Dusty Morning

May. Nothing's coming in, can't seem to write anything. This is the fourth post of the month, pathetic. Yawn.

Dusty Mornings

It’s on morning like these when
the toxic air-con makes mucus snowflakes
and the sun having just whet
his blades last night
maiming the flesh between the air and my eyes
groaning repetitions of the twenty-sixth alphabet
with supper’s yellow cookie crumbs
(to my surprise)
finding their way between the gaps
to coalesce with flesh
to block out the bright,
in laughter and mocking.
Bough under bough, meat under cloth,
pins and needles.
Ouch.
Last night’s dream was of
Nah, can’t rememboooaaaaarrrggh.
Wet cookie crumbs.

Well, this is the day that You have made.

Thanks for the five senses.

Thanks for letting me wake up before the alaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgghhm

Slimier cookie crumbs

clock.

~tc©

The Poet is Mightier than the Swordsman

The Poet is Mightier than the Swordsman

If my eyes could draw a painting now
it’d be grey, black or white
like the passing clouds of a teary sky
where the silver lining is fiction
where dreams would vanish when one thought twice.

If my ears could note a melody
of beauty sweet and bitter,
my heart could then take a rest
and my staff would cease to quaver
I wouldn’t need one with this harmony.

If my hands could put into shape surreal
and marshal the monochrome endeavours above
then my threads of gloom and thoughts of love
would vie to vie with the hardest steel,
soften the iciest heart
find the lost
at the cost
of less than a meagre meal
and a single copper coin, perhaps.

~tc©

Mêlée

Its been long enough. A fortnight of network retardation could prove the same mentally as well. Well at least the papers are all over now. I'll save the colloquy for next time, this one here below is quite long. I initially wanted to italicise a few lines but I figured I'd let you do the figuring. It may seem a little alarming but I assure you I don't harbour thoughts about betraying my faith. I can't. That's the beauty of it. Heh. Enjoy.

Mêlée

Peace to you, my brethren!

Hallelujah for divine languor.

Dear child, pl-

Hallelujah for anticipation! Hallelujah for the anticlimax! How ‘bout the antichrist!? Heh, agreed. Hallelujah.

Your bridge, Your grace, Your strategy
Is this how we choose today?
Is this compassion, or love when we tear in vain
for the ones that fade away
Are our words cacophony
fallen on apathy
since You knew what we were going to say?
Have we no say?
Now the wounds of this gap scream of how
they’ll never close away.
The gap You promised to seal.
The scars You promised to heal.
But all is left, is the rain of the unremitting
and our wishing it could all dry up
Just like the sporadic decks of cards that You deal
everyday
spades, clovers and diamonds forlorn
Melodies, hymns and symphonies are noise
Every prayer, every voice
right before every slumber, every meal
Have they become a routine even to You?

Where were you when I was drenched in blood?
Then and now, spears and guns
scorning My tears and My choice, My fate
worse than that of the prodigal son
Yet I haven’t closed a single door
since your walk on the aisle begun
This is My profession, He played that suit of hearts on Me
There was no dice but sacrifice
This is My confession, I need you not but I still love thee.
Child, you won’t live long if touch dictates!
Nor sight, nor sound nor smell
for beauty lives where spirits compel
where ours shall weave and interlock...
I pray.

Light and dark
Light and
Light

It’s been there all along
Oh Agnus dei
break these chains
of alexithymia
of cursory
of vice and felony

Break me and make me again.

~tc©

Pillow

I'm surprised I managed to find solace to inscribe my thoughts despite the informational cataclysm occurring up there right now. Hm. Good, indication of sanity retention.

This one below...I think I'll write a tune for it once the hustle-and-bustle is over, won't do it justice if I don't; at least thats what I think.

Pillow

She’s been beside me, always there
since vacant memory
I’ve held her close from spring’s echoes
to winter’s evergreen
Night by night she’s been the drawer
of the prettiest, darkest dreams
and at dawn, no matter from which I left,
she’d never leave me.
She’d never leave me.
She’s braved the rains of my brown white clouds
and she’s never said a thing
Migraines, lullabies and folded hands,
now she’s old enough for me.
I wish she wasn’t white and soft
or something close to none
because I’ve dreamed that dream so many times
that she would be someone.

I’d scream and sweat and dry my eyes with
my head upon her heart
wishing she’d say, My days have gone,
but our days have just begun.

~tc©

V

"Who are you?"

"Who...Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask."

"Oh I can see that."

"Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation; I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is."

"Oh, right."

"But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatist persona.

Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V."

V for Vendetta

Anger, Assumptions and Androgyny

It was my second time to that salon.

Upon arrival, my eyes met with an astonishing character. Disturbingly astonishing. From vague recollection, I saw him around the last time I came, but never up this close. It was a permanent impression.

He immediately detected my presence and rose to receive my advent with a promotional offering of services.

Herein lies the dilemma. The stupidest thing is, I didn’t know how the hell to address him, or her in that sense. But I guess, for the sake of convenience and ethics here, let us just utilise the paradigm of "he".

On the other hand, my eyes were completely fixated at his elaborate…phenotype.

His face was pallid with thick layers of mascara, with a tinge of reddish-beige sprinkled at the top of his cheeks. A glistening crystal rested blissfully upon his right earlobe. His eyelashes seemed to reach towards mine, and his lips were two distinct creases of bright red. His hair danced in curls from his head all the way to just below his shoulders, and the most formidable perfume penetrated my olfactory defenses like spear and rice-paper. I could have sworn he looked almost identical to Michael Jackson.

