the water is deep
the ocean is high
the moon is tired
and the eyes are dry

the heart is pinching
and the fingers tingle
the stomache chruns
and the lips they wrinkle

the sighs continue
through up and down
of skipping beats
and permanent frowns

long ago
of a tidal sky
dreamt and imagined
on a quiet night

ex p a n d ing
p u l s a t i n g
ting-ting-ing-gling
ti ti ti-ckl-ing

as it passes
and as it fades
the remanence trickles
for decades

imagine all the comical things

my room is all alive. an exotic jungle of cotton pads, scissors, sharpeners, scraps and empty glasses. well half full if you wanna look on the bright side. business is good for the case of ole idle hands. sitting around, hearing all the sounds of the world go by and still. grounded, pulled by the great force of the earth to the seat. gravity they say. an ever present omnipotent force.

a comical jungle. with stuffs upon stuffs everywhere. not a place to rest a drink. not a place to rest. piles upon piles of clothing and clothed goods. heaps upon heaps of old water warped books. please forgive the mess, i beg of myself. tonight i will work, tonight i will bend forward and pick up the slacks that have grown wrinkled under the heavy woollen sweater. i'm sorry to the silk blouse that has been enduring months of unyielding pressure from her cotton-blend cousins who mock her discreetly as she forms age lines around her arm holes. i'm sorry baby.

the cat is on parade

i don't know if they call it alter ego, or ergo at the altar (of impending doom). if one has a fatalistic perception of the world they become ousted, like arab dictators - hiding in a hole six feet under the ground. every thought ends with i don't kno, and well there is always a doubt, because the more i've learned the less i've known. the more i've experienced the more i've been able to understand others and the universe, the less i've known about anything. good, bad, ugly... i don't know.

i am compelled to burn the midnight oil and tap tap tap away at these keys that seem to expel ambient frustration, agitation, anticipation, and recitation. vagueness is my window, where i can see clearly. sorry guys, i just don't know. i love the blank page here because it reminds me that anything is possible. even a semi-sane rant on ranting.

the last two days have been tough on my soul. nothing the matter just too much matter on my mind. manifesting itself in my jabbering utterances, my tonal vibrations and my oceanic movements. i'm tired of making sense, i mean cents. i realised the pursuit of money is never ending and that i'm more stressed now that i have more of it. i don't have time to spend it. i have a heavy conscious and feel a need to protect it.

i'm aware of myself. maybe too aware to the point of discomfort. when you begin to doubt every step or move, your brain goes on overload and you begin to stumble on yourself like a bumbling brit. one step forward one step back, one step to the side and another back to the centre. to the point where i've been in paralysis. i've been reading on enlightenment. tasting it with words so savoury. gosh how they can articulate it so well. this i understand. this i understand. but then again. i don't know.

action speaks louder they say. ok ok. let's get some action business going on here. can i for once love what i have? a good and sincere question that i'd never had asked myself in such a publique forum. can you get it? you being me and me being you. get it? can i? like the bless'ed one says, self-consciousness is the resonance of the mind being aware of itself. the repetitive echo we hear in a self-contained cave chamber.

i keep asking google questions about my self. how do i find my self? how do i follow my heart? how do i know if i love someone? as though google can answer for me. as if google were me. but is it not? it's a good questions. and for that girl who attests to not knowing, of course google is me, it knows me, and doesn't know me all the same. it just googles me and knows all the time.

if i could make one true statement here, it is that this statement isn't true; my humour is contagious. latently like a stomach virus, you only get it days after exposure. but i'd like to say that a free train of thought should be available everyday for passengers at the train station. this train does not require having a ticket, only a pulse, according to those more morbid souls. this train of thought takes you downtown where it's pretty dirty and grim, but also around the country side where there are vast fields of green vegetation and fertile land with endless possibilities. it also makes a pit stop around the suburban communities some gated with teenaged security guards. the safety here is imaginary just like the pass codes. but here you will be greeted and comforted, and you will see children playing in the streets and signs telling you that children are playing in the streets and babies in cars and signs telling you there are babies in cars. a beautiful paradise for birds of paradise.

this train of course is free, we already mentioned that, but what is great about this train is that it takes you away and it lets you visit those who live close and far. and this train serves all the trimmings. potato chips and bottled water. the most any intrepid traveler needs. but here this train will also navigate you towards a realm of unknown, and well that is pretty interesting. it takes you away from familiar sights and sounds, bodily smells and desires. it's like a dark room where you immediately feel inside of you, and this room fills with light as you breath in the new delight of oxygen that is our shared cesspool of love.

