Blitzkrieg

More and more one realizes, as one struggles in vain to put definition to feelings, that no matter the level of mastery, language is sadly finite and inadequate. No amount of metaphor or enjambement does justice to the intensity of emotion and, perhaps, almost, a different level of conciousness -

Looking, really looking, up to the celestial constellations, mankind's failed endeavour to name and discuss deity; sinking, up up and up into the swirling, floating avalanche of sable velvetine and silver peaked pinpoints, each of them having spiraled and shot through lightyears upon lightyears of matter and not-matter ; hearing, for a split second, a vibration of an echo of a the sky's endless song - the reverberation of joy and fury primordial, unadulterated, a moment of which has been distilled - attenuated, like the spreading heat of a glowing cinder to warm frigid Siberia -

Allow the human mind a paltry hazard at comprehending the futility of one's attempts to comprehend -

Rhythmic drive of blood in your ears, ruthless, roaring, reckless and relentless as the katabatic winds; unshackled, unbridled strength - scream, howling, your throat rips to shreds, sprint till lands run out, and then fight and brawl till your jaw is split and your knucles shattered, anything to fuel the fire in your limbs, anything to calm the blood threatening to spit - viciously, red hot and wanton, through the jugular - regardless of rules, heedless of expectations, mutinous, rebellious, breakneck feckless breakneck feckless breackneck feckless foolish foolhardy DAREDEVIL - DEFIANT -

Spirit be desertstorm determined, heart be labyrinthine; ten thousand thundering typhoons and passion be a holocaust of sense and sensibility; love be hellfire and vengeance be smouldering brimstone -

Golden resonance of the alps and silver sliding scale of the wild, the red the blue the yellow the purple flowers and their fresh white blossoms like so many tiny pearls, embedded in green -

A million mongrel sons cannot give a pedigree -

So many droplets of so many moments, bombarding the boundaries of language, leaving it a fluttering penant of defeat -

Blitzkrieg.

Half Time

I demand that the world halts in its heedless pursuit of tomorrow and glide in a stately merry-go-round direction for a week or two!

Evidently nobody gives a damn, as the clock is still steadfastly ticking forward. Stuff.

I am most woebegonefully behind in affairs of life and education. I mean, hallelujah and joy to the world and whatnot for the genius of physicists, but whomsoever coined the term 'inertia' has resulted in my overusing this term to describe sheer laziness and procrastination. I am lazy and I procrastinate, period. My choice animal to be in this world would be a tiger, but, barring a sudden surge of required will and determination to stave off starvation, I would be much better off as a barnacle on a whale.

Precisement.

But seeing as how I have the avoided the fate of a low life crustacean and great cat alike, I shall just delight in muddling along as best as I can.

At long last, the ever awaited start to the June holidays! How exceedingly grateful I am to the Lord Almighty that thy unworthy subject has made it through the first six months of Junior College, hardly unscathed but thoroughly satisfied for it -

10s03N is the absolute pinnacle of my happiness, truly and sincerely the best class, most bonded and with the least cliquey people, I have ever been in, and believe you me when I say that class time never so much as tilts towards the side of boredom and irritation. In fact, cheers to all the (RA)ted jokes and scandals that swathe our classmates like winds in a hurricane.

That said, one is severely shocked that term 2 has just vapourized with narry an inkling of its passage; where o where has half of Jc1 life gone to?? Six months of my life over and done with forever!!

So many regrets and failures. These terrible miscreants I shall chuck under the sink to join the abhorred lizards and cockroaches of the world, for one must ensure that these miseries will never be dredged up like silt to be re-agonized and re-wailed over! -shudder shudder -

For good measure, I shall - shudder - again.

A hearty toast, a glass of wine, to former glories,
The rich ruby swirl of former glories.

Just the almost forgotten, deliberately forgotten hopes
Fool's hopes.

Your only Rose

I just wish you loved me as if I were your only rose!



My gallant paladin,

Love me, completely and utterly,

Cherish me like your eyes.

Bring me a lance of molten platinum,

Bring me a liquid gown of ice that will not melt

Bring me a dress of golden flowers, with neither stitch nor seam

Bring me a crown of moonlight I can touch and wear

Bring me the moon itself on a chain

Brave for me the trials of hell.



My gentle paladin,

Beautify me,

Pleasure me above all other flowers, that I might be the radiance of every star's fantasy.

For I am

Resplendent, Incandescent, Ethereal

Only me. The only rose.

No silent, passing praise for me, oh no no,

I want the monopoly, the riveted abhorrent jealousy from others when they look upon my exquisite self.

Do behold their spiteful malcontent, evoking in me a frisson of joy, so delightful it is to my gleeful eye! I would be pulchritude itself, empyreal gift on earth, the only, the one, the single.

Rose.

I rememember past the hideous, drooping stalk, hanging low and withered as dried up skin. The pitiful crackle of dry leaves crushed. The bald flower bereft of its crown.

The seizing laugter of corruption.

By any other name would it smell as sweet.

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!

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.