My blood is overboiled.
I’ve wanted to fuck you for months.
You.
You goddess.
You, woman of my haemoglobin.
The woman who lives in my frozen gazes
I am so taken.
Absorbed by you.
When you walk by like a dancing Medusa.
Keeping me captive in my own body.
I am turned to stony silence.
I have wanted to kiss you.
And taste your tongue on my breath.
And I can’t move.
My cock is rigid like a judges gavel.
Oh goddess.
Release me.
I see you in every upturned smile.
I feel you as warm winds graze through my shirt.
And caresses my body like a lover’s exhale.
Leave me alone oh goddess.
You with your spells.
Your potions.
Your lotions between a woman’s loins.
How you seep weep wild make my untamed eyes wander all over a girl’s body.
I am hungry for you dearest goddess.
Feed me!
You scream.
I say, I’m trying oh beautiful gorgeous loving lusty drumming dramatic Dulcinea.
But how can I trust you?
You don’t even tell me your name.
And when I speak of you… your children disown me.
Call me names.
Wound me.
Knife me.
Scar me.
Scold and slap me.
As if I’d promised to hurt them to disrobe and disbar and shame them
And what am I doing?
Do they know what I’m doing?
How I feel?
It is I who is humbled
Hushed
Stupid
Dumbed at their feet.
And buried in their breasts
And finally breaking down.
Almost wailing.
Inhaling.
Exhaling.
Clinging so hard.
Like a teary babe.
I am nothing without your affection
that
you carelessly toss my way.
Scraps, morsels, from the heavens.
And in my scrambling desperate days and nights… I hang on every strangers desires.
Hoping to worship at your temple
My darling Goddess.
The creator of a luscious love so haunting possessive inescapable inevitable
That I will return to you.
In showers
In spurts
In sprints
In solitude
In rooms
In beds
In bathrooms
Behind curtains
Under stairs
Over thresholds
After midnight
Before sunrise
And when you greet me.
I shiver
I shudder
And I am reminded that I am nothing without your embrace.
Take a look at my aching heart O goddess
My wet small face.
And tell me you love me too
With you and without you
I am your poor servant.
And serve you
As surely
As a desperate lover seeks your pleasure.
And you leave me gasping for breath.
From my first yelling scream
To my last exhale.
My final death.
All as time crawls
Like a snail in the sun.
Drying
Ever
Drying.
Leaving you my dusty remains.
A stain on sheets.
A whiff in the breeze.
Because of you O goddess I am here.
And because of you.
All this lusty life is explosion eruption and then all gone.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
corriander chili garlic pomfret
turqoise coloured rooftops
powdered with
that wild wash
of bubble white
and
under
this liquid horizon
the
crazed
swishing zoom
and
then
fresh netted
they land
banging
and applauding
the boat decks
and now
sauteed
with
pungent
garlic
and
sweet
onions
and
dusty
corriander
and
liquid
red
chili
all
simmering
stirred
merged
hinting
of thyme
and
now
wafting
with
spice
and caramelized
dimpling
a fragrant hillock of steamed rice
powdered with
that wild wash
of bubble white
and
under
this liquid horizon
the
crazed
swishing zoom
and
then
fresh netted
they land
banging
and applauding
the boat decks
and now
sauteed
with
pungent
garlic
and
sweet
onions
and
dusty
corriander
and
liquid
red
chili
all
simmering
stirred
merged
hinting
of thyme
and
now
wafting
with
spice
and caramelized
dimpling
a fragrant hillock of steamed rice
Sunday, May 29, 2005
ode to my shoulder
For waving
for turning
for sweeping
and
twisting
and
pushing
pulling
lifting
for
tapping
for all
that free men
have never truly
acutely
praised your name
your name
that
elavates
our good cheer in a raised palms or fists
in an upburst sweep to the heavens high
your name
that humble
quiet
fragile
enclave
that
subtle
niche
where
blood
mesh
merge
with
bone
and
burning
wants
and needs all meet
where
hands
and
arms
and
wrists
rely
so that we quietly perch
in thought
to silently smile
or artlessly cry
you keep us
to our
every
everyday
needs
and we concede
we miss you
we ache over
losing
your
humble
servitude to our desires
only
when we are torn from you...
You
are
an act
of creation
so
delicate
and sure
and pure
for all
the years
you endure
our self inflicted toils...
you are patient with me
when i throw you around
like a rag
or a brutish stone
when you are the secret spot where arms slip comfortably into succulent silky shirts
you are that players joy in seeing flung summer spheres
you are the beginnings of a batters pride and certainty
and when you are gone
all in ache
then
all
i remember
in awe
was your wordless humility
thank you my friend
my companion
till my useful end
who speaks so little
yet comprehends
me for all my
done deeds
understands
that in my
abuses
i hurt myself
and break
this
health
into
morsels
of gratitute
which i must learn again
to enjoy
one movement at a time
one movement at a time
till
everything
is
still
once
more.
for turning
for sweeping
and
twisting
and
pushing
pulling
lifting
for
tapping
for all
that free men
have never truly
acutely
praised your name
your name
that
elavates
our good cheer in a raised palms or fists
in an upburst sweep to the heavens high
your name
that humble
quiet
fragile
enclave
that
subtle
niche
where
blood
mesh
merge
with
bone
and
burning
wants
and needs all meet
where
hands
and
arms
and
wrists
rely
so that we quietly perch
in thought
to silently smile
or artlessly cry
you keep us
to our
every
everyday
needs
and we concede
we miss you
we ache over
losing
your
humble
servitude to our desires
only
when we are torn from you...
You
are
an act
of creation
so
delicate
and sure
and pure
for all
the years
you endure
our self inflicted toils...
you are patient with me
when i throw you around
like a rag
or a brutish stone
when you are the secret spot where arms slip comfortably into succulent silky shirts
you are that players joy in seeing flung summer spheres
you are the beginnings of a batters pride and certainty
and when you are gone
all in ache
then
all
i remember
in awe
was your wordless humility
thank you my friend
my companion
till my useful end
who speaks so little
yet comprehends
me for all my
done deeds
understands
that in my
abuses
i hurt myself
and break
this
health
into
morsels
of gratitute
which i must learn again
to enjoy
one movement at a time
one movement at a time
till
everything
is
still
once
more.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
One Armed Non-Bandit...
For the past 21 days,
I have had my arm in a cage.
They call it a sling.
But where my arm resided
was what
wild birds
are put into.
When they should be flying... instead are losing their feathers.
Or even worse,
where they are captivated
until they start to even forget what the sky looks like.
Well this,
was my arm.
I fell
and the shoulder smashed out
into the world
like
an
exclaimation point.
And it took all the kings nurses
and all the kings men
to put
me
back together again.
And now my cage is broken.
My once wild arm no longer wilful.
And it cautiously strains
to peer into the world.
When
once
a time ago
it was peerless.
I have had my arm in a cage.
They call it a sling.
But where my arm resided
was what
wild birds
are put into.
When they should be flying... instead are losing their feathers.
Or even worse,
where they are captivated
until they start to even forget what the sky looks like.
Well this,
was my arm.
I fell
and the shoulder smashed out
into the world
like
an
exclaimation point.
And it took all the kings nurses
and all the kings men
to put
me
back together again.
And now my cage is broken.
My once wild arm no longer wilful.
And it cautiously strains
to peer into the world.
When
once
a time ago
it was peerless.
Friday, April 29, 2005
a sweeping statement...
I'd written a long note to god
about being happy that i wasn't broke
it's funny how something like money
allows you to be comforted
like the comfort
of knowing
you'll
pay
rent
or food
and not be thrown out
to the streets yet another month
living paycheck to paycheck
is it zen to worry about such things?
is it zen to think
"oh no, i'm going to die from loneliness and a bad living environment"
what do zen monks do in squallor?
One thing i think they do is... clean.
They take a broom and sweep.
And as they do, the mind is dusted for cobwebs too.
i need to clean my mind as frequently as i can.
about being happy that i wasn't broke
it's funny how something like money
allows you to be comforted
like the comfort
of knowing
you'll
pay
rent
or food
and not be thrown out
to the streets yet another month
living paycheck to paycheck
is it zen to worry about such things?
is it zen to think
"oh no, i'm going to die from loneliness and a bad living environment"
what do zen monks do in squallor?
One thing i think they do is... clean.
They take a broom and sweep.
And as they do, the mind is dusted for cobwebs too.
i need to clean my mind as frequently as i can.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Sunday Coma
Didn't cook.
clean.
sing.
Or
Do anything.
So
Did
it sting
to think that I'd done not an inch of human racing rave?
No putting up walls
or making rooms.
No new blooms
Or simmer algorhythm recipe resume
no future to hurtle
no past exhumed
didn't even
get caught
in someone's fumes.
I woke up from monday
thinking of sunday
wondering
if this was enough
to be so still
But
still...
clean.
sing.
Or
Do anything.
So
Did
it sting
to think that I'd done not an inch of human racing rave?
No putting up walls
or making rooms.
No new blooms
Or simmer algorhythm recipe resume
no future to hurtle
no past exhumed
didn't even
get caught
in someone's fumes.
I woke up from monday
thinking of sunday
wondering
if this was enough
to be so still
But
still...
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Ode to String Theory...
I came across something fascinating.
It's a theory by quantum physicists.
It speaks of one thing that holds us all together.
