the soul’s dead now (but not gone). uttering a prayer for him is utterly useless. try chanting and the levitation will take you to him.
i might be dead soon. the outer layer is struggling to contain the inner being. sometimes death spells the birth of a great chapter in store. this could be it.
ailment has kept the flesh rotten. medication might just help. don’t count on the soul.
this is funny business. i mean, if you had looked at them and observed what they had done, they could have really got into your skin razor-like. what had their mothers taught them when they were young? how could they possibly be human beings? sometimes, i wonder if He really loves them. how could He? they don’t deserve to be loved! i can even state it matter-of-factly that they should go to hell immediately. they should not get another chance. He should be grieved. why should they do this to Him? thankfully, He has me. i’m different from them. i know Him, love Him and follow Him. i have done no wrong and have every right to believe that He’s proud of me. you can even say i am perfect for heaven. look at this tag my buddy made for me. it says, “THE ONLY HUMBLE MAN ON EARTH”. and he insisted i should put it on which i did. why shouldn’t i? it’s the truth. Lord, i thank You!
it was finally over. he moved away and out. it felt numb, but the hurt intensified at my heart. i stared at the windows. i couldn’t decide if there was light stabbing the dark room or darkness swallowing the lit curtains. life could go on but it would be a different one. is there a way to spell bastard backwards?
i look at my hands i don’t wake up every morning or go to bed every night saying i love you to them but my love for them is undeniable yet unspeakable and they are an important part of me of which i can’t live without this can be said of my feet my eyes my nose my ears my head my body in fact every part of me and did i mention my partner
dear, dear Vanilla has given me this award. apparently, i have some influence on her. i appreciate her a lot since we met on blogosphere nearly two years ago. thanks, Miss V!
by the way, i’ve been really busy working, reading, familying but not writing. i might be ringing some changes in my life. will see how it goes.
as i piss and hiss, the stone is no harder than the cone. there is the will and pill of which alex uses to modernise the t-rex. don’t tell me where the hell you are going to. the destination couldn’t be more than a procrastination. we might huff and puff, sure. but remember to pinch the pile and inch a mile, if the square were to tear. questioning is not an option. answering is. abiding by the law is not a choice. breaking it is. check with the libertine or josephine in the monastery. they would disagree to agree.
It would be easy, he swore.
But no, when the crunch came, he melted away like a picnic bar on a tarmac ground under the twelve o’clock sun. His knees were still right on top of Xavier who was choking with tears. His hands were quavering under the weight of the machete. Crucially, his heart was crying for mercy and grace on behalf on this pitiful soul beneath him. His mind concurred after much deliberation. He should let him off, really.
“Please, Alan, please! You know I love you very much! I was wrong, but I love you!” Xavier’s vehement voice pealed for the umpteenth time. As Alan looked into his eyes, he could see the tenderness whispering forgiveness. Really, he should just tear his heart out magnanimously and amen to the bygones. He fought hard to hold back the pain that was to drip through his eyes. This man he had loved so deeply the last twenty years violated the trust he built painstakingly to keep them bonded in sanity. How could he have done that?
“You know I fucking love you too much to let you go! And that’s exactly the same reason why I’m going to fucking let you off!” Alan spoke, in an obvious heartbreaking tone that cut deep. He lowered his arms and tossed the weapon aside. He got off Xavier’s chest, stood slowly and stared at his lover for a few seconds.
“You have fucking broken my heart. I don’t want to see you again,” Alan said, as he moved away. Xavier rolled to one side gently, not wanting to aggravate the multiple injuries he suffered from the fight. He coughed uncomfortably into his hands and saw blood. He hauled himself up and managed to stand, though unsteadily. Alan was already limping some twenty yards away.
Summoning whatever that was left in his body, Xavier began charging towards Alan with the machete he picked up. He was intent in removing the thorn in his flesh now. With the instinct that had served him so well in the past as a cop, Alan somehow sensed Xavier coming at him. He dived to his left and flipped over before flooring the oncoming assailant with a kick. Alan went on top of Xavier for the second time and battered him with his fists repeatedly. Without even an ounce of energy left, Xavier was there for the taking. His injuries had taken their toll on him and he was dying a slow death.
