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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.....

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?

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.

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.

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.

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..."

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

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.
>

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.

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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.

You will stumble you will fall you will crumble you will crawl but you will extend and make amends because you were made for me. 

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. 

my homage and parody of disco. 

Whispering as you do into the embracing unconditional loving surrender of silence, I turn to you for lit bright inspiration like a rose to the ever fiery su, for in your arms i no longer need to come undone. 

Nature in her sweep wide scope doth shine her bosom rays of hope, upon these small and wanton creatures lie who sooner taint the earth and sell the sky. 

Burst me like a hoax of conspiracies where nothing means more than a handshake or a bosom warm kissed baby. 

Whare are your eternal nows made of? Blood & bone or sticks & stones? 

This poem is beautiful... if only I could clearly read it all. 

Here's a piece that was inspired by all that the U.S. has been going through and how they stood defiantly a colossus. 

Dance me a story you fill to brim all terse & torrid clasped unwavering knighted pride tonight. 

"Will you come for me? She wanders through days like an unresolved ghost and the nights sigh instead of some substantial breath shall the goddess of inspired surrender guide me beyond shape or form above a life of healing because we could be torn?" 

This piece really reminded me of Reg Mombasa's pieces he did for Mambo. It wasn't a conscious effort to emulate it. And the text "The dyslexic moon" certainly is not the same inner world as Mambo. 

When the soak wept days clamour for child-like attention... I am possessed to give you all my love. 

You break or beat over ragged streets over cards and weed and you long to bleed for love. 

Every man needs his Angel, his muse, his inspiration to more than peruse the years like cheap tabloid pages. A spark & burn so he earns his place to glitter and glow entwined with his soul's goddess across the universe." 

A piece that's 2D 3D... a recurring theme in my artwork. 

"Will we stink or dream of some life above this septic wank, Will we break down walls or resume rescind?" 

Everyone's favourite piece. Not hard to see why. It's got a lot of detail. And with a subject matter easy to absorb. The violence of the world through the eyes of cartoon dogs. I like the title which no one i've told seemed to really 'dig'... title: cut along the dotted lines. 

This painting is somewhere out there in the world now. Last seen hanging at the Blue Moon gallery in Boston near M.I.T. Having my work hanging somewhere was great. But how cheaply the pieces were sold.  

A soda can with ingredients for world domination. There's a Caveat Empty: Let the buyer with no soul beware. 

I've always loved this visual. Can't read the text from this jpg. But it's about not being able to avoid life or love as surely as you can't avoid a train wreck if you're on the train track. 

When do i decide bent knees, a proposal ring and the numb bricks to latte conversation soliloquy fusion stolen intimacy and para-nomasia?" 

Until then we will all remain fully skinned unable to mark the true contents of our hearts apart from simple haemoglobulic disembodiment, all we can reduce each other is rated x. 

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. 

I painted this piece wondering how I felt about it. It seemed so homosexual. So vulnerable. And yet it was not sexual at all. It was just a naked man/boy. It hangs in my room with so much room for interpretation.