And it goes a little like this:
Guitar
with your pluckable tension
that drifts
sweeps
stretches
from
my
depths
all
the way
up
to the gardens of heaven
and you wave
back
and
forth
back
and
forth
fingers
at some
fret board
to make sounds
from you
and
our
humble earth
comes from a chord
a set of strings that play us
and here we are
with
our fingers toes
our haleys comets
our caspian seas and casper friendly ghosts
our champagne flutes
and drunken toasts
our ones for the road
are all coming
from one set of strings
and we are humming
this same tune
because
we
come
from
the same
chord strum pluck hum
and we don't die
we don't get
destroyed
we are
what
happens
after one note is played
does it die?
does
Faaa...
die?
when
Sohhhh....
and
Laaaa...
appear?
Then, are symphonies sad?
Because so many notes were brought to life?
Only to be taken over by another and another and another?
Are the subsequent same notes, our selfsame selves?
Or our brothers, siblings, children?
Our others?
So...
say we are all
strung together
by the vibrations
of a songstress string
we are
all
of
us
just one note
in the orchestral dance
of that agile incredible nimble hand
that one man band
that
holy
choral epic scope and sweep
that plays
while we toil
or restful
sleep
and
we are the song
there is no escape or lament
we're all
also
mentioned
in the chorus
we're
all
in too deep
in too deep...
for
without us
and our lives
our deaths
our tiny
ticking
pirouttes
prance
and
pout
without
us
the
tuneful
swirling
gambol
agape
won't
hear
a
peep.
And
for
our moment
would be an indiscreet silence.
It's a theory by quantum physicists.
It speaks of one thing that holds us all together.
And it goes a little like this:
Guitar
with your pluckable tension
that drifts
sweeps
stretches
from
my
depths
all
the way
up
to the gardens of heaven
and you wave
back
and
forth
back
and
forth
fingers
at some
fret board
to make sounds
from you
and
our
humble earth
comes from a chord
a set of strings that play us
and here we are
with
our fingers toes
our haleys comets
our caspian seas and casper friendly ghosts
our champagne flutes
and drunken toasts
our ones for the road
are all coming
from one set of strings
and we are humming
this same tune
because
we
come
from
the same
chord strum pluck hum
and we don't die
we don't get
destroyed
we are
what
happens
after one note is played
does it die?
does
Faaa...
die?
when
Sohhhh....
and
Laaaa...
appear?
Then, are symphonies sad?
Because so many notes were brought to life?
Only to be taken over by another and another and another?
Are the subsequent same notes, our selfsame selves?
Or our brothers, siblings, children?
Our others?
So...
say we are all
strung together
by the vibrations
of a songstress string
we are
all
of
us
just one note
in the orchestral dance
of that agile incredible nimble hand
that one man band
that
holy
choral epic scope and sweep
that plays
while we toil
or restful
sleep
and
we are the song
there is no escape or lament
we're all
also
mentioned
in the chorus
we're
all
in too deep
in too deep...
for
without us
and our lives
our deaths
our tiny
ticking
pirouttes
prance
and
pout
without
us
the
tuneful
swirling
gambol
agape
won't
hear
a
peep.
And
for
our moment
would be an indiscreet silence.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
truffle: what is it?
What
shall
I say?
That
you
are
like
musty
nights
the
way
we
spent
our evenings
in the forests
near streams
and moss?
Do I speak
or whisper
about the blanket
of moon silk
over our skin
so fragile
we
cannot
unveil
with
mere
fingers
and
what
do
i
mention
when
speaking
of your
oh
so
delicate
tingle
earthy
burst
aroma
like woods
like nymphs
who play
in fallen leaves
in autumn
rainy
drizzling
where
you
and
i
lay
covered
all
moist
delectable
all
edible
like lips
that are for touching
tasting and sucking and inhaling
can i say
that you are
so deep rich
so ripe wet bite rare
so wise
so raw
that
it's easy
to remember you
your intense grounded
delicate whole robust smear
upon my tongue
like unapologetic burgundy upon my soul...
your colour
mysterious
dark
and still
that
with
a
simple
sliver
atop
light
creamy
soup
and
upon
my
senses
you
fill...
you
simply
fill.
shall
I say?
That
you
are
like
musty
nights
the
way
we
spent
our evenings
in the forests
near streams
and moss?
Do I speak
or whisper
about the blanket
of moon silk
over our skin
so fragile
we
cannot
unveil
with
mere
fingers
and
what
do
i
mention
when
speaking
of your
oh
so
delicate
tingle
earthy
burst
aroma
like woods
like nymphs
who play
in fallen leaves
in autumn
rainy
drizzling
where
you
and
i
lay
covered
all
moist
delectable
all
edible
like lips
that are for touching
tasting and sucking and inhaling
can i say
that you are
so deep rich
so ripe wet bite rare
so wise
so raw
that
it's easy
to remember you
your intense grounded
delicate whole robust smear
upon my tongue
like unapologetic burgundy upon my soul...
your colour
mysterious
dark
and still
that
with
a
simple
sliver
atop
light
creamy
soup
and
upon
my
senses
you
fill...
you
simply
fill.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Green Baked Chook
Let it seep
thick
green
paste
of chilis
the colour of american greed
add
lemongrass
add
garlic
add
basil
add
fish sauce...
and pause
inhale
immerse
insinuate
yourself
into
the
wood
marsh
tropical moist
call it temple mantra chanting glow
call it ancient inspired savouring
call it anything
but
ordinary
how can you?
What
with
pungent
lemon
acid
sharp
sweet
stings
like nettles
like bee sting
on the senses
imagine galangal
all crushed into the mix
and your paste
loving
dissolved
mulch
muddy
gooey
flavours
glued
rubbed
massaged
into skin
into
blood
bones
But
don't
forget
olive oil
garlic
sugar
salt
oregano
marjoram
chili
over
wings
thighs
breasts
and
then
light up your fires
and let it rave
rage
caramelise
tantalise
until
heat
and
roar
turn
mere flesh blood and bone
into more
--------------
serve with steamed rice
or baked potatoes loaded with guacamole
thick
green
paste
of chilis
the colour of american greed
add
lemongrass
add
garlic
add
basil
add
fish sauce...
and pause
inhale
immerse
insinuate
yourself
into
the
wood
marsh
tropical moist
call it temple mantra chanting glow
call it ancient inspired savouring
call it anything
but
ordinary
how can you?
What
with
pungent
lemon
acid
sharp
sweet
stings
like nettles
like bee sting
on the senses
imagine galangal
all crushed into the mix
and your paste
loving
dissolved
mulch
muddy
gooey
flavours
glued
rubbed
massaged
into skin
into
blood
bones
But
don't
forget
olive oil
garlic
sugar
salt
oregano
marjoram
chili
over
wings
thighs
breasts
and
then
light up your fires
and let it rave
rage
caramelise
tantalise
until
heat
and
roar
turn
mere flesh blood and bone
into more
--------------
serve with steamed rice
or baked potatoes loaded with guacamole
bellow, yelp or scream
It's been a week since I've written.
Inside there's a feeling of an imploding heart.
Collapsing into itself.
I look towards skyscape.
Up on cloud castles.
And wonder if I will one day live up there.
Where I look down on emotions, that grip us like vines.
And dragging me down to the earth.
Finally when I'm able to see everything
not just the streets ahead
but the words yet to be spoken
the caresses yet to uncurl from my arms...
when i can do that...
i wonder if that's what life up there is like.
I've been having a difficult time
getting out of bed
and getting anywhere...
i hope that anything i do here
day to day
actually
does
something
for someone
a sigh that comes
from deep inside my gut
erupts like a bellow yelp or scream
am i in a dark dreary dream?
and the only thing
that lifts me
is the scent
of chocolate
and flowers
the smell
of comfort
of love
and
memories
of being
in the arms
of reassured
warm
--------------
speaking of dark and dreary I decided to treat myself to Maple Syrup.
So I took some stale rye bread and dipped it in beaten egg (add dash of sugar and salt and pepper and milk).
Fried it, topped with Maple Syrup.
Maple is such a wonderfully toffee-esque caramel even smoky flavours coursing through it.
We're accused all the time of being animals for anything related to blood.
Yet think nothing of drinking the 'blood' of this maple tree - which is what the syrup is; the lifeblood that runs through the bark trunk leaves of this mighty plant.
It's something vegans can now agonise over too.
--------------
Inside there's a feeling of an imploding heart.
Collapsing into itself.
I look towards skyscape.
Up on cloud castles.
And wonder if I will one day live up there.
Where I look down on emotions, that grip us like vines.
And dragging me down to the earth.
Finally when I'm able to see everything
not just the streets ahead
but the words yet to be spoken
the caresses yet to uncurl from my arms...
when i can do that...
i wonder if that's what life up there is like.
I've been having a difficult time
getting out of bed
and getting anywhere...
i hope that anything i do here
day to day
actually
does
something
for someone
a sigh that comes
from deep inside my gut
erupts like a bellow yelp or scream
am i in a dark dreary dream?
and the only thing
that lifts me
is the scent
of chocolate
and flowers
the smell
of comfort
of love
and
memories
of being
in the arms
of reassured
warm
--------------
speaking of dark and dreary I decided to treat myself to Maple Syrup.
So I took some stale rye bread and dipped it in beaten egg (add dash of sugar and salt and pepper and milk).
Fried it, topped with Maple Syrup.
Maple is such a wonderfully toffee-esque caramel even smoky flavours coursing through it.
We're accused all the time of being animals for anything related to blood.
Yet think nothing of drinking the 'blood' of this maple tree - which is what the syrup is; the lifeblood that runs through the bark trunk leaves of this mighty plant.
It's something vegans can now agonise over too.
--------------
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Sydney Here I Come/Go...