Alan was panting after another round of physical assertion. He stooped low and lay next to his lover’s stationary body. He turned to face him.
“Why, you bastard? Why? Why do you have to make it so easy for me?” Alan whispered. His tears finally flowed. He lifted the machete and severed Xavier’s head. Then, a tune came to his mind, and he began improvising a melody of words.
Look at the beautiful night sky
With the twinkling stars and the elegant moon
It certainly promises much
The cool sea breeze
And the salty smell of humidity
They definitely promise much
How I wish all these had come earlier
You know, we could have really lived happily ever after
We could have realistically grown old together
Pity the human nature is such
That we have our differences
That we could not manage them well enough
Feel the sand around here
The grains are ever so smooth, so fine
Just like how they used to be
Hear the tides rolling in
They sing so merrily in our ears
Bringing back fresh waves of sweet memories
How I wish the human nature is such
Consistent, everlasting and adaptable
That we can be as gay as we want to be
Pity Mother Nature is such
That we’ll always find it a tall order
To keep up with her standard of serendipity
As I observe the contours of your body
As I caress the hardened pounds of muscles
I thank God for the blessings we’d had together
I long to look into your soulful eyes again
I long to kiss your sensual lips again
But I’m not sure if that’s possible now
Alan got onto his feet, one hand with his lover’s head.
It was easy, he swore.
caesar with arms of disdain
batteries not built-in
that this blog has died…guess what! it has risen from its doldrum!
HARPI NUDEAR 2 EBRIWAN!
i have 2 girls living with me – my wife and my daughter.
there are 2 sides to a coin.
i have 2 eyes, 2 hands, 2 arms, 2 ears, 2 nostrils, 2 legs, 2 feet.
there only 2 places to choose from after life – heaven or hell.
i have experiences in 2 career paths – a teacher and now, a financial services consultant.
we speak of only 2 things – truth and lie.
i used to have 2 dreams – being a pilot and a broadcast journalist.
2 is the smallest and first prime number.
i have had owned 2 cars – a renault express and now, a ford focus.
the Ten Commandments were given in the form of 2 tablets.
i had 2 intimate girlfriends – one became my wife and the other became my ex.
there are 2 natural genders – male or female.
2 things i rely heavily on – The Bible and the dictionary.
a binary star is a stellar system consisting of 2 stars orbiting around their center of mass.
i believe the 2 most important modern invention are the internet and the mobile phone.
everyday, we should look forward to 2 things – tomorrow and sleep.
my 2 favourite tennis players are boris becker and roger federer.
in many sports, there are 2 opposing individuals/teams against each other.
2 things i absolutely despise – terrible motorists and people who don’t give up seats to pregnant ladies.
there are 2 attributes that we can’t boast about – pride and humility.
i am working towards 2 dreams – a CLS coupe and a one-year visit to all the football stadiums in UK.
there are only 2 places we can go to – somewhere or nowhere.
it took me 2 hours to write this post.
this blog just turned 2 last week!
the order of day
is the day of order now
time for renewal
I’m going to give it a shot. If you have questions about it or need information about it, you can go check it out. 50000 words in 30 days is the minimum, roughly 1667 words a day. No harm working on it. Here we go!
I just read this wonderful autobiographical book by John Fowles who perhaps might be better known for his novel The French Lieutenant’s Woman. It is essentially a series of his recollections of his childhood and his work as a writer. He also went at great lengths to discuss how nature, especially the tree, should be perceived from a human point of view. The language he uses here is brilliant and profound, yet precise enough for the reader to comprehend his points.
One thing that struck me most is how Fowles sees nature as a science as well as an art. He believes that the heart of nature lies in our personal nature and its relationship to other nature. Nature is never a collection of items outside us. He also points out that understanding nature cannot be done through painting, photography, words or even science which are inferior substitutes. He wrapped up his unique discussion quite aptly when he mentioned that the two natures, human and non-human, cannot be separated.
It was a calculated risk, but for the sake of little Zhi Wei, it was worth it. Ying Mei, being the big sister, knew it was her obligation to care for and love her brother at any cost. Somehow she always managed to turn that obligation into a privilege, something an ordinary human being rarely does.