yeah yeah. i said it. we are all love. so be it. maybe this i know deep, way way way deep down. if you look you will find it my dears. and with this cessation of thought i bring myself this. some sort of secret pact between friends. best friends. swearing to each other to uphold one end of the deal. and that end is this. tell me about your day. breathe it. and share it. hop on the train of thought and be free for a sliver of time. release yourself. surrender to the train!

relevance is futile

Once upon time, not oh so long ago. A person existed, and yet still does damningly so! And this person didn't have much to say, quite silent at the mouth. But that is never the matter here. What happened was this. A moment of pure inebriation and the discovery of a wonderful place between two people. This was not expected nor was it dreamt up out of some Women's Weekly Digest. It was a moment of which nothing had meaning and nothing served her purpose more than to know thy name of thy handsome and well-dressed man across the bar. Without hesitation this became something more intense than Magma-Man meets Supernova Woman. Well at least from her gaze this was something spectacular and quite resonate. His taste was always in her mouth, and undoubtedly so, still remains there. Many a times she can recall the ruffles of his ageing skin against her____. But love works in mysterious ways, and no one really ever coined this one love. It was wonderful, splendid, like a hallucination, where reality just became everything so sensuous and humorous. Maybe it was the fact that they could laugh like four year olds, yet engage in serious Bonnie and Clyde-like criminality. It was sexy. Oh the sexiness. The costumes! The splendour of two very unlikely people to find one another amidst a bleak modern backdrop to actually enjoy one another's company. That was the simplicity and the beauty of it all. The presence of another, snoring in her ear as she would watch his face rise and fall with every breath. Nevertheless there was glamour and elegance (e.g. trying to look up a woman's skirt always induces feelings of sophistication).  Oh how he knew what she liked!

But time passes, and always will continue to do so. And in that midst of time they fell hard, not really for each other, although at one point maybe. But into their psychoticisms, maybe she more than he. But that is not the issue here. In full breath of it all, she was maniacal, and it is ever so humourus to try and piece together all the horrid things she'd written on those sad sad lines of paper, who really didn't want to be burdened with her own demented mind. But that is over and done with, thank all! And now, I/She/insert obscure female protagonist name, is still wandering this earth, with his bittersweet taste in her mouth. Oh, and every man with the same wrinkled edged smile she recovers long lost deep memories of him by her side. They feel ever so present and recent, like she could reach out and touch his nose, that little uprising nose of his, with one nostril slightly larger than the other. Don't worry secrets are safe. 

But that last of all is the most of all and ever for all will be that their time was not complicated by sex but was entirely fucked-up all over the wall with blood and brains about sex. Girl isn't a dummy and neither was he, the lack of consummation consumed her with self-doubt. How she wanted to ask polity and to beg for a moment of weakness for him to get close, but that was a pipe dream. And now, she only lives off of pipe dreams. Imagine the little sketch he bestowed to her, the old man cowering behind his shame, hiding himself before the viewer. And before she really knew it, she did know it. He was insecure, as was she. The most beautiful thing of all both of them in a purgatory of shame and bewilderment. Why can that not be the starting point of a union. A coming together of two unions of insecurity of alienability, for together they unite in shame towards the world and they can scream, "Hey you, yeah you, fuck you!" She was always on his side, and will always be on his side. This is her insecurity, for her love can break down walls and sail over seas of great depths! Her insecurity is where he will always find a sense of security. That he will always be loved with or without her by his side.

She is now miles away, in a land totally unknown to him, or her prior to these words on paper. There are no favours to begot, nor any questions to be answered, just a moment of truth, where a respect can be shared between two people. That is more beautiful than love.

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

california song

This is not like the time when i told you i can draw a man carrying a penguin. it was more like that time i told you not to look too hard. anyway. it is kind of like a place that i can only call upon when the time strikes a certain node, it's slightly unnerving, because i cannot predict the movement. at any rate!

it's what can only be told once!

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

fear thee? why not bestow it upon thee?

scaring people, a second to none efficient skill which enables power over others. take the living force out of them when they fear you, and laugh in their face that they cower in front of such a diminutive figure. they laugh out of fear, and you laugh with wild rage! bah ham bug! ignorant and humorous fools!

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

oh tell me why!

and from this story from you i reach along the soiled limbs and taste something ever so richer and deeper, that of the pan and the beauty of the pain and loss of something more profound, well a moment to remove myself from the goad forsaken profundity. When i ask the bald British men if they need help getting somewhere they cower in fear, and reply they know. They make me laugh, and i urge them to stick a weiner in their behind! And we all laugh, over a cup of tea. 

