There were once two cute little fecks name Argle and Yargle.

Argle and Yargle. Being bored out of my skull and facing another night of insomnia, I shall abstain from my usual courtly poetry and stick to the

bare
bleached
bovine

sensibility of teen language.

OK, seriously. The world is, like, this huge round yoyo spinning around on a large invisible stick, with idiotic little pokemon just sprouting out of the ground like popcorn. Totally nonsensical, and utterly lacking in humour. Were I any normal doggone kid I'd amuse myself with pictures of naked people, but I'd only have more difficulty sleeping. Apparently pictures of naked people are the solution to people falling asleep in General Paper class.

Honestly, how crass.

Taking account the person in particular at which the remedy is targeted, though, makes things perfectly understandable.

Is it just because I'm bored that I'm eating? This is so bad for my health. It's like 12.30 am already, or something like that.

Where did my whole night go, man? Someone outta keep a watch on the Sun and Moon. They're meddling with each other's alarm clocks. Sleeping on their shifts! O deplorable stars.

Why oh why am I so bored. Whoy oh whoy. Whey oh whey. Whay?

Whay , ay whay, am ay sao bard?

Starz above, but we're one pathetic bunch of bored out hobos without humour. A whole race of dull, dour and dispassionate souls.

I mean, we'd be all like potatoes.

And which dumbass dude would want to be a potato? I mean, sure, you'd be useful. You'd either be a fry or a wedge. Or maybe a mashed up mass of sticky stiff starch. Yeck.

I've run out of stupid blackcurrent ricola. Perfect time to crave for weird inassessible foods, at 12.20 at night...is the stupid clock going backwards? oh wait. I put it upside down for novelty...go me, nice new and novel as our lousy lit text.

So now its 12.4o.

And to top it off it's as hot as Britney Spears' ex-ass around here.

Sun, you need to put on more clothes when you shine.

Elang, you need to follow suit.

The ha-ha-ha, the ha-ha-ha, and the downright ha-ha-ha

1. "Damn dog! Da-a-amn dog! Consperm got drug!!' From Da Dawgtor

2.

= Meow meow shoots, Meow Meow misses=

= Nard and the Sun take their turn to score a hoop =

= Meow meow shoots, Meow Meow misses=
= Nard and the Sun take their turn to score a hoop =

= Before Meow Meow shoots, girl shout =

"Come on! You're our only hope!"

3.

Xiao Zhar Bor : "Between Z-Dog, the Sun, and Ah-hon, who would you want to shoot, shag or marry?"

JJ : "Oh, I want to shag Z-Dog!"

Z-Dog : "You want to do WHAT to me??"

the Sun : "He wants to have sex with you."

4.

Zheyan : "Hey Zhilbeh, your spectacles are upside down..."

Zhilbeh : "Huh, really meh?" =takes of glasses and checks= "Don't have what." =puts them back on, the sides are still upside down=

The Witching Hour

Salutations and blessings upon ye, o fair friend, oh joyous hours of solitude and fair freedom!

It is Friday night, finally, that deadly snake-pit period of temptation which makes me want to stay up late, with aircon, good music and hours of midnight and early morning solitude, and whisk myself off on a spellbinding adventure with dragons and demons -

No sleep! For sleep is the torpid state of stupor to which we all retire under the soporific lull of math and chem lectures, most definitely not worthy of the magical thirteenth hour of Friday night.

At the heart of all this end-of-week anticipation, is the loss of yet another 7 days' worth of memories -

- gambol from weekday to weekday, much like a the way a flea jumps and knows not whether it lands on the same host or a different one -

- and hey, presto! Once again we await the glory of Saturday to shower us with books and black coffee.

The Hour at Night

The thirteenth hour rises and is robed by the moon
Shadows crouch, still and hide, for their job is to lie
Even cats slink off, glinting eyes a green fading blue
But you -
You live with with light and the glory and the vigour of noon.

Look back on my week and read my joy like a book
Smiles grin, laughter chuckles and so too must I
How beautiful is pure friendship between close friends at school
But no -
The anchor of love takes me to drown, line, sinker and hook.

Your silent gaze wrecks the train of my thought
Your touch invites terror and your smile invokes fear
Snarky comment springs to life, tip of my tongue, then
Then -
Something stops my elegant one liners one witty pun short.