Their parents had gone out for a wedding dinner earlier in the evening, and the girl was tasked to take care of her brother and get him to sleep at the scheduled hour. But Zhi Wei wasn’t giving his sister the best of time. He was up and running around, making a lot of noise, much to the annoyance of his sister and possibly their neighbours. It was already two hours past bedtime and the boy was still active and not in bed.
Fortunately, Ying Mei knew her brother well, so she told him that they would wait for their parents to return home at the door. Zhi Wei concurred without second thoughts and sat at the door. Ying Mei felt enormously relieved and joined her brother on the floor.
It dawned upon Ying Mei that her parents had instructed her not to open the door late at night, not when the crime rate within the vicinity had soared to a record high in the last six months. So she suggested to Zhi Wei that they would only open the door when they hear their parents. That would be a pleasant surprise. Zhi Wei beamed. He liked giving surprises.
About five minutes later, the children heard some noise outside the door. Ying Mei wasn’t sure if her parents were back. She hesitated a while. It was risky. What if another criminal was lurking outside? But Zhi Wei was getting anxious and insisted in opening the door. Ying Mei relented and opened the door slowly and carefully.
“Hello, Kids! You are still up? Not sleeping yet?” a man spoke. Both children were stunned for a moment but became composed when they saw their neighbour, old Mr Lim with his eldest son, Sean.
“We are waiting for Daddy and Mummy!”
“Oh, how nice. Good night!” Both men walked off.
The children closed the door and waited.
Ying Mei was nodding away in her sleep before her head hit the wall that woke her up. She had dozed off. So did Zhi Wei. She looked at the clock. It was half past eleven. She was about to get Zhi Wei to bed when she heard some noise outside the house. This time there was also the sound of a bunch of keys. It must be her parents. She shook her brother and told him that their parents had returned.
Both of them eagerly opened the door. They were shocked. Floating past them unhurriedly was a headless figure in a red dress, holding a bunch of keys. The children were scared stiff and couldn’t move. The figure turned and ‘faced’ them. Albeit they were drowning in their tears and sweat, they could hear the figure asking them, “Is this my home?”
The bus pulled over by the bus-stop. It was the last chartered stop. The door opened and little Tiffiny alighted from the bus. She was humming a tune she just learned from school. She waved goodbye to her friend, Ginny. The bus driver turned the vehicle round and went back the way he came from.
Now Tiffiny was all alone at the bus-stop that was smacked right in the middle of a 27-km two-way road. Parallel to the road on the same side of the bus-stop was a 100-acre farmland with huge plants lined up in an almost regimental fashion. On the opposite side of the road lay a vast amount of beige sand that stretched the entire the coastline of the deep blue sea. There was nothing else in sight.
The girl sat on the bench, still feeling tremendously happy with her first-day experience in school. She couldn’t wait to share her joy with her father. He was coming to fetch her home from the bus-stop before heading for their little cottage at the end of the road. He had checked the bus schedule and knew exactly the time to pick his girl up from the bus-stop.
The five-year-old looked at her watch. It was six in the evening. She pulled out her favourite storybook from her bag and started reading it. She was oblivious to the familiar surrounding environment that was characterised by dead silence and stale air. Her mind was preoccupied with thrill.
Almost 3 km away, the father was cycling on the straight road, whistling a melody. He was busy working as a site supervisor at a construction ground during the day. He was looking forward to seeing Tiffiny, especially it was her first day at school. She was the only one he had in the family after his wife had died from breast cancer. If he had a choice, he would have accompanied his girl in school. His boss had wanted him to be present at work for an emergency meeting in the morning.
Soon, the bus-stop came into sight. His heart pounded pleasingly as he saw Tiffiny. Just as he picked up pace, his bicycle ran over a small stone. He lost his balance and fell off the bicycle. Fortunately, he was not hurt. He hauled the bicycle up and jumped onto it. As he lifted his head, his blood ran cold. His daughter was not at the bus-stop.