He spoke with the most bizarre Mandarin accent, and as such I couldn’t hear nuts. But that wasn’t the only reason. My reserve buckets of attention, all that were left from the busy day, were completely stolen by the pitch of his voice. I thought there were birds in the shop.

So I starting conversing in English, but as soon as I realized we weren’t getting anywhere, I approached another hairstylist near the counter, whom I contrived to be, erm, evidently more perpendicular to the ground. I soon found out that my previous hairstylist was on leave, so he proposed I come back on Wednesday if I had specifically wanted her to get the job done. But since I was already there, I might as well just get it done, so I said to him, “Anyone will do.”

That may have been the stupidest thing I’d ever have said in my entire life. Word of advice, don’t use ANYONE ANYHOW.

Mr. Happy then came over to guide me to a seat. And I was like “Oh @#$%.”

Well, what could I have done? So I put my bag down, got my ass on the chair, donned the prevent-hair-from-falling-onto-your-skin-and-clothes-rubber-cloth-cover-sheet thingy, told him how I wanted my hair to be done, and he started working on it.

We had an amazing conversation of four lines.

“你今年几岁？”

Cool, I understood him.

“十六。”

“哦，刚放学是吗？”

“Er, 对。”

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all. As soon as he finished snipping the back, I remembered something I forgot to tell him.

“Er, (long pause because I didn’t know whether to call him Uncle, Sir, or 小姐), 你可不可以把我旁边的头发剪得touch 不到耳朵吗？” I gestured. (Pardon my bilinguistic ineptitude)

There was a short pause.

“我还没有剪好！等一下你要我剪多短我就给你剪多短！” He lashed.

I couldn’t tell if my face was cringing, my glasses were on the table. There was a deafening silence. After 3 seconds, I retracted my right arm, he resumed cutting.

At the corner of my eye I could see his expression. He was DAMN PISSED. His lips continuously muttered vague whispers of “我还没有剪好”. Quite differing from what was repetitive in my mind at that moment. Two phrases. “Siao!! What the hell!?” and “My hair’s screwed.” My fears were met. His hand motion increased in speed, and so did the razor activity of his scissors. The deadly combination of flesh and steel circled the side of my head in a blur, even when it was right next to my ear, and I felt my hair growing thinner, and thinner, and thinner, and EVEN thinner. I was completely at his mercy.

That’s it; he was taking it out on my hair. At that moment a very random thought entered my mind. Hairstylists would make really efficient terrorists in future when nanobombs are invented. But I shoved that notion away; I had more important things to worry about.

He tilted my head with a crude stroke, snipped some more, another tilt, another snip. Even so, this didn’t seem to appease his wrath; his hysterical lip movements hadn’t ceased. I thought his perfume was going to crush my throat as he continued his athletic endeavour to scare the shit out of me.

When he was done, I didn’t dare look myself in the mirror. Then, the squall turned to a gentle breeze.

“来，把你的眼镜戴上。我帮你style你的hair.” What’s that supposed to mean to me, someone else has a similar level of linguistic incompetence? Absolutely not, it was the comfort of casual colloquy.

I put my specs on. First impression: Eh it’s not bad!

He continued to apply some gel, simultaneously telling me about the different kind of techniques I could use, the different hair products I could use, all with deepest affability. Or maybe it was because of the contrast I perceived. Then he lifted the covers, and two dark blue handprints on my pants greeted me with a cooling, deriding sensation. I almost laughed aloud. I wonder if I’ll go back there again.

And that’s anger, assumption and androgyny for you. Here’s what I look like now haha. Not bad right!?

Hey hey, my brows are asking,
"Look above us, what do you think?"

By the way, after paying the bill, he gave me his namecard. It said "Michael".

Golden

I think I'm getting lazier. This 3-month-old baby blog seems to be diminishing in posting frequency. And it'll continue to go down the hill as I phase into mug-mode for T2 Common Test, Mid-Years mildly put. I seem to be the only one is class who hasn't really hit the books yet, but who knows, sometimes inspiration can be so strong it pulls you away from everything.

Anyways, this song below is dedicated to everyone who lays eyes on this post, no matter who you are, and especially to Aiping, whose birthday happens to fall on today.

Happy Birthday to You!

Click there to play! --------------------->

Golden by Switchfoot

(Like freedom in spring)

She's alone tonight with a bitter cup and
She's undone tonight, she's all used up,
She's been staring down the demons
Who've been screaming
She's just another so and so,
Another so and so

You are golden,
You are golden, Child
You are golden,
(Don't let go)
(Don't let go tonight)

There's a fear that burns like trash inside
And your shame of the curse that burns your eyes
You've been hiding in your bedroom,
Hoping this isn't how the story has to go
It's not the way to go,
It's your book now,

You are golden,
You are golden, Child
You are golden,
(Don't let go)
(Don't let go tonight)

You're a lonely soul in a land of broken hearts
You're far from home, it's a perfect place to start

(Yeah!)
(Burn)
(Burn, Burn!)

So this final verse is a contradiction
And the more we learn the less we know

We've been talkin' about a feeling,
We both know inside but couldn't find the words
I couldn't write this verse,
I've seldom been so sure,
About anything before

Golden,
You are Golden, Child
You are Golden,
(Don't let go)
(Don't let go tonight)

This world is a dead man down (Golden, you are)
Every breath is a fading crown we wear (Golden, Child, you are)
Like some debilitated king (Golden, don't let go)
Don't let go tonight

The Earth spins and the moon goes round (Golden, you are)
The green comes from the frozen ground (Golden, Child, you are)
And everything will be made new again (Golden)
(Like freedom in spring) (Golden, Golden)

Hey, like freedom in spring, (Golden, you are, hey)
Like freedom in spring (Golden, Child, you are)
(Gold...)