And Let Her Rave

andwhatnewthrilldoesthisonebring

2011-01-20T06:51:00.000-08:00

And what new thrill does this one bring

With legs astride and eyes aglow;

How many praises can one sing

Of something someone cannot know?

flight of fancy

2010-12-08T13:25:00.000-08:00

And so continues our flight of fancy

Feigned romance elated dancing

Waltzing under rose-tinted spotlight

tock the clocks but time is not right

twist and swing like metronomes

beat slows down and even though

disaccord and inconvenience

plague this ghostly white dream sequence

concrete confines couldn’t stop me

for the beat and you still rock me

2010-12-03T04:43:00.000-08:00

"You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world."

--Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger

verging

2010-11-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

On the verge

verging on

urging on

sleep but

slurring thoughts, blurring dots

converging so deep in eyes,

thinking hovering why,

love lovering ties

parallel so as never to meet.

cheap way of sinning

Ego bubbling brimming

Spilling over and slopping

But too great for stopping,

For separate lies

Make for cruel compromise

And love never dies

When it’s played on repeat.

2010-04-26T02:28:00.000-07:00

It's a dangerous game, forseeing the future;
it's almost always never true.
To think that life is a product of fate
is to be tremendously fooled.
It's a dangerous game, foreseeing the future;
it's almost always never true.
If you have to believe in something,
Believe in you.

No Smoking

2010-03-25T13:39:00.000-07:00

It is such a drag

Not going for a fag,

especially during the nighttime.

It makes me feel antsy,

Cos all that I fancy's

Some quality Marlboro Light time.

A handful of trinket-y and precious literary quotes

2010-03-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

"She loved Lords; she loved youth, and Nancy, dressed at enormous expense by the greatest artists in Paris, stood there looking as if her body had merely put forth, of its own accord, a green frill." --Mrs. Dalloway Virginia Woolf

" 'At any rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That's a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. There are only diamonds in the whole world, diamonds and perhaps the shabby gift of disillusion. Well, I have that last and I will make the usual nothing of it.' He shivered. 'Turn up your coat collar, little girl, the night's full of chill and you'll get pneumonia. His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.' " --Diamond as Big as the Ritz F. Scott Fitzgerald

"(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands"

-somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond e. e. cummings

2010-03-18T05:15:00.000-07:00

What a comment on the shambles and shame of the modern world when what you think to be a star in the sky turns out to be merely a plane.

gotta love a haiku!

2010-03-07T04:19:00.000-08:00

Lissssstlesssssssnessssss whispers,

Sly and slightly sinister,

Tempting her to act.

.

to write right

2010-02-28T03:54:00.001-08:00

To find the right words without being absurd or obstuse or abstract;
To make an impact
without over-embellishing, painting and relishing in
metaphors dripping with gripping descriptions.
To ditch the pedantic, romantic, emotional crap; to honestly take a step back
and revalue the value of meaning and matter, erase ostentatious expression and chatter.
To utter it verbally leaving hyperbole out; to write about rather than flout
my particular, existentialist woes.
To reach out and grab,
through poem or prose,
the nit and the grit and the lickety split of humankind's mind before we combust.
To finally find
(as a bard often must),
The purpose behind this quintessence of dust.

Edinburgh (draft1)

2010-02-15T20:31:00.001-08:00

The sky is closer in Edinburgh
than anywhere else in the world.
Clouds crowd ‘round in riots,
Fickly dripping with rain and then
Drying up, raisin-like.
Pigeons and gulls weave around
Bridges and hills
In chaotic feathered packs,
Cooing and squawking
In absurd bird anguish.
In secret, slippery nooks,
Supernatural spirits whisper and linger
Under dim-lit, age-old, stony stars.
The closeness of the sky breeds
Infinite life and eternal death,
Undistinguishable in the
Ghastly, grey greatness
Consuming the city.

purple pair

2010-02-07T13:38:00.000-08:00

and the raindrops understood their pain
and declared them perfect in a world insane

2010-02-06T13:24:00.000-08:00

I just tried to write 'prostitute' on Microsoft word (for an English essay) and it auto-corrected it to "prostate." Confusing.

untitled

2010-02-05T08:34:00.001-08:00

Long legs

Orange eyes

That singe the dusk

Like fireflies,

That drink the sky

And toast to mine,

Get drunk on words

In lieu of wine.

Black coffee

Brewed in threes and

Putney bridge is

Drowned in trees,

So lend me your

Candy-coated kiss,

Repartee, and

Weightlessness.

