As tweeted 170510:

“Sitting in the loo/wondering what now to do/for shower’s kuckoo.

It’s true.”

i work all night, i work all day to pay the coupons i have to display!

(car parked next to mine. taken at public car park adjacent to Wheelock Place)

I like museli
I like bran
I like cereal in boxes that look grand!

(oh well, who am I kidding with the last line)

But I honestly do like museli and bran. Banana nut cereal and a nicely toasted muffin never fails to brighten a morning. :)

Blogged from my iPhone.

don’t push me one foot in the alpha.
i’ve done my RBS, touched my heart,
palpated for tenderness, crepitus, and ache.
your pallid face on my stretcher;
collared neck broken from sorrow
sullied carotid fluttering in and out.
do we stay do we stay
for love and for passion
do i treat do i treat
for patience and for duty
or shall i load and go, immobilized
and save my fragility
for rest, recuperation,
alone, myself, ETA hotel.
i’m the medic.
it should be my call, let me.

(Re-posted from my previous blog)

A short rhyme i came out with in the shower. And no, i don’t use shaving cream. Haha.

it didn’t matter if it was by a laser
that shot the rocket

or by simple single bladed razor
that fit the pocket

but what reigned supreme
was nothing but good shaving cream

(Re-posted from my previous blog)

This is prose a step away from poetry. I think its beautiful in its simplicity, without the necessary complexity of vocabulary and structure, It conveys a sort of refreshing beauty that leaves you with lips half open and eyes half closed and giving a solitary half-breath. Like a loving gasp stopped short.

THE LOVER ASKED: HOW WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO TOUCH YOU?

THE LOVER ANSWERED:
I would like you to touch me as if you were going away tomorrow, far far away, and you wanted to remember the feel of my body, the texture of my skin, the hills and valleys that make up the landscape of who I am.

I would like you to touch me as if you were blind, knowing that you love me, but unable to see me. Touch my face, my breasts, my belly, my toes… learn what I “look” like, imagine me in your mind as your hands explore my shape.

I would like you to touch me as if your hands were healing hands, radiating love energy with every stroke. Feel the energy penetrating through skin, through flesh, entering into the cells of my body.

I would like you to touch me as if you gained your nourishment through your hands. Feed on me, drink deeply and draw from your touch the love that I hold for you.

I would like you to touch me as if you were feeding me through your hands, as if by your touch I am nourished and sustained. Every inch of me cries out for your touch, yearns to be fed.

I would like you to touch me as if your hand were a feather, lightly caressing the edge of my being.

I would like you to touch me as if your hands were paintbrushes, and as you caress me, you are coloring me in brilliant, sparkling, dazzling hues.

I would like you to touch me as if you were erasing the outer me, allowing me to reveal my inner self to you.

I would like you to touch me as if you had carved a sculpture, and were now feeling its finish, smoothing out any rough areas, enjoying the finished product.

I would like you to touch me as if your hands were fire, burning away the dross and leaving only the pure gold of my soul.

I would like you to touch me as if your hands were sponges, soaking up the essence of my being.

I would like you to caress me as if I were made of dry clay, and by dampening my skin you enliven my spirit.I would like you to touch me as if my skin were soft velvet.

I would like you to touch me as if you were a musician, and your touch brought forth different sounds from different parts of me.

I would like you to touch me as if I were a rare jewel, precious and valuable.

I would like you to touch me as if I were your Lover.

(Re-posted from my previous blog)

Couple of lines came into my head a fortnight ago. Thought i’d just draft (yes it’s a draft) it briefly here, especially since it’s related to my training as a paramedic.

Have you sailed around the world,
Rode the crimson waves
And traversed the bloody squalls?

Don’t you feel yourself racing,
Veins contused
and mind spinning head over heels?

For what’s life as a landlubber,
With a soul bereft of excitement
If you’re nothing more than lamp blubber?

And so we have it, de-vigoured souls
Gathered at the port’s grand atrium with heart’s right
Regardless of class, inferior, superior.

For now it’s a pirate’s life for them,
God, glory and iron fame,
Their ventricles ventilating with smell of the sea,

And around a yawl in a pirate bay
and around and around they go
cannonading after cannonading

Plundering, pillaging,
Turning, tossing, till each boat,
A chest of jewels and oxygenated treasure.

But what use is cargo without trade?
So back they go, lub dub,
To familiar waters of the four seas.

And so it goes, again and again
Till the end draws near and
Each to his Maker.

I love Sappho’s poetry because of its impassioned overtures to the beauty and the dynamic nature of women. Who else might know a lady, but a lady.