(i’m not entirely sure where this is heading, but i knew i had to write it. pardon me if i can’t finish it soon. i might not have the time honestly. you can throw me some ideas if you don’t mind.)
i think i know or i thought i knew but it seems i really don’t know what is going on sometimes perhaps He is trying to test me or fool me am i normal at all why can’t i seem to get things in the right perspectives i’m honestly tempted maybe i should just try it what’s there to worry about but hey he definitely wishes me to try it should i give in to him or abide by His sayings someone or something must help me now
He slit the skin of the chicken with his teeth as the aroma of the deep fried stank the hall. She thrashed furiously at the spaghetti mixed with sauce and complained that it was the umpteenth plain dinner. You licked the balls on the ice-cream cone before they melted away into the bin. Me? I savoured every grain in my palm with care and thought of paradise. I counted there were six of them.
He put on “The Incredibles” T-shirt and rolled in the mud, screaming “Goal!” She walked out of the retail with another Versace dress paid from her LV bag. You stripped your wardrobe bare, discarding the old and odd ones into the bag for charity, before dollaring it with the new and unodd ones. Me? I had this piece of linen hanging precariously round my groin, hoping that paradise will bring me something to be hung round my shoulders.
He played the toy soldiers and sent them into a house of dolls, sheltering them from the rain of shells. She had a good bath in the Olympic-sized pool before sipping orange juice on the bench made of cotton and leopard skin. You looked out from the window of your 14th floor apartment and wished you had a roomier luxurious studio. Me? I was sitting under the tree with few blades of grass that screened me away from the sun, knowing that paradise will surely be better.
He pressed the same few buttons over and over again, looking excitedly at the display smaller than my tummy. She danced on the tabletop with strange music louder than my tummy’s growl, obviously indulging in some heavenly dreams. You spent hours turning pages of papers under a warm light after kicking a ball with your crazy friends in a rain-soaked field. Me? I only played two games. I stared and I stared. Oh, when angels from paradise came, I walked. And that was really cool.
You know, as I look at him, her and you, I wish we could all swap places and enjoy each other’s life. Perhaps, next time when paradise comes, we can do that?
Shall we discuss?
What is poverty?
How relevant is poverty today?
Reasons for poverty?
Any measures to curb poverty?
Take the first flight to the Land of Recreation
And learn how to get engaged in leisure grounds
Move up north to River Daft
And cultivate asinine amusement customs
Go on to the Forest of Yarn on foot
And concoct daft anecdotes
Get into a boat and sail to Island of Songs
And croon droll mantra
Fly to the Republic of Chortles
And seek mirth despite the fractious response
Drive twenty miles to Follywood
And star as the self-proclaimed fool
Return to the Fault of Life
And quip at any gaffe
it’s just so hard to swallow the pain so early on. the sparks of the future has probably dissipated. the amount of recovery is infinite. so do me a favour – don’t do me a favour.
on the table
is never quite
the same again.
not after what
the pink watch
just by being.
the crooked line
while the grey
has so darkened.
i watched “Once” a few days ago, and i really, really love it…as much as the korean flick “Il Mare“. both are classic romantic tales which appeal to my soul in a beautiful simplistic way. “Once” scores with the wonderfully written and played songs throughout the show that includes the oscar-winning “Falling Slowly” and “If You Want Me”. if you haven’t watched it, go try it…and also the korean one which also possesses an excellent soundtrack.
Lifted the morning truck
And built a trillion lego bricks
If you ask me what I had done today
I’d say I’d drowned the abyss
Combed the tresses of Obama
And coffeed with a young McCain
If you ask me what I had done today
I’d say I’d consumed the black hole
Nothing is possibly impossible
Not for Alexander, Edison or Armstrong
And certainly not for me
Romance might not be my cup of tea
But I think I know I love you
Whispering honey into your ears
Spreading jam on your toast
If you ask me what I will do tomorrow
I’d say I’d smash Al-Qaeda
Surprising you with a stalk of rose
Giving you a warm embrace
If you ask me what I will do tomorrow
I’d say I’d turn back the clock
Nothing is possibly impossible
Not for Ali, Phelps or Bolt
And certainly not for me
Romance might not be my cup of tea
But I think I know I love you
People say actions speak louder than words
But I’m not an action figure
So don’t expect the expected
Romance might not be my cup of tea
But I think I know I love you
Well, I might just, kiss you
fools fools fools fools fools
fools fools fools fools fools fools fools
fools fools fools fools fools
The boy stared at the body, his vision impaired by his own blood. He did a slow visual scan of the man he used to call Daddy from head to torso to toes and back to torso to……
“That’s not a head!” he mumbled cheerfully. “It’s a potato!” His father had a potato head. Potatoes must be mashed. Almost instantaneously, the boy raised the screwdriver and began pounding on the man’s head.