In my pick pocket there's a locket
and inside it
gleams
shines
blazes
rages
it's my heart
and in my other pocket
human words
human papers
all saying
where
i can come
where
i can go
and today
I got
my walking/flying/running/soaring/going/entering/leaving
papers
and
the first place
I want to visit
is my other heart
the other piece
that keeps me
listens to me
understands
when i'm not speaking
when i'm not lyrical
when
I
am
in the darkness
the shade of all my imaginings.
My desires
wait for me
like a loyal
companion
by the fire.
And I tire
no more.
For
I have
more than what human arms can give me
I have love from something so big
I cannot even begin to put a name to it...
I will say
thank you
you big blue beyond
you splash wash huge ocean explode
You eternal soul
you larger than the universe...
you loving force
so great
that
you
feel
me
all
the way
down to my tears of joy
as I weep and thank you for my life... my hopes... and everything in between...
and inside it
gleams
shines
blazes
rages
it's my heart
and in my other pocket
human words
human papers
all saying
where
i can come
where
i can go
and today
I got
my walking/flying/running/soaring/going/entering/leaving
papers
and
the first place
I want to visit
is my other heart
the other piece
that keeps me
listens to me
understands
when i'm not speaking
when i'm not lyrical
when
I
am
in the darkness
the shade of all my imaginings.
My desires
wait for me
like a loyal
companion
by the fire.
And I tire
no more.
For
I have
more than what human arms can give me
I have love from something so big
I cannot even begin to put a name to it...
I will say
thank you
you big blue beyond
you splash wash huge ocean explode
You eternal soul
you larger than the universe...
you loving force
so great
that
you
feel
me
all
the way
down to my tears of joy
as I weep and thank you for my life... my hopes... and everything in between...
Monday, April 04, 2005
Meat and Sausage sauce...
What:
Italian sausage (chopped: bite size)
Minced meat
Garlic
Onions
Shallots
Chilis
powdered corriander
a dash of garam masala
Basil
Fresh Corriander
Parseley
Red Vinegar
Water + chicken stock (or cube)
6 large tomatoes (diced)
How:
Sautee garlic, onions, shallots, chilis, basil, corriander and parseley.
Then add minced meat. Add powdered corriander and dash of garam masala.
Add sausages.
Add water, chicken stock, red vinegar and tomatoes.
Simmer for about an hour at least.
Add sugar and salt for that balanced taste.
Serve with spaghetti or bow tie pasta.
Italian sausage (chopped: bite size)
Minced meat
Garlic
Onions
Shallots
Chilis
powdered corriander
a dash of garam masala
Basil
Fresh Corriander
Parseley
Red Vinegar
Water + chicken stock (or cube)
6 large tomatoes (diced)
How:
Sautee garlic, onions, shallots, chilis, basil, corriander and parseley.
Then add minced meat. Add powdered corriander and dash of garam masala.
Add sausages.
Add water, chicken stock, red vinegar and tomatoes.
Simmer for about an hour at least.
Add sugar and salt for that balanced taste.
Serve with spaghetti or bow tie pasta.
Words to my amor...
My baby...
I don't have the words
no more words
only tears
only smiles
only sighs
only all the
most verseless
the most silent
the most quiet
the most swift quick thought
but no words
nothing
that i could
utter
mutter
make
syllables
to sound out your love
like how you are so intensely loving
and so fiercely wonderous
and how you roam with me
how you travel with me
no matter what
the distances
say to our minds
your heart
screams
to be
heard
so that
in your kisses
your embraces
your letters
your holding hugging gestures
are all the words I need
and i hope all my
spirit's warmth
that reaches
out these
distances
do
just
that little bit
to remind you
that i too want to love you
beyond the fences, cages, waters boundaries
and i too
want you to feel me there...
where
there are no such things
as miles or wing sweep... or journey...
there is only
constant
connection
to one another
for now and ever more...
i love you my baby
how you keep me in the embrace of adoration
and i want you to know that i feel you
and hope you feel me too...
if only a whisper
but i'm here
i'm there too...
with you...
i love you
i love you
I love YOU...
I don't have the words
no more words
only tears
only smiles
only sighs
only all the
most verseless
the most silent
the most quiet
the most swift quick thought
but no words
nothing
that i could
utter
mutter
make
syllables
to sound out your love
like how you are so intensely loving
and so fiercely wonderous
and how you roam with me
how you travel with me
no matter what
the distances
say to our minds
your heart
screams
to be
heard
so that
in your kisses
your embraces
your letters
your holding hugging gestures
are all the words I need
and i hope all my
spirit's warmth
that reaches
out these
distances
do
just
that little bit
to remind you
that i too want to love you
beyond the fences, cages, waters boundaries
and i too
want you to feel me there...
where
there are no such things
as miles or wing sweep... or journey...
there is only
constant
connection
to one another
for now and ever more...
i love you my baby
how you keep me in the embrace of adoration
and i want you to know that i feel you
and hope you feel me too...
if only a whisper
but i'm here
i'm there too...
with you...
i love you
i love you
I love YOU...
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Spicy Lime Prawn Soup...
She stalks me
like a lover
scorned
yet
when she tracks me down
she holds
clings
hugs
caresses
rubs
raw
all abandoned
all decorum unwound
i want to scream
yet make no sound
she
is
so
burn
bend
break
burst
rake
ripe
scratches
so close
like a
choke
on
my
windpipe
all
over
my senses
giggle at the goosebump...
who
can
hunch
slump
think
without
dripping
red
sweat
like
your lips
when we're in bed...
and all this
all this
from
a
kissful
of
you...
Ode to Tom Yum Goong
================
What:
Fresh Prawns (Cleaned and de-shelled. Do not throw shells or head.)
Lemongrass - add whole or chopped (break leaves to coax out the aromas)
Shallots - thinly sliced
Galangal (It's like ginger with a more lime-like smell; best ask a Thai person for it if in doubt)
Kaffir leaves (Or lime leaves as they're sometimes called)
Chili padi (small chilis; usually green)
Nam pla (Thai fish sauce)
Limes - juice it
Salt
Sugar
How:
Marinade prawns in some salt and sugar and pepper.
Boil the heads and shells in water for about 30 minutes.
Switch off heat.
Let the liquid sit; shells and all for about 20 minutes.
Remove head and shells from liquid.
Add Lemongrass. Shallots. Leaves. Galangal. Chilis into the liquid.
Boil.
While simmering... add Nam Pla.
Add lime juice.
Balance sugar and salt - This is the hardest part.
The difference between an ok to a wonderful Tom Yum will depend on your willingness to stand over the pot and just balance out the not too sweet... not too salty and sour taste.
Eventually you'll get a spicy tasting lime soup.
Finally... add prawns just before serving.
Be careful with the prawns.
You don't want to overcook them.
like a lover
scorned
yet
when she tracks me down
she holds
clings
hugs
caresses
rubs
raw
all abandoned
all decorum unwound
i want to scream
yet make no sound
she
is
so
burn
bend
break
burst
rake
ripe
scratches
so close
like a
choke
on
my
windpipe
all
over
my senses
giggle at the goosebump...
who
can
hunch
slump
think
without
dripping
red
sweat
like
your lips
when we're in bed...
and all this
all this
from
a
kissful
of
you...
Ode to Tom Yum Goong
================
What:
Fresh Prawns (Cleaned and de-shelled. Do not throw shells or head.)
Lemongrass - add whole or chopped (break leaves to coax out the aromas)
Shallots - thinly sliced
Galangal (It's like ginger with a more lime-like smell; best ask a Thai person for it if in doubt)
Kaffir leaves (Or lime leaves as they're sometimes called)
Chili padi (small chilis; usually green)
Nam pla (Thai fish sauce)
Limes - juice it
Salt
Sugar
How:
Marinade prawns in some salt and sugar and pepper.
Boil the heads and shells in water for about 30 minutes.
Switch off heat.
Let the liquid sit; shells and all for about 20 minutes.
Remove head and shells from liquid.
Add Lemongrass. Shallots. Leaves. Galangal. Chilis into the liquid.
Boil.
While simmering... add Nam Pla.
Add lime juice.
Balance sugar and salt - This is the hardest part.
The difference between an ok to a wonderful Tom Yum will depend on your willingness to stand over the pot and just balance out the not too sweet... not too salty and sour taste.
Eventually you'll get a spicy tasting lime soup.
Finally... add prawns just before serving.
Be careful with the prawns.
You don't want to overcook them.
Nerves of Jelly...
I am happy
because
I"m nervous
And
when
I'm nervous
I feel all ajitter
all
aclitter
clatter
like plates
piled high
threatening to lean and crash into the ground
leaving behind such bang blast clang clamour
I feel like a nail
and the world is a hammer
that in the end
I
am
the end
of the blow
only to sink further into mortality
with each blow of the inevitable world
All this
because
a boy and a girl
merged bodies
one moment
in time
is my mortality
their gift? or their crime?
maybe I'll make my decision
in time.
in time.
but in the meanwhile
I am
happy
because
i'm nervous...
--------------------
Epilogue:
I notice that when I'm excited about the future, I can get quite aggitated. When I can't predict what's going to happen, I can get very happy. What I like about moments like those is the realisation that everything is possible. The unpredictability gives me no time to pause. I cannot imagine the future. It may be wonderful, sweeping, huge.
(At other times, I'm nervous and depressed because I don't know the future. And wished I did. Especially in regards to job security and rent being due. This is when I'm less than happy.)
But when I see endless horizon this is a good time for me.
In the deluge of epic possibilities I feel nervous and attracted to the visions of change.
With this documentary I am quite excited that we will be putting something to film that is enduring. Something that comes from a deeply felt truth.