Sappho’s Hymn to Aphrodite

Iridescent-throned Aphrodite, deathless

Child of Zeus, wile-weaver, I now implore you,

Don’t–I beg you, Lady–with pains and torments

Crush down my spirit,

But before if ever you’ve heard my pleadings

Then return, as once when you left your father’s

Golden house; you yoked to your shining car your

Wing-whirring sparrows;

Skimming down the paths of the sky’s bright ether

On they brought you over the earth’s black bosom,

Swiftly–then you stood with a sudden brilliance,

Goddess, before me;

Deathless face alight with your smile, you asked me

What I suffered, who was my cause of anguish,

What would ease the pain of my frantic mind, and

Why had I called you

To my side: “And whom should Persuasion summon

Here, to soothe the sting of your passion this time?

Who is now abusing you, Sappho? Who is

Treating you cruelly?

Now she runs away, but she’ll soon pursue you;

Gifts she now rejects–soon enough she’ll give them;

Now she doesn’t love you, but soon her heart will

Burn, though unwilling.”

Come to me once more, and abate my torment;

Take the bitter care from my mind, and give me

All I long for; Lady, in all my battles

Fight as my comrade.

Cute Love

Tentatively publishing this. It’s bloody late at night and my brain’s all sloshy. Will work on it a bit more if i’ve the time and can be bothered to. It isn’t a nazi poem, please. It’s about growing up, having your dreams never materialising, and then having to struggle some more. I really didn’t know how to write the second half of the poem but hope this works. Wanted a systemmatic failure of somewhat specific aspirations in the poem, but i really am just too tired at the moment and hence the latter half is just a half-assed booger of pretentious writing. Really wish the i could communicate the intended feelings of disbelief and couple it with the striping away of each dream/ideal. I have this weird picture in my head – it’s like a child who daydreams and builds himself something like an ironman-suit, in a completely white Matrix-like environment. Each component a wish, a longing. But then as he tests it, bits and pieces just comically fall off with each step he takes. And he’s left tear-ing in that scattered mess of robot parts and bolts and metal plates and whatnot. This child is all we’ve got inside us. What he chooses to do now, after the crying, determines how we end up in life.

Hokay, i’ve no idea what i’m writing. And i need to sleep. So bloody tired.

Mein Kampf

All heil der fuh-ture.

Where dreams were big and schön,

Set in neoclassical baseline.

Where liebe meant strong, silvery passion;

Ein romance of a Thousand Years.

With your bunhdeswher of goals, hopes and ideals

Protecting, yet ready to mount the world, the errant pferd.

Himmel then, a place on Erde.

But won’t you stop, listen!

The song of the Teuton, in her fullness,

Heard as a Junge, turned into a Mann.

Formed of a dream, woken by a madness.

See the letters come, eins, zwei, eins, zwei!

Hear the Schrei! Those you have to feed.

Liebestraum, lebenstraum, winter failure.

Mama never said anything about this.

Who knew, trudging, grudging, growing up;

Linksrechts, linksrecht,

Booking in to mein kampf?

(all heil der fuh-ture!)

EDIT: this was written just over a month ago. it was another impromptu piece and i guess i just forgot to post it. so here it is.

Do You Ever

ever get that feeling, that quintessential feeling;

everytime you walk down the street?

and ho you there on your throne,

staring, lording over the moaning gloam,

have you ever had that feeling, that pitter-pattering feeling.

and time, in your unstoppable-ness,

have you too, given a moment’s pause, and felt that same feeling, that inching, creeping feeling, all through your perpetuity.

that rapid river and arching falls, strange fellows in homogenity, never heeding, forever eating, eroding. trailing, crashing, winding, plumenting, wandering, never knowing.

and crusading granite, lone in your gray manifestation,

have you, blinded by those years, ever condensed that moss-seared feeling

sacred, and sacrosanct. a beautiful, simple feeling.

that feeling of needing someone.

Flaming June by Lord Frederick Leighton

somehow it’s like reading a trace of one’s own inner emotions. seeing how specific words are triggered by those innuendos your inner self carelessly leaves for you to discover and to claim for your own. and always, you’re left surprised, not knowing what, when, who, why or how, only simply, that you know. it’s all at once not you, but very much still you. i like ‘instant poems’ simply because they leave you staring at the indecipherable end-product, but with a perverse sense of meaning, like an electronic circuit board. to everyone else, it looks meaningless, tissue-words, wet with the slop of emotions and slapped onto the frame of fragility, thereby claiming pretentious work. but that’s where meaning stems from – becoming detached from the opinions of everyone else, being vindicated in your perceived loneliness, and safe in your knowledge of the birth and reason of each line, each stanza.

and maybe that’s what love is, being alive in your own supernova, blinded to the surrounding darkness by your very self, and burning everything dissimilar to the substance of your being.