To return, I say this…

It is with great pleasure for me to announce that I have found a source rich in linguistic flavour and melodic symphonies for I feel I am blessed with these favour. But sullenly cursed at the same time, for I have not found my means of taming them. They are wild and little domestic. And love I do. But harder to swallow. 

why questions?

why can i be hating myself one moment?

why can i see the beauty in a throw hanging to dry?

why do i feel so hard some times i weep with poetry and music? 

why do i feel so hard some times i weep with shame and loathing?

why do i feel so aloof from my corporal self?

why do i stink so hard?

dreamenial

a basement of unfulfilled, unrequited and unearthed dreams. off-date, ill fitting, and irrelevant. scraps of them, falling apart, covered in dust. plagued by cynicism, antiquated dreams that only shine through in retrospective lenses. they are so broke. so broken, sharp edged, cowardly little pieces that cannot regroup that cannot be formed to fit again anything substantial. a room of them. filled to the brim of those soiled dreams and desires that fell off our shoulders into the sewers of time, of life. they're rotten now, and even the animals cannot feed off of them. those come and go with bright dreams to rebuild and salvage what can be salvaged from them. an ad hoc dream machine that stitches together broken hopes and successful failures to create a penultimate dream. scrapped together, cut and paste from everything that ever once was anything significant, retouched, remastered and reinvigorated. make a life of it. rebuilding crushed dreams found in the gutters. they sit waiting to be revisited and reconnected with. poor souls, bits and pieces of lost souls of lost ambitions and desires. fragile they are. crumbling at the slightest of breath, into dust into particles that fill our lungs with every breath. the sad reality and brutal truth of things that have fallen, failed and lost vigour in the face of true circumstances. the dream of rebuilding the romantic ambition of saving all that was lost and reinstating some dignity to those lost in time in brutality and injustice.

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

of love

it was like i couldn't breath i couldn't swallow my breath and couldn't stop from feeling like my heart was jumping out of my chest. ridiculing my own inability to cope with the stress, the burden of the distance the utter loneliness and despair. so totally alone in this bubble of a body that swells and shrinks at my command. i command thee, shrink, shrink to a minute detail on the wall, don’t be seen. shrink shrink, fade out become absorbed by surroundings and get swallowed by my own breath. 

the lump in my throat is growing. it’s visible to the naked eye, the lump it beats with my heart and it is a strange sight indeed. the lump just sits there, growing, commanding and halting life in front of me, what power it has, it consumes the energy from the lump in my chest and it steals the shimmer in my eyes, it blurs my sight, my vision becomes dark, my heart falls between my feet and then again there i am standing with it all exposed. 

laugh at it, go ahead it’s not a matter anymore, what is the matter anymore. doesn't even matter anymore. just another. just another matter among matter, and then slowly fading, ageing and wrinkling, alone and shrewd, bitter and dried out humour, dried eyes and a parched mouth. sticking to myself. sticking itself to the roof of my mouth. my tongue is absent, it fails to move, it fails to speak. the thoughts float on by and are forever forgotten like the girl who sits in the corner wallowing in self-pity soon to be forgotten, never again to be heard from, there is no sorrow, it is in good fun, there is nothing to understand anyway. 

it’s in good fun. it’s ok because we’re all scum anyway right. whose scum do i allow near me, whose scum is bearable enough. who can bear my scum. when two scums come together they form more dirt than ever, filth, filthy lies of affection, of connection, of appreciation and of trust, oh of trust, what a dump. the trust we lost as soon as we were expelled from the womb and now we search everlasting like blind rats for trust, for hope, but we search in tunnels of scum, of sewage of treacherous alleyways, in drunken states hoping yes hoping to return to a state of trust, of comfort of forgiveness, like utter forgiveness for our own scummy ways. It’s not there it’s not here it’s not anywhere i tell you. jump from the roof and you will see that the trust is inside of your lump waiting to burst into a million molecules of flesh and blood. oh of blood. the trust is there, you cut me and i bleed, i trust in that. you scorn me and i shall bleed even more, you disregard me you mock my scum filled brain and i bleed, i bleed inside. and the bleeding clots in my heart and forms lumps in my throat and i cannot swallow, for i only swallow blood, and i choke, i choke on it and i spew blood all over this scummy place and we can roll around in each other’s scum, but i can’t trust that you would appreciate it, as your scum is just as ineffectual as mine. 

