Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Verbal Malevolence on Adjectival Dominion

Driving the desert dry,
like,
Beating the weather down,
like,
Spraying the lamp off,
like,
Singing the blues away,
like,
Eating to forget or
Drinking to desire,
like,
Remembering a curse well spent.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

La Haine

To take a premise,
And multiply it by,
Many times scorn and invective,
Throwing easy banter out the window,
And, verily, caution to the winds.

To plant a wicked laugh,
At varying degrees of Self-Importance,
and Self-Inflation, and Self-Seriousness, and Self-Promotion.
And take a pencil to them,
Underlining their Self-Farce.

To build on a grand tradition of,
Indulgent farts at the Great Table in the Great Hall,
And the cutting jarb at a Dictator at a democratic fundraiser,
And the face-graffiti on drunk and passed-out friends,
And other assorted tom-fooleric absurdity,
That arrives, like it or not,
Straight from the heart.

I sadly am not,
But I wish I was,
Charlie.

Topical and contextual commentary by:
Adam Gopnik
Teju Cole
Slavoj Žižek

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Untitled

Driven to desire,
by a contretemps compulsion.
Dreamt fanning the embers
of a passion's last hurrah.

Silent, leaping, boundless carcass.
That tooketh thine own mirror,
and shineth upon,
thou sparkling reflection.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Children of the $

I wonder how it must be to see your favourite movie at home and then go out for a joy ride and see all the little things from it magically manifested in the brightly lit aisles of shops whereupon little stickers are attached on each of them with numbers arranged randomly that you only remember practising for a lark that morning in a straight progression -1,2,3...
I wonder how it must be to hear the smattering of an argument at home and ask one of the protagonists when a counterpoint to that argument is raised in a different conversation later, "But Mum, you said it was your house, not Dad's"... and to then hear her say deliberately and carefully, "It Is My House".
I wonder how it must be at a certain season of the year to hear about a Son of God's birth and marvel at a carefully arranged plaster of paris smorgasbord of figurines made up of little simply dressed people and animals bowing before an infant in a cradle of fake hay, and then have to conflate that image with bearded fat men in red suits carrying big sacks in a reindeer-drawn carriage that flies through the night sky above neon-lit houses with big dining tables laden with food that could feed all the people you saw that day.
I wonder how it must be to follow the thread whereby random dots are connected and associations formed leading to a sudden outburst on a lazy Sunday evening drive back home with the words, 'Dad, Where Was I billed?'