I believe all stories contain an element of truth. But do the people in the story truly believe their roles? Their contribution to their own tales?
because
I"m nervous
And
when
I'm nervous
I feel all ajitter
all
aclitter
clatter
like plates
piled high
threatening to lean and crash into the ground
leaving behind such bang blast clang clamour
I feel like a nail
and the world is a hammer
that in the end
I
am
the end
of the blow
only to sink further into mortality
with each blow of the inevitable world
All this
because
a boy and a girl
merged bodies
one moment
in time
is my mortality
their gift? or their crime?
maybe I'll make my decision
in time.
in time.
but in the meanwhile
I am
happy
because
i'm nervous...
--------------------
Epilogue:
I notice that when I'm excited about the future, I can get quite aggitated. When I can't predict what's going to happen, I can get very happy. What I like about moments like those is the realisation that everything is possible. The unpredictability gives me no time to pause. I cannot imagine the future. It may be wonderful, sweeping, huge.
(At other times, I'm nervous and depressed because I don't know the future. And wished I did. Especially in regards to job security and rent being due. This is when I'm less than happy.)
But when I see endless horizon this is a good time for me.
In the deluge of epic possibilities I feel nervous and attracted to the visions of change.
With this documentary I am quite excited that we will be putting something to film that is enduring. Something that comes from a deeply felt truth.
I believe all stories contain an element of truth. But do the people in the story truly believe their roles? Their contribution to their own tales?
Sundance ho!
Last night I checked out the Sundance film festival website.
And apparently they accept all films.
At all stages of edit.
Wow.
Could this be true?
They'll accept my documentary?
And all one needs is a voice?
A voice of unreason?
A voice of difference?
A voice of humanity?
Isn't this one core question of humanity?
Am I human?
Will other humans recognise themselves in my human condition?
Sure it's fun to be the subject of a documentary.
Imagine: Me and Bern captured on subjective history.
It's well...
Flattering even.
But at the end... our bared soul. Its unflinching truth.
We might end up humiliated... collapsed... shamed
And for what?
For the unwavering gaze perhaps?
Where we can look ourselves
in the eye
finally.
And accept what we see.
No matter how uncomfortable.
To cross over
to the other side.
To unlearn our precious feelings.
Disrobe our earthly thoughts.
And return to raindrops, stream flow, breeze song and silence.
So... one small step for 2 mortal parched larynxes.
One giant leap towards our higher selves.
(I just hope the documentary will be rewarding for the audience.)
And who I am kidding?
I want to be rich and famous one day.
It's pathetic isn't it?
We want to be buddha and bill gates and brad pitt all at the same time.
Is this what they mean by "Ommm... you are everywhere."
Perhaps this constitutes as...
"Uummmmmm... you are...
all over the place."
lol.
And apparently they accept all films.
At all stages of edit.
Wow.
Could this be true?
They'll accept my documentary?
And all one needs is a voice?
A voice of unreason?
A voice of difference?
A voice of humanity?
Isn't this one core question of humanity?
Am I human?
Will other humans recognise themselves in my human condition?
Sure it's fun to be the subject of a documentary.
Imagine: Me and Bern captured on subjective history.
It's well...
Flattering even.
But at the end... our bared soul. Its unflinching truth.
We might end up humiliated... collapsed... shamed
And for what?
For the unwavering gaze perhaps?
Where we can look ourselves
in the eye
finally.
And accept what we see.
No matter how uncomfortable.
To cross over
to the other side.
To unlearn our precious feelings.
Disrobe our earthly thoughts.
And return to raindrops, stream flow, breeze song and silence.
So... one small step for 2 mortal parched larynxes.
One giant leap towards our higher selves.
(I just hope the documentary will be rewarding for the audience.)
And who I am kidding?
I want to be rich and famous one day.
It's pathetic isn't it?
We want to be buddha and bill gates and brad pitt all at the same time.
Is this what they mean by "Ommm... you are everywhere."
Perhaps this constitutes as...
"Uummmmmm... you are...
all over the place."
lol.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Harvey Oswald: The next Mike Tyson.
Brand new documentary, starring Bernard Yeo.
Bernard plays himself.
Who is Bernard?
He's a young man who can't find work.
He's qualified.
He's experienced.
But
he's without a work permit.
So he works for his family.
And as loving as they are,
they don't really run with any of his ideas.
He feels stuck.
So what can he do?
Shoot for moon, that's what.
Which brings us to Harvey "The Assasin" Oswald... who is Bernard's virtual identity.
Harvey is the character Bernard created in a boxing game.
Bernard will control the destiny of his character.
Our question is this:
Will Benard be able to win the heavy weight campion title belt?
And how will his wins and losses affect his own life?
Watch Harvey Oswald: The next Mike Tyson when it comes out next year.
Bernard plays himself.
Who is Bernard?
He's a young man who can't find work.
He's qualified.
He's experienced.
But
he's without a work permit.
So he works for his family.
And as loving as they are,
they don't really run with any of his ideas.
He feels stuck.
So what can he do?
Shoot for moon, that's what.
Which brings us to Harvey "The Assasin" Oswald... who is Bernard's virtual identity.
Harvey is the character Bernard created in a boxing game.
Bernard will control the destiny of his character.
Our question is this:
Will Benard be able to win the heavy weight campion title belt?
And how will his wins and losses affect his own life?
Watch Harvey Oswald: The next Mike Tyson when it comes out next year.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Film...
Last night standing behind
an angry boy's head; a big shaggy explosion of hair...
I see you there...
yes...
I see you
when
I close my eyes
And there's no more light
No more pinks or blues or purples
Only voices
when
I look up again
Everything
seems so
strange.
As if every word mattered.
And I'm suddenly
transported
where
we are precious
Everything
every jerk pull twitch blink shuffle sigh grumble
is priceless
and
most of all
real.
--------------
Epilogue: Last night I went to some showing. A collection of short films by Malaysians. I was looking for what I couldn't see. And found it in snatches of young people with no idea how to write clever lines. Perhaps that was the smartest thing they could have done. I wonder if they'll go back to the editing rooms. To the rehearsal studios. To the backrooms of cigarette smoke and brain storms. Coffee cups and packets of cold coconut rice and day old chili chutney. And switch off influences. And go back to continuity. How each of us flow. Through talk. Through ritual. Through thoughts. That stream like rivers. That rush forward like cloud drift. And wonder if they'll learn to capture that with more ears open.
Through voices that reach us in places so deep,
we no longer need to turn up the volume to listen.
an angry boy's head; a big shaggy explosion of hair...
I see you there...
yes...
I see you
when
I close my eyes
And there's no more light
No more pinks or blues or purples
Only voices
when
I look up again
Everything
seems so
strange.
As if every word mattered.
And I'm suddenly
transported
where
we are precious
Everything
every jerk pull twitch blink shuffle sigh grumble
is priceless
and
most of all
real.
--------------
Epilogue: Last night I went to some showing. A collection of short films by Malaysians. I was looking for what I couldn't see. And found it in snatches of young people with no idea how to write clever lines. Perhaps that was the smartest thing they could have done. I wonder if they'll go back to the editing rooms. To the rehearsal studios. To the backrooms of cigarette smoke and brain storms. Coffee cups and packets of cold coconut rice and day old chili chutney. And switch off influences. And go back to continuity. How each of us flow. Through talk. Through ritual. Through thoughts. That stream like rivers. That rush forward like cloud drift. And wonder if they'll learn to capture that with more ears open.
Through voices that reach us in places so deep,
we no longer need to turn up the volume to listen.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
rocket and mozzarella...
Fresh basil.
Torn and strewn delicately, carelessly.
Over mozzarella.
Fresh, patted dry.
Dripping with virgin olive oil.
Golden perspiration.
Streaming over its white luscious juicy body.
And atop.
Pungent leaves.
Rocket.
With each biteful
you taste thick woods.
Sharp mossy green smells.
And then the ambient cool forgiving soft cheese.
The viscous subtle aroma of olives.
Sour sugary almost smoky aromatic balsamic vinegar.
Each bite
each soft deep inhale.
The memory of candles burning quietly.
The moon in your gaze.
And the simplicity of giggling,
scrunching up our noses as we smile
and, while strolling,
holding hands.
Torn and strewn delicately, carelessly.
Over mozzarella.
Fresh, patted dry.
Dripping with virgin olive oil.
Golden perspiration.
Streaming over its white luscious juicy body.
And atop.
Pungent leaves.
Rocket.
With each biteful
you taste thick woods.
Sharp mossy green smells.
And then the ambient cool forgiving soft cheese.
The viscous subtle aroma of olives.
Sour sugary almost smoky aromatic balsamic vinegar.
Each bite
each soft deep inhale.
The memory of candles burning quietly.
The moon in your gaze.
And the simplicity of giggling,
scrunching up our noses as we smile
and, while strolling,
holding hands.
like playing with pamela...
I was kneading pizza dough.
And in your hands this warm elastic organic thick lively creature...
it felt like kneading someone's tits.
And i think "Eureka!"
This is why bakers wake up so early in the morning.
So they can make dough and play with it while dreaming of porn stars and silver screen idols.
(If you're gay or bored you can always imagine it's someone's gorgeous ass.)
------------------------
What:
1 cup warm water
1 TABLE spoon dried active yeast.
How:
Water should be blood temperature. Not too cold. Not too hot.
Combine water with yeast.
Let yeast dissolve.
Next:
1 TABLE spoon sugar
1 1/2 tea spoon salt
2 TABLE spoon vegetable oil
1 Cup of flour
How:
Mix the stuff till it's smooth.
Next:
2 cups flour
1 greased bowl
How:
Add flour and the mixture will stiffen.
Knead for about 5 minutes by hand. (3 if you're using a machine.)