Now dark the chaos tempest veiled
And dark the land beneath the sky,
Now dark the careening scream of wind
And dark our melancholy sigh

For the stars of the night are the light of your eyes
and the song in my heart is your voice.

Comments, please!

Poetry Porn

Word Porn
By George Wielgus

I want to word you
I want to put my words inside of you

Don’t be afraid
I’ll start off slow, gentle
With little short words
So you relax, get comfortable
So you start you like it
Then they’ll get bigger
Harder, faster
Caressing you with lexis
Titillating with syntax
Obfusticating with metaphor
Egregious with symbolism

Steady, don’t get too excited

Words start off flaccid
But get inflated with passion
Erect with meaning
Soon they’re driving a fire inside of you
Massive throbbing words
Huge great purple-headed words
Flushed with allegorical juices
Dripping, hot, miasmic words
Spraying, coursing, biting, kissing words
Words of wanton abandon

I want to see the look on your face
As you feel my words working their literary magic
As the unrelenting flow
The pressure
The insistence of my words
Transforms your experience
From the mundane to the supreme

I want you to gasp as I thrust
A deep word
A grammar of ecstasy
A vocabulary of entries and exits
Right up inside your mental crevasses
Infiltrating areas you never knew you had

Wording, wording, wording
Suck on my words
Put my words in your mouth
And spit them back out at me

I want to ride your pentameter!
Incite me to further daring acts of wordage
Word me like you’ve never been worded before
You’ve got the best words in the world
The biggest words
The hardest words
The best words I’ve ever had

Word me, baby!
Word me faster, word me slower
Word me like you love me
Word me up to the highest highs
That’s it! That’s it!
I’m wording, oh my God, I’m wording!
Word with me! Word with me!

The climax of punctuation:
An exclamation mark!

Followed by
A tentative question mark.

Did you conjugate the verb?


Full stop.


I LOVED THAT.

High and h**** from recounting class camp experiences to my yaoi fan-in-arms.
This is modern literature at its most ingenious and bombastic beyond-the-rules-out-of-the-box thinking.

Pinnochio

Pinnochio.

Wake up, Wake up,
For your brain is the soundless murmurings
of a million atoms
and death is only as far away
as sleep
as wakefulness
For you were never truly alive.

Wake up, Wake up,
For You and I are but mindless machines
replicating after heated mixture.

Wake up, wake up,
For even the Greeks decked their halls
with vulgar colour
and those that we worship
are but the crushed remnants
of their bare
bleached
bones

Wake up, Wake up,
For you are the millionth mongrel son
of Adam
and Eve
and that apple in your throat
spits the truth
every time
when it says you were never truly free

Wake up, Wake up
for the world
is a million vibrant colours
waiting to run you through with ecstasy

Wake up, wake up
and you will discover
that once you were alive
and now
you are dead.

By : Zeng Tianchen



This is the best poem I remember reading for a long time, for the intriguing and vivid imagery that the persona uses to describe mankind.

'Pinnochio' has all the characteristics of a modern-contemporary poem, from the dissonant, non-rhyming lines to the free verse stanzas and the brutal tone of illusion versus reality. It plays on the theme of human fraility and the farce of our existence, and although an extremely overdone topic, it is the original imagery and metaphors that I really love.

The title has an intriguing double meaning - Pinnochio being a puppet granted life at a fairy's whim, a parrellel is drawn between Pinnochio's false consciousness and our temporary existence subject to uncontrollable elements such as death or fate. Too, Pinnochio is a puppet who lied from birth, which implies that mankind deludes himself from the very beginning. With each stanza, the persona beseeches humanity to 'wake up', to open their eyes and look through the illusion of their lives. This strong emphasis on the idea of the 'matrix' embodies the cliched, yet ever brought up question : what is the purpose of our existence?

The imagery that really impacts me is the demeaning of the human race, the reality of basalness beneath the facade of a 'sentient being.'

The human brain, the source of our soul, emotion and memories, is reduced to a 'murmuring' mess of tiny 'atoms', and death is not so far removed as we think; infact, helpless as we are, death is as near as 'sleep' - expected, needed, part and parcel of life.

The process of sexual intercourse, intended for procreation and reserved for humanity as an act of pleasure, in fact reduces us to being 'mindless (and) heated'; wanton and instinct-driven, like animals.