“Potatoes must be mashed. Potatoes must be mashed. Potatoes must be mashed……” The boy went on to mash the potato completely in some God-given time. When he was done, he leaned back to rest.
“Thank you, God!”
“Are you ready for the next step?”
“Yes, God. But…”
“Can I see Your face, God?”
“I’m just curious, God. Hmmm, never mind, God.”
“Since you’ve been such a good boy, I shall grant your wish.”
“Oh…thank You, God!”
“Meet your Maker.” The boy could see someone walking towards him from the darkness of the bedroom. As the figure moved under the lights, he gaped at a little boy who looked just like him.
“Who are you?”
“I am God.”
“You look like me. You are not God.”
“I am God. You are me and I am you.”
“I am God. You are God. We both are. In music, there is only one genius – Mozart. In music prophecy, there is only one genius – you and I. You…I…prophesy to kill. Let you…me…continue to draw strength from Mozart’s energy in his music-making when prophesying the death ends of all the naughty people. I will kill all the naughty people like how I killed the undertaker who touched me all over and my father who failed his life. They don’t deserve to live……” It dawned upon the boy that he had been talking to himself, and he was rather bemused.
He stood gingerly as he remembered three names. Tom had beaten him several times, citing fun as the reason. Dick had labelled his mother a witch. Uncle Harry had rolled off his father’s bed naked. He put the headphones to his ears and clicked ‘play’ on his walkman. Mozart made him smile, again.
The crescendo startled the boy. He opened his eyes and found himself still sitting at the corner of the living room. One bead of perspiration trickled down from his forehead and brushed across his lips. He wetted his lips with his tongue and tasted blood. He wiped his forehead with his hand and saw blood on the palm.
His father was watching Psycho on TV from the couch. Intermittently, the man would turn to glare at him, obviously warning him to do his job well. Quite bizarrely to the boy, the man resembled some food item he had learned from the pack of flash cards his mother had bought him about a year earlier. Potato. Yes, he was thinking of potato. He recalled what his mother had taught him about potatoes. They must be mashed.
A screwdriver darted across the room and hit his shoulder. He looked up. His father was yelling at him, demanding the name of the winning team of the game between Red Sox and Mariners. Then, a voice boomed in the boy’s ears. It was God and He said it was time. The boy removed the headphones and remained calmly seated. He asked his father if he could take him to the restaurant to eat waffle ice-cream. Incensed by the boy’s audacious request, the man picked up a stool and hurled it at him. The stool landed heavily on the boy’s head and it left him with an open wound. As he struggled to sit upright, his whole head was in red.
The man, who must have been shocked by what he had done to his own offspring, acted apologetic. He was adamant that he was not wrong. He told the boy that they could both work closely together to attain huge measure of success. He ambled towards the boy and went down to pick up the stool.
“Now!” God spoke and the boy pulled his father’s hair with his left hand. The man was stunned by his son’s enormous strength and thrashed about to get free. He looked into the boy’s eyes and for the first time in his life, he fully embraced the meaning of fear. The pupils were plain ravenous. The boy seized the screwdriver swiftly with his right hand and pierced through his father’s neck with it. Like a contorting dying cockroach, the man lived out his last moments in tremendous agony, body twitching acrobatically. Soon, he left.
That night, the boy was weeping tearlessly in his sleep when a voice spoke to him. He knew that was God who went on advising him on how to capitalise on his gift to further His kingdom. God closed the session by whistling a tune of Requiem and the boy swore his soul was much soothed by his Creator.
Just as God’s serenade faded into the darkness, the father stomped into the room and hoisted the boy from his bed. He commanded him to pull Mozart close to his ears. The little one did as he was told, remembering every word that God had uttered. He was going to get it, he reminded himself. He was going to get it.
