producers on the London scene. Laine had worked with Visconti before he joined Wings; Visconti wrote the arrangements for Denny’s classical-rock hybrid, the Electric String Band. And Paul knew him slightly—he had married Mary Hopkin in 1971.

When I was a teenager I had posters of all of my favorite musicians up on my bedroom walls—David Bowie, Marc Bolan, Edgar Winter’s They Only Come Out at Night, and the first KISS album. My dad didn’t really know what to make of it. One time he came into my room while I was listening to music and looked at all the posters and said, “You’re a fag, aren’t you?” This was an actual one-sided conversation we had.

Marc Bolan—name-dropped in the line “the DJ was playing some get-it-on rock ’n’ roll”—had camped it up on Top of the Pops first, but he was cute, unthreatening; David and the Spiders were dangerous, a warning to lock up not only your daughters but also your sons.

I love this room, said Moctezuma, you can't imagine how I miss being a priest. Where there were splotches of blood, he saw sprays of flowers. The withered fingers of the hands of great warriors sacrificed during the year's festivals swayed pleasingly like the branches of a small tree to the beat of some music he couldn't place, though in a possible future we would have recognized it. It was T. Rex's "Monolith." The priest was also up to his ears in whatever he had taken to carry out his temple duties, so he bent his magic powers of hearing to the music and caught the sexy crooning of Marc Bolan. He smiled. That's good stuff, he said. Moctezuma swung his hips to the beat. It's nothing I've ever heard before, he replied, but I like it. He pulled his elbows in tight and shimmied, moving his head gravely from side to side, transfixed by pleasure. The priest, swaying his own ass to the beat—he was nearly eighty, but on mushrooms he was a jaguar-said, I was thinking about you, believe it or not; look at this.