"We worship (the) crushed remnants (of) bone" - To me, this phrase describes the our habit of deifying historic events and figureheads - Confucius the scholar, Julius Caesar the greatest emperor of the greatest empire, the Greek Gods on mythology, and so on. We remember these people because of their accomplishments and their legacies, because they are as marks and milestones in the progression of the human race toward 'social and cultural development' (as it were). Ironically, history is often altered over the course of time such that the winners re-create events as they wish. People's acts and characteristics are tweaked to suit a human ideal of a 'hero', a noble 'act of self-sacrifice'. Unable as we are to really acertain the truth for ourselves, all we can worship are their 'bones' - dead, dry, nowhere near a testimonial to the actual living body it once was.

Here's my favourite line : "...you are the millionth mongrel son of Adam and Eve..." - a distinctive jolt from the all claims that humans are a race above animals, the only species truly and feeling. I love the word 'mongrel' - It's especially so especially degrading and blasphemous in the context of religion or culture - it conveys the mixing of blood, 'pollution' of the human 'pedigree bloodline' through (perhaps?) inter-racial / homosexual relationships - and if you think about it, 7 billion descendants of Adam and Eve are all related and breeding with their own relatives. And thus the inbreeding continues and even as we erect greater and greater stages of 'accomplishment' to fool ourselves into 'progress,' so does the inexorable decline of mankind go on.

And, the 'fruit of truth' from the Bible, taking the shape of the 'apple' in the poem, shows us the reality that even Adam and Eve, the first ancestors of men, had neither the complete joy nor freedom associated with life - they were constrained by rules, and thrown out of Paradise for disobedience.

Finally, the colours in our life that incite us to ecstacy represents the vibrance of the world around us, and more importantly the myriad of emotions and memories that we experience. I find it interesting that the phrase 'run you through' is used as it signifies death. On deeper thought, what is life but colours, experiences and thought parading through our minds, fading yet renewed every second, and what is death but the end of these sensory images? The 'ecstacy' of life is not only delight but also angst, fear, sorrow, triumph and defeat, the heightened awareness of ourselves that only humans experience - and without which we are no more than mindless machines.

I would love to go deeper into the structure and effect of free verse, but as that's not my forte, I shall leave at at this.

Awesome job, Tianchen!

The Riddler

The power of imagination is such that I discover flashes of personality lurking at every corner of conciousness, and just like that, I unearth a fully formed character ripe for action in a story, intensely detailed in appearance and personality.

Whether or not I have a world or a plot in mind for him(or her), the image of him (her) just lingers in my mind while I erase and redefine the scratchy sketchlines of their image and fill them in with colour.


His favourite past-time might have been sauntering aimlessly, for all the aimless sauntering he did day in and day out - a tall lanky figure with his tie casually loosened and the collar turned up in the bracing wind, shirt tails hanging out over his belt and shoes unlaced. He might have borne a marked resemblance to the famous Mr Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights - for he was a sleek-browed gypsy of a man with cocoa coloured skin and acquiline features. His hair drew back from a slight widow's peak, and he would have been handsome if not for the perpetual sullen crease about the slate hard eyes.

Today was no different and he was slouched against the wall of the sports-hall - by the angular juts of his lithe body and the unwelcoming glint in his eyes, he could have been the slumping face of clift.

The other men mingled easily around him, gazes passing over his dark form like they would a pillar, for he was a stark contrast to their burnished blonde hair and freckled white skin. He had none of their well muscled physique and had nearly been punished for that difference.

For all his indolent lazing and wandering, he was faster than he looked, and the whipcord limbs of his body could unfurl and snap at will, driving off his would-be tormentors with a blow and a derisive sneer. On the sports court, he was a danger to player and audience alike, strong as a bear, vicious as a wolverine, and a graceful viper almost half indifferent of the rules. Not that the team could dismiss him, needing his strength and skill.

To his front they slurred out a variation of his last name; to his back they slung vulgarity over obscenity and cursed to prove their unintimidation. In the lucid light of their observation, he was by turns a criminal, a wanton degenerate who bedded men or women or both, heathen rogue - protected only by the sporting interests of a civilised people -

Such is the overwhelmingly memorable image of certain lady strutting about on heels on Aprils Fool's day, gesticulating emphatically in a Michele Obama worthy outfit and waxing eloquent over the bias of gender, gender rights and gender preference in our society, and another of...a certain someone who shall retain anonymity.