Place dough in a greased bowl for about an hour; this lets it rise.
Next:
Split the dough into 2 balls.
Flatten it out to make pizza base.
Bake at 220C or 450F.
(Add 1 degree to 450F and you've got the right temperature for book burning. Paper burns at 451F. Footnote: this refers to the novel title:- Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury)
p.s.
As you'd probably noticed.
This recipe is only for the base.
Add appropriate toppings if you don't want to end up just eating this round flat piece of bread. Although i'm sure it'd be delicious even on its own.
And in your hands this warm elastic organic thick lively creature...
it felt like kneading someone's tits.
And i think "Eureka!"
This is why bakers wake up so early in the morning.
So they can make dough and play with it while dreaming of porn stars and silver screen idols.
(If you're gay or bored you can always imagine it's someone's gorgeous ass.)
------------------------
What:
1 cup warm water
1 TABLE spoon dried active yeast.
How:
Water should be blood temperature. Not too cold. Not too hot.
Combine water with yeast.
Let yeast dissolve.
Next:
1 TABLE spoon sugar
1 1/2 tea spoon salt
2 TABLE spoon vegetable oil
1 Cup of flour
How:
Mix the stuff till it's smooth.
Next:
2 cups flour
1 greased bowl
How:
Add flour and the mixture will stiffen.
Knead for about 5 minutes by hand. (3 if you're using a machine.)
Place dough in a greased bowl for about an hour; this lets it rise.
Next:
Split the dough into 2 balls.
Flatten it out to make pizza base.
Bake at 220C or 450F.
(Add 1 degree to 450F and you've got the right temperature for book burning. Paper burns at 451F. Footnote: this refers to the novel title:- Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury)
p.s.
As you'd probably noticed.
This recipe is only for the base.
Add appropriate toppings if you don't want to end up just eating this round flat piece of bread. Although i'm sure it'd be delicious even on its own.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
hugging hugging...
Tonight I will hug my mother twice.
Once from me.
And the next from my One.
You know who you are my love.
I adore my one and only... who keeps me grounded.
Reminds me that I am loved. And adored.
And acknowledged and appreciated for who i am.
---------------
Speaking of hugging.
This meal is hearty
and will stick to your ribs.
What:
- Ribs
- Barbeque sauce: tomatoes, onions, garlic, balsamic vinegar, bay leaf, sugar, salt, mustard, chili
- Corn flour
- Onions
- Peppers
- Chili
- Boiled Potatoes
How:
Marinade ribs with salt, pepper and sugar.
Fry garlic, onion and chilis. Add tomatoes. Add balsamic vinegar. Add mustard. Add water. Add sugar. Add salt.
Boil it till its reduced by half. Thicken with mixture of corn flour and water; stir this mixture over low heat... and boil up sauce after you've stirred it in.
Add sauce to ribs.
Wrap ribs and sauce in alluminium foil.
Bake ribs with sauce at 220 degrees.
Bake for 4 hours.
Sautee onions and peppers and sliced potatoes.
Add sugar and salt and black pepper.
Serve with ribs.
Once from me.
And the next from my One.
You know who you are my love.
I adore my one and only... who keeps me grounded.
Reminds me that I am loved. And adored.
And acknowledged and appreciated for who i am.
---------------
Speaking of hugging.
This meal is hearty
and will stick to your ribs.
What:
- Ribs
- Barbeque sauce: tomatoes, onions, garlic, balsamic vinegar, bay leaf, sugar, salt, mustard, chili
- Corn flour
- Onions
- Peppers
- Chili
- Boiled Potatoes
How:
Marinade ribs with salt, pepper and sugar.
Fry garlic, onion and chilis. Add tomatoes. Add balsamic vinegar. Add mustard. Add water. Add sugar. Add salt.
Boil it till its reduced by half. Thicken with mixture of corn flour and water; stir this mixture over low heat... and boil up sauce after you've stirred it in.
Add sauce to ribs.
Wrap ribs and sauce in alluminium foil.
Bake ribs with sauce at 220 degrees.
Bake for 4 hours.
Sautee onions and peppers and sliced potatoes.
Add sugar and salt and black pepper.
Serve with ribs.
resinous...
I'd read a quote by Jane Hirshfield this morning.
Such a beautiful woman. Poet. Collection of feelings. Moments.
She spoke about admiring resilience.
Not just resistance.
Pillows go back to their original form. That's resistance.
But...
Not so, trees.
When blocked of sunlight.
They turn. Face another way. Twist and twine.
Moving ever forward to living.
To life.
In its contorted shape, the trees, the turtles, the rivers all carry on to exist.
And here I am a mind full of awareness.
Able to see and regard their struggles.
With song.
With rhyme.
And yet
at times
i want to end it all.
How woeful must the trees feel.
Wishing perhaps, I had a gram of resinous unretractable passion to continue.
To go on.
To be like the unretractable earth.
With tectonic crash and quiet collapse rebuild but never to rescind.
Never to surrender.
For there is no word for surrender in the nature of things.
Such a beautiful woman. Poet. Collection of feelings. Moments.
She spoke about admiring resilience.
Not just resistance.
Pillows go back to their original form. That's resistance.
But...
Not so, trees.
When blocked of sunlight.
They turn. Face another way. Twist and twine.
Moving ever forward to living.
To life.
In its contorted shape, the trees, the turtles, the rivers all carry on to exist.
And here I am a mind full of awareness.
Able to see and regard their struggles.
With song.
With rhyme.
And yet
at times
i want to end it all.
How woeful must the trees feel.
Wishing perhaps, I had a gram of resinous unretractable passion to continue.
To go on.
To be like the unretractable earth.
With tectonic crash and quiet collapse rebuild but never to rescind.
Never to surrender.
For there is no word for surrender in the nature of things.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
the soldier and the dancer...
I'm reminded of people and their ideas of love.
There might be a soldier who decides he's now in love with a dancer beatnik.
She dies and he goes back into battle.
Killing people as his way of dealing with his grief.
He could have been a dancer.
But he chose his blood angry life.
I write this
because
of
all the girls in my life
who've somehow thought
they wanted to be with me.
But the truth was, they liked what i represented.
This child-like self who wants life to continue to be adventurous, exploratory and filled by the spirit of the divine.
I know people who marry into security.
And then they complain their lives are too safe.
I know people who marry without really knowing themselves.
And end up complaining about their spouses being not self-actualised.
I know people who marry without really probing and knowing their partners.
And they end up saying "if only I knew this person not the facade, before taking the leap."
I've been going out with a few girls lately.
All of them have some idea of where I fit into their lives.
Well I have news for them.
I'm not an ornament.
Nor are they for me.
I pray to God that truth will strike them.
And they will walk in the light of truth.
Rather than slinking in the shadows of their own illusions.
I know what I'm looking for in my life.
Someone who is like me.
A poet. An artist. A singer. A film maker.
A child. A parent. A lover. A blazing flame.
A quiet saint. A dirty hungry bellowing spirit consuming the world.
And I will not rest until I've allowed God to lead me to my destiny.
Where brave warriors tread with snap break rumble roar.
To truly bravely soar.
And to girls who tell me i'm tedious.
Or that I'm difficult.
Or that I'm moody.
I say to them:
Go face yourself
before you throw your adjectives at me.
Go fight your battles.
Soothe them.
And only
when
your
wars have quietened...
only then
you
will
be ready
to dance.
With
hippy beatniks.
Or
Baryshnikov.
Or
Astair.
Or
with
storm winds
and cloud verses.
Face your heart, be still.
And dance.
Dance.
Dance.
There might be a soldier who decides he's now in love with a dancer beatnik.
She dies and he goes back into battle.
Killing people as his way of dealing with his grief.
He could have been a dancer.
But he chose his blood angry life.
I write this
because
of
all the girls in my life
who've somehow thought
they wanted to be with me.
But the truth was, they liked what i represented.
This child-like self who wants life to continue to be adventurous, exploratory and filled by the spirit of the divine.
I know people who marry into security.
And then they complain their lives are too safe.
I know people who marry without really knowing themselves.
And end up complaining about their spouses being not self-actualised.
I know people who marry without really probing and knowing their partners.
And they end up saying "if only I knew this person not the facade, before taking the leap."
I've been going out with a few girls lately.
All of them have some idea of where I fit into their lives.
Well I have news for them.
I'm not an ornament.
Nor are they for me.
I pray to God that truth will strike them.
And they will walk in the light of truth.
Rather than slinking in the shadows of their own illusions.
I know what I'm looking for in my life.
Someone who is like me.
A poet. An artist. A singer. A film maker.
A child. A parent. A lover. A blazing flame.
A quiet saint. A dirty hungry bellowing spirit consuming the world.
And I will not rest until I've allowed God to lead me to my destiny.
Where brave warriors tread with snap break rumble roar.
To truly bravely soar.
And to girls who tell me i'm tedious.
Or that I'm difficult.
Or that I'm moody.
I say to them:
Go face yourself
before you throw your adjectives at me.
Go fight your battles.
Soothe them.
And only
when
your
wars have quietened...
only then
you
will
be ready
to dance.
With
hippy beatniks.
Or
Baryshnikov.
Or
Astair.
Or
with
storm winds
and cloud verses.
Face your heart, be still.
And dance.
Dance.
Dance.
good friends leave you....