(Whilst Trivial questions

Poised on a cloud

Plummet to earth to be

Spoken aloud.)

If I were a book

Would you break my spine?

And if I were French

Would you feed me a line?

I can’t cure like nicotine,

Painting your heart black,

Nor am I poetry

Scrawled on the tarmac.

Nevertheless

I’d cocoon you in rhyme

If this metre and stanza

Could cancel out time.

I’d freeze the Atlantic

In its current position;

To keep you I’d put on an

Antic disposition.

If dancing on a harpsichord

By the village green

Gives you as much of a

Kick as caffeine,

We could spend the day

Tripping the light fantastick,

Not caring if

Others see us as bombastic.

You’re a tall, tea-stained,

English rose,

Speaking in prose on your

Tippy toes,

Employing a diction that’s

Eloquent yet slurred,

Like dissonant chords mixed with

Biblical words.

Mumbling lover,

If I had my druthers,

We’d both end up in

Some city or other,

We’d roam every boulevard,

Smoking our cigarettes,

And you’d live forever in this

Rhyming couplet:

Like Mary, you are quite contrary;

Like breathing you are necessary.

Everybody hurts...in very different ways

2010-02-03T09:22:00.001-08:00

So I'm not sure about this Helping Haiti single "Everybody hurts"...
Although I'm all for its cause, obviously, giving all its proceeds to help Haiti after the devastating earthquake, to me the song sends out kind of a bizarre-o message. :

"Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes"

True, everybody does hurt but not everybody hurts in the way the nearly 3 million displaced Haitians are hurting right now. It almost sounds like they're trying to say, "Don't worry, we know how you feel," when, quite clearly, we do nahht.

Also, the song itself (a remake of an REM single) is incredibly boring and depressing, and not at all as powerful as I think it needs to be. Solution: replace Susan Boyle (whose part sounds like it should be in Beauty and the Beast) with Bono (whyyyy in the world is he not on this track in the first place?) and, preferably, choose a better-suited song.

[[I wish I could post the song on this blog for all to listen to but I'm just not technically savvy enough]]

stars

2010-02-02T07:07:00.000-08:00

I heard the stars screaming tonight--
Above the racket and the hum of
the moon and the waves.
They stare like eyes but scream in alto agony.

lines written half-way between a lecture theatre and REM sleep

2010-02-01T10:03:00.000-08:00

In the 9th row from the front, I might as well be on the ceiling,
or better yet, home in bed.
Peripheral profiteroles float around my cerebral orbit
in slow, creamy ellipses.
I am more than bored;
I am chronically, fatally restless,
semi-aware of the blue ink on my thumbs
inadvertently smudging across my nonplussed visage.
I confess,
while hearing this
banal, rambling, giggly, nodding lecturer speak
in broken French
about Rousseau's Confessions,
I'm hearing her voice echo but its monotone reverberations
are transformed at the eardrum into
tuneful hums of nothingness,
merely buzzing like bees
and
then
reced-
ing.
Only certain words and phrases stick long enough
to impact the brain...
death...la societe...yes?
The bumps in the floor seem to be rising
in gross, lime greenness;
the numerous coffee stains polkadotting the ceiling
become such a captivating distraction that they
almost make sense.
At my wit's absolute dire end,
I almost wish a panda hat would come bobbing in
to save me from drowning in my own inevitable drool

texticle

2010-01-30T08:56:00.000-08:00

Woke up to this text yesterday morning:

Romantic Taurus
Rather stubborn just now, you wont bend to fit in, not even if it means friendships or close relationships part company. Be less extreme.

I'm an extremely confused and intrigued Aries
.
.
.

Metamorphosis

2010-01-29T06:27:00.000-08:00

Death is but to cease to be the same, the mechanical transformation from red to yellow to green, and back to red, the constant acceleration causing life to move forwards: eggs to hatch, flowers to bloom, cocoons to open, stars to explode. To one abode; here one road leads us all. Death is the birth of something which previously did not exist, and the disappearance of another thing whose time is up. Nothing is permanent.

Therefore with adulthood comes death; we are dragonflies undergoing metamorphosis from our nymph form, shedding our transient innocence in return for self-absorption, unrelenting and unfulfilled desire. What was once beautiful becomes tedious; what was novel becomes inadequate. Here is an example.