The boy clicked ‘play’ and the music rolled. It was Requiem – the trail of hope God had just left behind in thin air. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he could see. His mother was right ahead in all red. Her lovely tresses fell nicely on her breasts as she lifted her head to look at him. He thought he saw peace in her eyes, but her mouth was full with needles and she was chewing on them. She went on peeling the skin of her left forearm with the apple knife. The boy recognised what a monster depression was.
Before he could call out to his mother, she vanished. Then, a full-length mirror erected in front of him. He could see his own reflection and he looked gay. Quite abruptly, bruises, swells and cuts began to appear on the face and arms of the boy in the mirror, and he was crying. A huge arm of a strangely familiar headless man began to drag the boy in the mirror away.
Again, the boy wanted to shout, and again, he was distracted by what he saw next. His father was standing in the living room, back facing him. He started walking straight ahead and seemed to be talking to someone. As he squatted to pick up a stool, a boy came into sight. The boy saw himself, again, and this time, he was bleeding profusely from the head. His father was about to stand up when the bloody boy grabbed the man’s hair violently with one hand and thrust a screwdriver into his throat with another.
The metre-tall boy picked up the screwdriver and began pounding on the lifeless body of the man repeatedly. He was sort of sniggering. The background music of Hitchcock’s Psycho seemed to give him the momentum to swing his arm.
No, he was no Chucky who was probably still chasing after his eloping bride. He was just a victim of his own success. A prodigy in music prophecy, he was the brainchild of the Almighty’s effort to boost the rootless life of a drunkard. Or at least that was what the latter believed. Day after day after the boy’s mother took her own life from prolonged depression, his father put him on the walkman that spoke nothing but Mozart. His mission was to predict the winning dog on the race track.
It was in fact accidental that the man discovered his son’s gift. Mozart was playing at his wife’s cremation when his boy whispered to him that the undertaker was going to take a tumble into the furnace. In all sanity, he slapped the boy and ordered him to shut up. Ten minutes later, while everyone was wailing or pretending to wail at the sight of the woman on the firebed, the undertaker slipped and fell into the fire. In the midst of the chaos that followed, the man looked at his son in disbelief. He knew God had finally arrived in his life.
The first weeks of the boy’s music prophecy reaped benefits for the parent, much to the boy’s own delight too. He was only four, but he could already feel what pride was. However, he soon found feeding an insatiable drinking beast an order too tall for even a Philistine. That animal started forcing him to spend every second of his 24-hour-a-day life listening to Mozart so that he could help him create his own almanac for the baseball games that coming new season. The man was determined to win every odd for every game and player. Sleep became a luxurious commodity for the little boy. Beatings began to co-exist with Mozart in his life.
Working the foul of the day
She calls for the need to pay
Nibbling the juice that burns
She yanks the chance that spurns
Oaring with feathers of lead
She toils to stay in red
Painting the whore with pride
She wills through her bore of tide
Chasing cars of yesteryears
She bellies herself through in tears
just what’s difficult and what’s easy…i can’t tell anymore. has that line disappeared? was it there in the first place? or has it always been a dotted one?
recently, i was introduced to a new friend whom i had already heard of some time ago. I had also seen one of his works many moons ago. i am beginning to learn more about him and so far, it has been a pleasure knowing him.
perhaps, you would like to know him too. go there and there to find out for yourself how intriguing he is.
did i mention that his name is Stanley?
how to terminate it all after losing everything on a poker table bolt the access seal the panes neutralize all powers enter the kitchen don’t ruminate pick up the hand towel stuff the mouth with it pull out the chopper don’t contemplate rest the hand on the board raise the chopper don’t deliberate ax the hand if you must bawl through the towel think of the less fortunate folks they are worse off than you locate a chair sit on it close the eyes fantasize and bleed to demise
the tang of kiwi
dominated my senses
as i traipsed
the avenue of tenses
i imbibed the vodka
the angels proffered
as they tongued
proverbs in vonlenska
a fire licked me
like a luscious tsunami
with a chill peppermint
and a vogue hint
lionise my clobbered soul, lord
patronise me with your clouting chord.
and i wonder
if the stone
‘cos after seeing you
dispel all the fakes
and makes of modern takes,
it sure looks
is the stone
you have in you
Never mind the bitter wind that caresses the stripped surface of our bodies. Your arms snaking round my waist from behind are a sweet reminder of our undying love as fragments of our lives invade my state of mind.