====================
Friend,
you want reassurances.
you want to be cared for.
i'm not god
i have bad days
you want comfort
you want unconditional attention
you want perfectly requited love
i'm not god
i have bad days
my phone is not always on
my chat program puts people on ignore
i'm not god
i have bad days
i will eventually tell everyone who pisses me off to fuck off
i will do it without consideration if i'm down and out
i'm not god
i have bad days
anyone reading this
stop reading
everyone else feeling and empathising
go back
to your own yelling
to your being left alone
being hermit and meditating
on your life
like the buzzing
under a mossy stone
for we are not god
and we have bad days
and
when we emerge
our
butterfly
selves
come out again
to play with the flowers
to dance in the sun
and remind
the world
that
collapsing
cocoons
have
a
place
a rich
virtuous life
all its own
in spite
of
not being
perfect
or
not being
unconditional or epic...
that we are perfectly fine
waiting in our dark
until our inner sun
rises
from the broken
shards of our mending selves
and we are dancing
flying
giggling
not alone again
for a while
for
we are not gods
and
we all
have bad days...
---------------------
title: good friends leave you...alone.
Friend,
you want reassurances.
you want to be cared for.
i'm not god
i have bad days
you want comfort
you want unconditional attention
you want perfectly requited love
i'm not god
i have bad days
my phone is not always on
my chat program puts people on ignore
i'm not god
i have bad days
i will eventually tell everyone who pisses me off to fuck off
i will do it without consideration if i'm down and out
i'm not god
i have bad days
anyone reading this
stop reading
everyone else feeling and empathising
go back
to your own yelling
to your being left alone
being hermit and meditating
on your life
like the buzzing
under a mossy stone
for we are not god
and we have bad days
and
when we emerge
our
butterfly
selves
come out again
to play with the flowers
to dance in the sun
and remind
the world
that
collapsing
cocoons
have
a
place
a rich
virtuous life
all its own
in spite
of
not being
perfect
or
not being
unconditional or epic...
that we are perfectly fine
waiting in our dark
until our inner sun
rises
from the broken
shards of our mending selves
and we are dancing
flying
giggling
not alone again
for a while
for
we are not gods
and
we all
have bad days...
---------------------
title: good friends leave you...alone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
labias, and, other, still, life, paintings
The day
the world opened
God
regarded
us all.
This
Beautiful
Passionate
Being
gazed upon us...
We
were
paintings...
all sorts of artforms...
some of us
were Michaelangelos...
full of form and structure
born from
etched calm
detailed
craft...
some of us
were Jackson Pollocks...
messy
and bloody sweaty teary
and exploding off the canvasses...
and others
were Klimts...
or Picassos...
or Miros
or Eschers...
every single piece...
and
every
other...
was
masterful...
gorgeous...
But
later
that night
we, these paintings,
tried
to
take
away
the
life
of each other...
to destroy
the dark one
or the watercolour one
or the small one
or the red one...
ones in the heavy frame...
each claiming
to be loved more by God
The next day...
God awoke
walked into the gallery
with feet as soft and gentle as a labia...
saw the torn creations
on the floor
ripped
from the loving walls...
and wept.
the world opened
God
regarded
us all.
This
Beautiful
Passionate
Being
gazed upon us...
We
were
paintings...
all sorts of artforms...
some of us
were Michaelangelos...
full of form and structure
born from
etched calm
detailed
craft...
some of us
were Jackson Pollocks...
messy
and bloody sweaty teary
and exploding off the canvasses...
and others
were Klimts...
or Picassos...
or Miros
or Eschers...
every single piece...
and
every
other...
was
masterful...
gorgeous...
But
later
that night
we, these paintings,
tried
to
take
away
the
life
of each other...
to destroy
the dark one
or the watercolour one
or the small one
or the red one...
ones in the heavy frame...
each claiming
to be loved more by God
The next day...
God awoke
walked into the gallery
with feet as soft and gentle as a labia...
saw the torn creations
on the floor
ripped
from the loving walls...
and wept.
labias and other still life paintings...
I feel...
Licking
a
woman
is more than an art.
It's a feeling.
I remember being down there.
It was a girl who accused me of not really getting into it.
Sometimes it seems like the labia is alive.
Like lips and it's somehow interacting.
And sometimes, it's inert.
When this happens...
there's no communication
and i feel like i'm kissing
or licking
a painting
or a still object.
That neither tells me what I'm doing is pleasurable.
Or merely annoying.
And then we switch off.
And kind of hope that the woman up there is secretly enjoying this.
So secretly that no one seems aware that this act is so intimate.
And demands we are communicating as much as possible.
In fact,
with each touch, caress, kiss, suck, lick and nuzzle.
But that's what I feel anyway.
Licking
a
woman
is more than an art.
It's a feeling.
I remember being down there.
It was a girl who accused me of not really getting into it.
Sometimes it seems like the labia is alive.
Like lips and it's somehow interacting.
And sometimes, it's inert.
When this happens...
there's no communication
and i feel like i'm kissing
or licking
a painting
or a still object.
That neither tells me what I'm doing is pleasurable.
Or merely annoying.
And then we switch off.
And kind of hope that the woman up there is secretly enjoying this.
So secretly that no one seems aware that this act is so intimate.
And demands we are communicating as much as possible.
In fact,
with each touch, caress, kiss, suck, lick and nuzzle.
But that's what I feel anyway.
Pay now or later..
When we don't pay attention.
The only thing worth paying.
We end up paying later don't we?
--------------
We pay for the cream.
But we don't pay attention to where it's going.
Inside our bodies.
That isn't burning it off.
---------------
Next thing we know... we're carrying that cream in our bodies.
As well as that anger.
Or resentment.
Or grief.
Everything we pay no attention to.
Until it's all inside us.
Swishing around causing us discomfort and often health issues.
---------------
Right now I feel like I'm small.
Rejected.
And the only person who accepts me is God.
And the loving faces of God.
People who love me.
The rare small circled few.
And the rest of the world... notices not who i am.
What I could give to them.
Or what I am giving.
This could be what God feels sometimes.
That God gives to a thankless heart.
I'm sorry God if I take without giving back.
I love you.
--------------------
Last night there was this self loathing girl who rejected me.
It felt hurtful.
But I could see where her actions came from.
If you reject yourself.
You end up rejecting others too.
The only thing worth paying.
We end up paying later don't we?
--------------
We pay for the cream.
But we don't pay attention to where it's going.
Inside our bodies.
That isn't burning it off.
---------------
Next thing we know... we're carrying that cream in our bodies.
As well as that anger.
Or resentment.
Or grief.
Everything we pay no attention to.
Until it's all inside us.
Swishing around causing us discomfort and often health issues.
---------------
Right now I feel like I'm small.
Rejected.
And the only person who accepts me is God.
And the loving faces of God.
People who love me.
The rare small circled few.
And the rest of the world... notices not who i am.
What I could give to them.
Or what I am giving.
This could be what God feels sometimes.
That God gives to a thankless heart.
I'm sorry God if I take without giving back.
I love you.
--------------------
Last night there was this self loathing girl who rejected me.
It felt hurtful.
But I could see where her actions came from.
If you reject yourself.
You end up rejecting others too.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Speaking of feet...
Last Last sunday I was in Bangsar.
They have this night market.
And then the girl I was out with.
(The girl who frowned when i told her i was looking for a casual partner.
I'd disappointed her I think. She was perhaps hoping I was a serious boyfriend material.)
Anyway... we stopped by a Lok Lok place.
It's a van with all this raw food on little metal plates.
You'd have chicken marinated on sticks.
Liver on sticks.
Minced fish with flour (Fish paste) on sticks.
Here's the interesting part.
Lok Lok... comes from the sound you're making.
You take the raw food and dip it into little pools of boiling water.
You dip it. It makes a 'Lok' sound. Thus the Lok Lok name.
And you're essentially cooking your own food.
Speaking of feet...
there's this concoction of duck feet.
They take the skin of the feet of duck.
Stuff it with pork liver and fish ball.
And marinade it in oyster sauce and dark soy sauce and five spice.
I'm not the hugest fan of five spice but it was interesting.
What I *do* like is liver.
But I tend to stay away from this Lok Lok on account of my irrational fear of catching diseases from unhygienic people.
--------------------------------
My own version probably would have been dark soy sauce, with chili, garlic, basil and balsamic vinegar.
And baked till the skin was crispy.
Served in very thin pancakes.
Smeared with a pesto wasabi dressing.
Yum.....
They have this night market.
And then the girl I was out with.
(The girl who frowned when i told her i was looking for a casual partner.
I'd disappointed her I think. She was perhaps hoping I was a serious boyfriend material.)
Anyway... we stopped by a Lok Lok place.
It's a van with all this raw food on little metal plates.
You'd have chicken marinated on sticks.
Liver on sticks.
Minced fish with flour (Fish paste) on sticks.
Here's the interesting part.
Lok Lok... comes from the sound you're making.
You take the raw food and dip it into little pools of boiling water.
You dip it. It makes a 'Lok' sound. Thus the Lok Lok name.
And you're essentially cooking your own food.
Speaking of feet...
there's this concoction of duck feet.
They take the skin of the feet of duck.
Stuff it with pork liver and fish ball.
And marinade it in oyster sauce and dark soy sauce and five spice.
I'm not the hugest fan of five spice but it was interesting.
What I *do* like is liver.
But I tend to stay away from this Lok Lok on account of my irrational fear of catching diseases from unhygienic people.
--------------------------------
My own version probably would have been dark soy sauce, with chili, garlic, basil and balsamic vinegar.
And baked till the skin was crispy.
Served in very thin pancakes.
Smeared with a pesto wasabi dressing.
Yum.....
splinters...
If a splinter is left in your foot...
you'll walk around limping
you'll walk around and it'll always hurt when you walk on a spot...
and soon enough that spot seems to have harder skin around it...
it's trying to stop you from hurting whenever you walk on that spot
problem is...
there's no skin thick enough to stop the little sharp thing under your skin from poking you...
each time you step on it... it still hurts...
and the hurt we have in our hearts...
are splinters...
and will always hurt...
until we remove them once and for all...