we’re caged, caged in our burdensome search for trust which i tell you again cannot be found, unless you plummet from the top of a building. the serenity of it is mind blowing. the fascination, the blood splattering everywhere the crunching and the moaning, oh how i could roll in this scum for a while and really trust in me i will enjoy it. fickle no? but i still cannot breath, i’ve been pretending to do so for a while now and i even believe my own damned lies and tell myself that yes it’s there the trust the air that i breathe it’s real and it does penetrate deep into my blood filled veins and pumps into my soiled heart and yes it feels, it feels when it’s not consumed by it’s own scumminess. goodness me where can we go with this anymore. we’ve been depriving one another for so long now and it’s about time to put your face in the scum you’ve created and eat what you can, spare the scraps for the birds and the strays to wallow in their own self-pity and scavenge for remains. they are scum too, i tell you. but they are wise and do not trust the others to open anything for them, for they have been here before they have seen for the most part the scummy nature of things. there is a very deep understanding, we shall not call it trust, of this. open up your mouth and taste the bloody mess of it all, it’s very satisfying to taste the scum and not lie anymore to yourself about the beauty of it or anything. ha. i laugh in your face now, and i choke too. but it’s ok, we’re all choking on something. be it matter or not it doesn’t matter. 

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

finger work

through unravelling a tangled web of yarn, and dozing into a drift of passing thoughts i recall the happiness of manual hand held labour. the movement of the fingers, the delicacy of touch, the pleasure of endurance.

what happens to those forgotten in history of great mediocrity. those fallen victim to modest humility and earnest banality. short of the written word, the oiled painting, the coaled etching. no blockbuster no ballbuster. what about that. the unknown the dearth of the nigh.

men at work. build me a house baby, build my life around yours. a bottomless pool, trees of golden apples, double doors, opaque windows, a wrap around balcony more to see you with. invite me into your workshop. i can carry the wood, you can chop it from my hands. watch out for my fingers. i will knit you scarves of wire. scratching deep at your neck the blood is only a metaphor for how i feel about you. you get it i think. it's ok, we don't have to get each other. let's just work hand in hand together until the moon rises. that is my dream in your toiled hands.

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

the abusurdity of profession

Maintaining the ability to profess is not deemed professional in a profession where profits are not professed. This obsession with the profession is just about as absurd as the word. I've lost faith in the corporation, I've lost faith in the organization. I've lost faith in the institution and I've lost faith in the edifice that houses them all. We care for thee, we are a charity. We want your money, we are a charity. We want to help, we are a charity. We give back to the world, we are a charity. I cannot see where the charity stands in different place than the corporation. The same one-liner, the same buzz words, the same money driven, status hungry professionals professing their proliferate love for the public sector profits. It's not business casual here, it's fancy dress Friday everyday, because we bend over backwards for those we love and back over forwards for those who don't fall in love with us. Love me, be excited with me, I love you is enough reason for you to sell yourself.


Image Credit: scrapatorium.

jennifer on my mind

At three, the mind will do strange things. At four it shall rest. Then again at five, the demons shall arise and who else but Jennifer Aniston on my mind. I can't help but question the string of failed romantic quests. From McGlone, to Mohr, to Rudd, to Gibbens, to Wahlberg, to Gyllenhaal, to Carey, to Stiller, to Owen, to Ruffalo, to Vaughn, to Wilson, on to Affleck, then Zahn, Eckhart, Butler, Bateman and finally off to Sandler. One might suppose that after ten failed romatic adventures the future is no less better and pretty grim for our chummy friend. But hope is not lost upon her, and nor shall it ever be, as her life is dictated by that the hope of romance. The belief that indeed practice does make perfect, or is it maybe that practice, and practice, and practice and practice, will engender a new form of perfection: that of the unreachable and truly intangible perfection of illusionary love. Our hopes and dreams forcefully inserted into him, and our expectations never realised and our desire for perfection in him is only a reflection of our striving of perfection in ourselves. Indeed what we thought was wrong with him over and over again is what is fundamentally wrong with us. For your love is only an image of you and it can be quite ugly sometimes.


Image Credit: scrapatorium.

vagina in pop

It's come to my attention that the vagina has become the new symbol for sexy women in pop. For some this may come as a shock as it was just last season that the ass was on display in the pop windows. It seems as though we've covered all the bases and have gradually moved to the most redeeming quality of young women today: their vaginas. This unyielding display and gyration of the vagina is not deemed a set back for these pop idols. Instead the vagina becomes the new bra to be burnt as a claim to being a female. Liberated from the phallus that asked us ever so indecently to spread open our legs and allow them into a secret world, lined with crimson velvet and enveloping ones senses. When yes means no, and sex means nothing. The pop world thrives on titillation: empowerment through exploitation. Money, money, money, always sunny! In the rich man's world!

Image Credit: scrapatorium.