I remember the times we spent playing ‘cooking’ in the barnyard when we were five, the punch I got from Dexter for shielding you when we were in elementary school, my first flower – a small dandelion – I gave you on Valentine’s Day in 1951, the first time we held hands, embraced and kissed each other, the first heated argument we had when you saw Jane crying on my shoulders, how we got our only Harley on a shoestring budget, your ‘yes’ when I asked for your hand, the night we lost our virginity to one another, your tears when I left for Vietnam, you carrying Jess in your arms when I returned from the war, how you were my strength when my folks passed on and the many success and failure we had enjoyed together.
These sixty years, we’d had it all. Well, almost…except your wildest dream – both of us riding on our Harley naked…until now.
As we run with our Harley down this memory lane with growth rings on our exposed skins that speak ages, I want you to remember this day. Even if you’re just a lifeless body now, I’ll finish this naked journey with you.
Never mind the cops that are coming after us.
i, me, myself.
Just in time
To meet his eyes.
Could have been
How they seemed
Was shared with
She won’t trade
Had dug deep
In the muscles.
They hurt with
Both shall do
Both shall remain.
And no secrets.
Could just scream,
“I love you much!”
the text was loud when the sovereign seed, tree and soul delivered the punch that sent the wired one scrambling. the horn was read and the cause for fireworks could never have been underachieved. the route, the one with the narrowest width, is now set for as long as time exists. the sidewalk must be dolled up. the sheep must be led. the journey must and will start. the chosen living dead and dead living must complete the mission hand in hand. the curtain that differentiates has been lifted, but the vision is no clearer than before. in fact, one of them is dripping with an ounce of the thorn that kills. the fist must surely soften the blow, now.
it has to be Him that she’s saved now. i’m excited by the prospect and the future. i’m happy for her, for me and… let me sleep over it before any sensible rattling.
you asked me yesterday how many good men i was looking for. i said just one more. and when i found the one today, you asked how many now. i said just one more. tomorrow i will find the one and you are going to ask me the same question. i will say just one more.
The cries were heard
The bliss was communal
The cradle was rocked
The sustenance was wholesome
The T.L.C. was showered
The kinship was established
The future was built
Our lives were complete
Because you came
(this was pretty much written for my minute seven-week-old who had to go.)
this is definitely one of my all-time favourite musicians not just for his folk tunes with simple melodies, but also for his immense lyrical genius in penning intense feelings about issues in tight little pieces of poetry. this one’s one classic piece of José González from his second outing, In Our Nature.
how low are you willing to go before you reach all your selfish goals punch line after punch line leaving us sore leaving us sore absorbed in your ill hustling feeding a monster just feeding a monster invasion after invasian this means war this means war someday you’ll be up to your knees in the shit you seed all the gullible that you mislead won’t be up for it where to will you relocate now that it’s war now that it’s war
santa could not believe his luck
when the purple bells
he had been searching the last eighteen years
dropped right in front of him
while he was chewing his mind on the magazine
as he sat on the loo
that was built on the exact ground
where ten thousand foot soldiers perished in a nuclear attack
which was quite a mishit
on the part of a certain adolf
born of a woman not born of woman.
he picked them up
and fresh memories of
what had happened eighteen years earlier
brought back waves of sorrow
with a tinge of thrill
that could explain why all he could muster there and then
was an ounce of salty tear
from the corner of the left eye
which was the only functional window to the hardened soul
after years of pounding from the loss they labelled inevitable
because of his obstinate attitude and aptitude.
the bells jingled
and he was more than willing
to laugh at his own misfortune
so beautifully wretched
that he could not bear to curse anything or anyone but himself
who had chosen to soften the redness of the sore
that was growing and glowing with honour
from twenty thousand leagues beneath
causing the entire building to rattle with triumph
which was so sorely missed
the last eighteen years of his motherless life on earth.
a happy lonesome brute.
I had the curious urge,
But all I could do was to scratch it.
The consciousness oozed from the wound.
If the pain was existent, it should be spelt r-a-i-n,
Because it pelted upwards.
That left me home and pried.