Epilogue:
I write this because last night I had to remove a splinter in my foot. I'd lived with a few little sharp bits in my toe for a few weeks.
Weeks ago I'd removed most of the splinter. Thinking that tiny bits in there would be ok... I left it alone.
Painful mistake. I ended up not being able to put pressure on that particular spot.
The spot even developed callouses.
I started to wonder "was this just a corn perhaps?"
Last night I trimmed the extra skin to discover that perhaps it was the original splinters.
Finally last night I got to the core and my intuition said "take it out."
Think my toe feels much better now.
Is this a lesson?
Follow our instincts, our intuition?
you'll walk around limping
you'll walk around and it'll always hurt when you walk on a spot...
and soon enough that spot seems to have harder skin around it...
it's trying to stop you from hurting whenever you walk on that spot
problem is...
there's no skin thick enough to stop the little sharp thing under your skin from poking you...
each time you step on it... it still hurts...
and the hurt we have in our hearts...
are splinters...
and will always hurt...
until we remove them once and for all...
Epilogue:
I write this because last night I had to remove a splinter in my foot. I'd lived with a few little sharp bits in my toe for a few weeks.
Weeks ago I'd removed most of the splinter. Thinking that tiny bits in there would be ok... I left it alone.
Painful mistake. I ended up not being able to put pressure on that particular spot.
The spot even developed callouses.
I started to wonder "was this just a corn perhaps?"
Last night I trimmed the extra skin to discover that perhaps it was the original splinters.
Finally last night I got to the core and my intuition said "take it out."
Think my toe feels much better now.
Is this a lesson?
Follow our instincts, our intuition?
truth as an ingredient...
Without truth,
we cannot really create.
Even in cooking
the truth is important.
For example:
No point pretending the cream is fresh.
If it's sour, we work with sour cream... not fresh cream.
The same can be said for knowing which meats to stew for a long time.
Which meats that are good enough to eat rare off-the-grill.
The honest truth is hard to take.
But it's rewarding in the long run.
Knowing that sugar is sweet... allows you to sweeten with it whever you want a sweet balance.
Knowing that bacon is salty allows you to make something salty.
Truth Recipe No.1
----------------
Boiled asparagus
Fried bacon - Fry in some chili and thyme.
How:
Bunch up a few sticks of asparagus and then tie the bacon around it.
Use toothpick to hold the bacon in place.
Epilogue:
The asparagus is bland. Or at least bland-ish.
Bacon is honestly saltish and even smoky-ish.
And they both honestly will bring out the best of the other.
we cannot really create.
Even in cooking
the truth is important.
For example:
No point pretending the cream is fresh.
If it's sour, we work with sour cream... not fresh cream.
The same can be said for knowing which meats to stew for a long time.
Which meats that are good enough to eat rare off-the-grill.
The honest truth is hard to take.
But it's rewarding in the long run.
Knowing that sugar is sweet... allows you to sweeten with it whever you want a sweet balance.
Knowing that bacon is salty allows you to make something salty.
Truth Recipe No.1
----------------
Boiled asparagus
Fried bacon - Fry in some chili and thyme.
How:
Bunch up a few sticks of asparagus and then tie the bacon around it.
Use toothpick to hold the bacon in place.
Epilogue:
The asparagus is bland. Or at least bland-ish.
Bacon is honestly saltish and even smoky-ish.
And they both honestly will bring out the best of the other.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
linguine and potato cream sauce
Like
a
stride
of
string
thin
memory
you
slide
down
my
sliver
of
tongue
tingle
memory
and
i am too
shaken surprised
to be enamoured
or to be engaged
or ignorant
and
your slip
stumble
shicker
quiver
quick
lip
lick
lapses
past
my slurp
my firm bite
my teethy gulp grin
i am smack kiss
miss you
and your
earthy
easy
charm
our vacuous sin
our warm trickle
under the sun
where's the harm...
where's the harm?
----------------
Ode to Al Dente
================
- garlic
- cream
- tarragon
- marjoram
- shallot(finely cut)
- boiled potatoes
- chicken stock
- white wine
- ham
Here's a variation on the carbonara sauce.
You fry the ham.
Then add garlic and very finely sliced shallots.
Add the cream.
Add chicken stock. Add little water.
Add pinch of tarragon and marjoram.
Mash the potatoes. Add to sauce.
Simmer for about 5 mins or 10.
The potatoes thicken the sauce, whereas usually you'd use egg yolk.
Serve with linguine.
a
stride
of
string
thin
memory
you
slide
down
my
sliver
of
tongue
tingle
memory
and
i am too
shaken surprised
to be enamoured
or to be engaged
or ignorant
and
your slip
stumble
shicker
quiver
quick
lip
lick
lapses
past
my slurp
my firm bite
my teethy gulp grin
i am smack kiss
miss you
and your
earthy
easy
charm
our vacuous sin
our warm trickle
under the sun
where's the harm...
where's the harm?
----------------
Ode to Al Dente
================
- garlic
- cream
- tarragon
- marjoram
- shallot(finely cut)
- boiled potatoes
- chicken stock
- white wine
- ham
Here's a variation on the carbonara sauce.
You fry the ham.
Then add garlic and very finely sliced shallots.
Add the cream.
Add chicken stock. Add little water.
Add pinch of tarragon and marjoram.
Mash the potatoes. Add to sauce.
Simmer for about 5 mins or 10.
The potatoes thicken the sauce, whereas usually you'd use egg yolk.
Serve with linguine.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wind in your hair...
you drive on by
to the ends
of the silence surround
you strive on by
like the ends of the demons reside
you think you can
supple
seek
me
like a prayer in the dark
prayer in the rain
you ride on by
like the world was the back of an angel...
you ride on by
like the heart
was
a
billowing
song
All the truth
you can contain
all the truth
you can explain
you drive on by
like the car
was an eagle
like the ground
was a dream
you ignite
Like the wind in your hair
as you drive on by
tonight.
to the ends
of the silence surround
you strive on by
like the ends of the demons reside
you think you can
supple
seek
me
like a prayer in the dark
prayer in the rain
you ride on by
like the world was the back of an angel...
you ride on by
like the heart
was
a
billowing
song
All the truth
you can contain
all the truth
you can explain
you drive on by
like the car
was an eagle
like the ground
was a dream
you ignite
Like the wind in your hair
as you drive on by
tonight.
perhaps why sufis cry...
If they're so close to The God...
why
do
they
sing so much
about being so far away?
Do they perhaps love the ecstasy of missing someone?
Someone so dear that only tears of longing yearning can do it justice?
That I love you so much that I can't live without you?
This feeling.
This feeling of
"I want to rip out my heart and let it wail for how much you mean to me...
oh my love...
where are you?
I miss you...
I need you...
i cry...
i bleed...
i live ...
i die for you...
oh my love...
my adored....
i cry for you
with
every
droplet
of
yearning
rabid
raw
reaching
wanting wishing
wild
abandon
that nothing...
nothing else matters
but my heart
filled
and
for
You..."
why
do
they
sing so much
about being so far away?
Do they perhaps love the ecstasy of missing someone?
Someone so dear that only tears of longing yearning can do it justice?
That I love you so much that I can't live without you?
This feeling.
This feeling of
"I want to rip out my heart and let it wail for how much you mean to me...
oh my love...
where are you?
I miss you...
I need you...
i cry...
i bleed...
i live ...
i die for you...
oh my love...
my adored....
i cry for you
with
every
droplet
of
yearning
rabid
raw
reaching
wanting wishing
wild
abandon
that nothing...
nothing else matters
but my heart
filled
and
for
You..."
note to self: I don't know much about wine... maybe this guy from cincinnati does...
this blood of the vine...
this red verse...
this golden green nectar...
and all runs from your stalk
all stoic
and entwined
with history
and the palate
of princes and prostitutes and pipers...
pepper our conversation
gently at first
then din burst coax roar and raging rave
about the sky
the seas
and the women
we lick suck kiss caress undress
mess up our hearts souls spirits and lives...
and this blood of the earth...
we flow drip drown in
add to our wholesome
caseroles
our pans of marinading mothers
who heat us with their quiet want
to exhale and we can swallow absorb their whole healing hearts...
but instead
the rosey ripe red
reaches us in quiet aroma and tongues all atingle...
awash with ruby emerald liquid lust...
our lips purse...
and the world of words disperse...
leaving us to the silence of our sated senses.
cincinnati wine garage -- tasting notes and other stuff
this red verse...
this golden green nectar...
and all runs from your stalk
all stoic
and entwined
with history
and the palate
of princes and prostitutes and pipers...
pepper our conversation
gently at first
then din burst coax roar and raging rave
about the sky
the seas
and the women
we lick suck kiss caress undress
mess up our hearts souls spirits and lives...
and this blood of the earth...
we flow drip drown in
add to our wholesome
caseroles
our pans of marinading mothers
who heat us with their quiet want
to exhale and we can swallow absorb their whole healing hearts...
but instead
the rosey ripe red
reaches us in quiet aroma and tongues all atingle...
awash with ruby emerald liquid lust...
our lips purse...
and the world of words disperse...
leaving us to the silence of our sated senses.
cincinnati wine garage -- tasting notes and other stuff
chase, eyes, central, words, ride,wide,chasm
Yes I see the trodding feet...
the hooves on horses high...
the ascend from sleepy vacant dreamless eyes...
and now
where are they?
they veer from central
towards the blue beyond
they steer over the hills of all our trekless distances...
where we travelled wide but arrived nowhere...
now you ride...
like clouds through chasm... through storm...
you ride
like the night chases the dawn...
you're as inevitable
as the sun....
and as brightly lit
as the candles to set sail under the stars...
your eyes read the compasses
that vanquishes the fears...
and now you know you are here...
from your longitudinal and coordinates
of calm presence...
attending to the now...
as you're sure
of where you are...
you
ride
at gallop giddy gliding glisten giggling go
you
ride
and nothing
will stop you from your inner flow
you
ride
towards distances there...
because you want to...
because you're still can...
because
while
you still
have beating boldness
in your brave breathless bosom...
while you still
at stirrup and supple swiftness
have tenacity and fervour...
while you still can...
you keep at your true spirit's speed...
on steeds of hopes... stallions of faith...
each running roar
to make each moment
be that of truth...
to be truthfully who we are...
and what we are...
to be
ourselves...
where our bliss
gives the world
a racing fire
so ripe bright and brilliant...
that the world is alight once more...
with our light...
our flame...
of unconditional
true blazing love.
our chasing
towards
our epic self...
gives
the world
such love.