A three year old baby, in his naked naivety, is old enough to know between right and wrong, but young enough to take it into account. He has not yet experienced enough of the world’s contradictions to try to fight against them, and he has not the capacity to notice the world’s futility. So what is the consequence of his actions as he tumbles haphazardly in the waves of Mexico, causing his parents to run frantically after him, terrified? They rescued him, clearing the salt from his blue infant eyes. But he was not crying fearfully, he was not wailing. His cries were of laughter, of amusement, of the ecstasy of his first dangerous thrill. Cheap, unexpected, his initial glimpse into a world of possibilities, deadly risks which knock the wind out of you and render life worth living.

Twenty years later, this baby’s innocence has washed out with the tide, his involuntary immersion into life’s excitements evaporated into clouds. In this present moment, the ocean holds no more pleasure for him than a cigarette, burning the air around him, filling his body with a warm, plastic replicate of the good old days. A la recherche du temps perdu, he desperately seeks a modern wave to sweep him off his feet, to propel him into unknown depths. Amid the techno beats and voices encircling his head, there is an omnipresent solitude. This unwelcome sentiment is countered only by prescribed remedies, a tidal pull in the form of a pill, injecting colour back into his black and white veins. His sense of self is consequently vaporised, dissolved like medication on the tongue. Girls, unaware of his dark and broken being, flash past his glassy eyes, fleetingly kissing his cheek. They are his forbidden monsters, conspiring against him, falling in briefly to take for granted his vulnerability, then rushing out just as suddenly, leaving him skeletally empty. His disposition suffers, his blue eyes no longer hold contact, his fingers tremble upon electronic keyboards in his lightless home. He is utterly alone, awaiting the apocalypse. Human existence is chaos, a raw and undivided mass, devoid of reason, definition, or pattern. A mind infected by treason, loud music, and hypochondria, he is weary of his shadowy loneliness, and longs for inspiration: spiritual, metaphysical, psychological, whatever.

His desire is finally realised somehow with an abrupt change in character, a sudden tangible confidence, a metamorphic phase of sorts. Silver wings burst out of his back like flowers, and hypotheses spill out of his eyes, philosophical concepts seeming to unlock universal secrets. His focus is no longer averted timidly to the floor; he stares vertically through contrails and stars, discovering scientific theories, overwhelmed by the ideas being concocted in sleep. His dreams contain fantastical pictures, cinematic scenes of nuclear destruction, cosmic fires, planetary order. At last he senses a pattern, a clearly structured design in the way of things. No longer afraid, he is entirely invincible, a God in his own right, one of the few who possesses the knowledge of antiquity, of ancestral shores. He is immersed in the undertow, rolling on the edge of the breaking wave, and laughing hysterically.

Recording his ideas on napkins, post-its, receipts, cigarette cartons, empty spaces of wall, transforming it into a story, creating plot, character, setting, outcome, he falls head over heels in love with it, with this idea. At the same time, he is wary, as he knows of the perils that would face him, should his story leak. The authorities would be curious, men with guns circling his palace would coax him outside through a megaphone, patronisingly talk him down, psychologically manipulate him as though he were a criminal. He would be crucified, they would drown him in their confusion, weigh him down with a thousand questions unanswered and unanswerable. A martyr, maybe, but he still has things to do, things to learn, things to write, before that end. He must save himself.

When it comes down to it, all we can do is save ourselves.

Living for days in secret, in a state of superlative fear, he hears only the metallic sound of helicopters ticking incessantly overhead like armed clocks, hovering as though suspended on string, waiting for it to snap. His phone rings but is disregarded—it could explode, break up into millions of jagged and radioactive pieces which would pierce through him, put holes in his palms. There is no trick they can pull on him, no ploy which he has not thought of beforehand. If they took away his life, at least his knowledge would be immortalised in text.

And there he remains for a lifetime, perched stoically in the shadows beneath his desk, pen in hand. His skin moulting, his black eyes bulging, his wings crumpling like paper. He is fallen from flight. The lights outside his window burn red, buzzing away at him tauntingly. The waves keep on coming on, deafeningly so, but he’s lost the ability to laugh.

2010-01-28T21:14:00.001-08:00

I'm in love with a bunny.
aaand having shoes with laces freaks the shit out of me, and trips me out (literallyyyyyy).
Help

Memory

2010-01-28T03:45:00.000-08:00

You’re in books.

Your memory echoes between pages,

Your voice permeates cover to cover:

Pretentious mutterings scribbled in margins.

Your eyes are the rusted orange corners of folded over leaves.