Such
wonderful
filling
heart fill.
And
more.
so
much
more.
--- Sharron Newlife wrote:
> chase, eyes, central, words, ride,wide,chasm
>
> Chase...
> I
> chase
> these wide wild dreams with eyes that ride on words
> that describe all my ferocious ideas and schemes
> and this is how it seems:
>
> outside here
> is the chasm filled landscape
> set up like the gladiators field
> and I must trounce
> the obstacles,
> conquer the fear,
> divide the fog,
> before I come near...
>
> come near
>
> come near
>
> central and clear...
>
> realising my success is in all I have faced...
> every confrontation...
> all my demons vanquished...
>
> as I unfurl
> my wings
> I soar within...
>
> inside this clay pot
> fired tried and tested...
> strengthened
> emboldened
> heartened...
> the all of me lives...
> I breathe...
> I grow...
>
> thats my truth...
> and I know...
> you ride these wide wild dreams too...
>
> with me.
>
the hooves on horses high...
the ascend from sleepy vacant dreamless eyes...
and now
where are they?
they veer from central
towards the blue beyond
they steer over the hills of all our trekless distances...
where we travelled wide but arrived nowhere...
now you ride...
like clouds through chasm... through storm...
you ride
like the night chases the dawn...
you're as inevitable
as the sun....
and as brightly lit
as the candles to set sail under the stars...
your eyes read the compasses
that vanquishes the fears...
and now you know you are here...
from your longitudinal and coordinates
of calm presence...
attending to the now...
as you're sure
of where you are...
you
ride
at gallop giddy gliding glisten giggling go
you
ride
and nothing
will stop you from your inner flow
you
ride
towards distances there...
because you want to...
because you're still can...
because
while
you still
have beating boldness
in your brave breathless bosom...
while you still
at stirrup and supple swiftness
have tenacity and fervour...
while you still can...
you keep at your true spirit's speed...
on steeds of hopes... stallions of faith...
each running roar
to make each moment
be that of truth...
to be truthfully who we are...
and what we are...
to be
ourselves...
where our bliss
gives the world
a racing fire
so ripe bright and brilliant...
that the world is alight once more...
with our light...
our flame...
of unconditional
true blazing love.
our chasing
towards
our epic self...
gives
the world
such love.
Such
wonderful
filling
heart fill.
And
more.
so
much
more.
--- Sharron Newlife
> chase, eyes, central, words, ride,wide,chasm
>
> Chase...
> I
> chase
> these wide wild dreams with eyes that ride on words
> that describe all my ferocious ideas and schemes
> and this is how it seems:
>
> outside here
> is the chasm filled landscape
> set up like the gladiators field
> and I must trounce
> the obstacles,
> conquer the fear,
> divide the fog,
> before I come near...
>
> come near
>
> come near
>
> central and clear...
>
> realising my success is in all I have faced...
> every confrontation...
> all my demons vanquished...
>
> as I unfurl
> my wings
> I soar within...
>
> inside this clay pot
> fired tried and tested...
> strengthened
> emboldened
> heartened...
> the all of me lives...
> I breathe...
> I grow...
>
> thats my truth...
> and I know...
> you ride these wide wild dreams too...
>
> with me.
>
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Olympia's Old Kitchen...
Just a second ago I was struck.
Memories of Moonstruck hit me like a flash flood.
I remembered her piece of bread.
And in the middle, she tore out the bread, put in an egg.
Fried bread with an egg in the middle.
Served with sausages I think.
And then I remember her sprinkling probably paprika.
My mouth waters just thinking about it.
Mmmmmmm.
-----------
Here's how I'd prepare it:
- Stale bread. Use bread like a baguette... any bread with a crust.
(I think the diameter should be about the size of a grapefruit.)
- Egg.
- Mexican sausage.
- Salt, Sugar, Black pepper, Paprika.
- Chili.
============
How:
I'd just slit the chili and sautee it with medium heat in a pan.
Fry the sausages.
Remove from pan when done but keep the oil.
Next. The bread.
Use enough oil to sizzle the bread.
Too much oil will make the bread go soggy quickly.
Too little and the bread stays dry.
Take bread.
Remove a chunk of bread from center.
You want the crust and some bread. Like a doughnut as it were.
Fry bread in the pan.
Add egg in center.
Sprinkle salt, sugar, pepper.
Flip over.
Don't cook that side too long tho.
The beauty is in the runny yolk.
When done, sprinkle paprika.
Serve with the sausages.
Epilogue:
I'd be sitting in the kitchen. The window the size of a huge Jackson Pollock canvass. Or Jasper Johns. Breakfast sun streaming through the clear glass. Filtered through wild palms and ferns and orchids and daisies and white roses. I'd sit with a glass of cranberry apple juice.
The smell of smokey fried bread. The crust cracking under the pressure of my jaws. The creamy yolk soaked in the bread.
Taste of the dusty spicy peppery paprika and you bite into the juicy sausages bursting as your teeth puncture the crispy fried skin. Crumbs of the bread soaking in the flavours and crunching sounds keep out the world for a moment as you chew.
I'd be sitting there munching. Crunching. Savouring.
Dreaming a little of Olympia Dukakis in Moonstruck. Wondering if my version was tastier somehow. Or blander. I'll never know for sure.
Memories of Moonstruck hit me like a flash flood.
I remembered her piece of bread.
And in the middle, she tore out the bread, put in an egg.
Fried bread with an egg in the middle.
Served with sausages I think.
And then I remember her sprinkling probably paprika.
My mouth waters just thinking about it.
Mmmmmmm.
-----------
Here's how I'd prepare it:
- Stale bread. Use bread like a baguette... any bread with a crust.
(I think the diameter should be about the size of a grapefruit.)
- Egg.
- Mexican sausage.
- Salt, Sugar, Black pepper, Paprika.
- Chili.
============
How:
I'd just slit the chili and sautee it with medium heat in a pan.
Fry the sausages.
Remove from pan when done but keep the oil.
Next. The bread.
Use enough oil to sizzle the bread.
Too much oil will make the bread go soggy quickly.
Too little and the bread stays dry.
Take bread.
Remove a chunk of bread from center.
You want the crust and some bread. Like a doughnut as it were.
Fry bread in the pan.
Add egg in center.
Sprinkle salt, sugar, pepper.
Flip over.
Don't cook that side too long tho.
The beauty is in the runny yolk.
When done, sprinkle paprika.
Serve with the sausages.
Epilogue:
I'd be sitting in the kitchen. The window the size of a huge Jackson Pollock canvass. Or Jasper Johns. Breakfast sun streaming through the clear glass. Filtered through wild palms and ferns and orchids and daisies and white roses. I'd sit with a glass of cranberry apple juice.
The smell of smokey fried bread. The crust cracking under the pressure of my jaws. The creamy yolk soaked in the bread.
Taste of the dusty spicy peppery paprika and you bite into the juicy sausages bursting as your teeth puncture the crispy fried skin. Crumbs of the bread soaking in the flavours and crunching sounds keep out the world for a moment as you chew.
I'd be sitting there munching. Crunching. Savouring.
Dreaming a little of Olympia Dukakis in Moonstruck. Wondering if my version was tastier somehow. Or blander. I'll never know for sure.
My Art... My Blood...
People who create bleed ink.
Or their tears are filled with mascara and stage powder.
There is such a sense of theatrical surreality to the world of creation.
To me anyway, this is more real than the world around me.
Perhaps this is what it feels to be autistic.
To feel that the world around you is but dreamery.
Whereas inside you.
This is true.
Unwavering.
Unchanging.
Inherently good.
And everything outside our skin is dubious. Unstable. Quivering to shamed silence.
Or their tears are filled with mascara and stage powder.
There is such a sense of theatrical surreality to the world of creation.
To me anyway, this is more real than the world around me.
Perhaps this is what it feels to be autistic.
To feel that the world around you is but dreamery.
Whereas inside you.
This is true.
Unwavering.
Unchanging.
Inherently good.
And everything outside our skin is dubious. Unstable. Quivering to shamed silence.
Wet slaves we are to the frenzy whipping of a godless tune with out sequence without rhyme, in time our bodies drip & bruise with transcendent cheap lust where we burst into groaning grinding angry want: where I am the bow & you are the violin. Both played by a fickle cosmic hand who reduces us to pulpitation surrendered sighs.
And so be done with what the dogged spirit that insists on seeking to call it the quest for the bone of truth. And be content that the pure white limb of salvation refuses to properly be buried. And retorts by refusing decay. And be undone that the bone of all contentions will forever haunt until one dogged spirit ascends to the great kennel in the sky.
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