Your hands are the letters,

Long and deliberate.

Your smell is ancient like the sweet decay of paper,

Like unshaken dust.

You are the words, the rhyme, the symbols,

The plot, the beginning, the bitter end.

You are books.

++ my backspace key is on the verge of breaking, this could be eenteresting

2010-01-26T05:53:00.000-08:00

i keep waking up with more and more cuts on the sides of my fingers, as though i've been crossing them way too much recently

Snow [cocaine]

2010-01-25T09:46:00.001-08:00

In the evenings I can smell your reeking snow
Cascading onto a vacant void of consciousness,
Existing secretly within a desolate forest,
It melts into rain and you feel alive.

Reason fries like a raisin in the sun
Infringing on your white voice, ripe now with anguish.
Your remedy is faultless and loud like thunder:
Self-inflicted vibrancy on a cotton-picked field.

It’s as a current of dust-bowl ripping through the air
Blending your surroundings into a cacophony of noise,
Lightening life’s weight with which gravity reproaches you
Creating purpose for your eyelashes which clump and molt.

When the voices cease to exist
When the men no longer listen
When your mouth can no longer conjure up
words which your brain sees in pictures
When the earth is hot and dry
When the silence begins to kill you
Let the snowflakes rob the calm
And free yourself for them to fill you.

Panda panda

2010-01-25T09:05:00.000-08:00

Sooo I'm trying with all my might to figure out WHY in the past 3 days-ish i have seen at LEAST 10 people in Edinburgh
wearing
panda hats.
All the same exact design, colour, pokey ears, and face. Is this a new trend? Is it a super secret panda society? Am I going crazy? I guess they're cute on one person but surely not en masse.

On a somewhat similar note, today my anthropology tutor was wearing blue crocs which matched her top. Colour coordination does naaaahht make them acceptible. yuck.

((p.s. slightly moody today, hope it's not too obvious))

+
Words, words, words.
The mouth moves and the tongue clicks and the voicebox vibrates, but what comes out doesn’t exist, just a psychological echo, like magnetism or God.

moonshiiiine

2010-01-21T19:39:00.000-08:00

I’ll be your moonshine if you give me sanity,
Suck me dry to obliterate that vanity
That turns into liquid. I’ll pour me down
Your throat; you’ll drunkenly dismantle my crown.
Slur your words til they’re useful, teach me to think
Before actions and battles push you to the brink
Of the bottle. Deny me attention I’m after;
I’ll steep you in tinctures of fancy hereafter.
Once we’re stripped of our vices, naked and cold,
And the bell delivers a backward toll
And our souls can balance the take and the give,
We may remember once more how to live.

New York City

2010-01-21T05:46:00.001-08:00

Every iota of New York City is
constantly poised for a picture.

Not the lush green and
ancient egg whites of London,
whispering sweet histories
of elegant composure;

But dry, sculpted, clay-red angles,
shouting out from up high of
a greater new;
dark hidden pockets and nooks
bursting with dusty steam;
the traffic of bodies, souls,
electricity and sound,
waving and illuminating in
razzle-dazzle synchrony.

2010-01-20T12:32:00.001-08:00

You've got to be really hurt and upset; otherwise you can't think of the really good, penetrating, X-rayish phrases.
- Aldous Huxley

Innocence vs experience

2010-01-20T11:40:00.000-08:00

Innocence verses experience. Ignorance verses wisdom. Which side of line is preferred? Frankly it’s wisest to stay innocent, if only to be ignorant of experience, for therein lies growing up. The predicament. The involuntary liberty to do whatever, whoever, whenever and wherever, that is frightfully constricting. The sudden commotion of limbs flying akimbo, grabbing sweaty hold of shoulder blades, and shielding your eyes from the ever-nearer sun (Global warming’s such a drag when you’re no longer ignorant.)

Why would God do such a thing, put us on Earth with such temporary, transient innocence that is entirely incompatible with knowledge? Why be so rash as to grant babies the bliss of ignorance, when they have neither the time nor the capacity to comprehend or appreciate their pure, silken, blank slates? Then he condemns them for learning, plucking away particles of purity with every moment of life, until we are old, guilty, and trembling with sin.

Why not do it the other way round? If He wants believers, why not give us experience from the start and grant us innocence as we grow? Wipe away our wisdom, our hasty conclusions, our mundane understandings as time goes on, and teach us ignorance when we are old enough to want it. For we are starving for it.