to the chemmers: (it's quite entertaining)

http://www.enzine.cyborgcow.net/exam/

Five Ways To Kill A Man
Edwin Brock


There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this
properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.


Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a
castle to hold your banquet in.


Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.


In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no-one needs for several years.
These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

*********************************************

haha, or leave her/him in mugger hell. perdition or what you will.(; good luck for promos pple!

Fragmentation
Harriet McCulloch


That summer words came broken to their lips,
falling in pieces, their mouths unheard, sly -
or else choked by the sprouting freckles, shy
colour in the down of their forearms.
Eclipsedby the glance of a hand on the sheet, the
moths and the white noise hum of heat in the air,
aching and battering the light: bare,
beaten, drumming down the sun. Persistently,
the air hung closer, insidious, sweet,
pinning arms to sides, clothes clinging, sheened.
Drowsy wasps murmured, jolted, gleaned
from the air, falling sacrificial at their feet.


From the air, falling, sacrificial at their feet
drowsy wasps, murmured, jolted, gleaned.
Pinning arms to sides, clothes clinging, sheened -
the air hung closer, insidious, sweet,
bare,beaten, drumming down the sun. Persistently
aching and battering the light: bare
moths and the white noise hum of heat in the air.
By the glance of a hand on the sheet, the
colour in the down of their forearms eclipsed,
or else choked by the sprouting freckles, shy.
Falling in pieces, their mouths unheard, sly -
that summer, words came broken to their lips.

***************************************************
what the hell, how did she do that?!?!?!
humph, jealous.

her·pes sim·plex Pronunciation: -'sim-"pleksFunction: nounEtymology: New Latin, literally, simple herpes: either of two diseases caused by herpesviruses (genus Simplexvirus) and marked in one case by groups of watery blisters on the skin or mucous membranes (as of the mouth and lips) above the waist and in the other by such blisters on the genitals. Usually sexually transmitted.


Right.
Well, guess what, I've been diagnosed with Herpes.
On my Forehead. What the hell does this entail?!?!
To top this whole thing off, my doctor just happens to be my next door neighbor. I can practically imagine the pleasantries he'll be exchanging with my parents in the morning:
" So, your daughter 16/17 already hor? She very sexually active ah? Aiyoh, hwachong so havoc meh?"

To which my parents’ reply will take on a very Pintersque nature- cue the nanosecond of silence before said "information" registers in my father's brain and he faints from the exertion of picturing me with some lewd guy in XXX Hotel.

Tong Si and Jun Yong have taken to calling me "Herpes Girl", which does, admittedly have a striking twang. I can just imagine those hardworking taxi drivers at their quarterly hour break at Soon Kee Kopitiam at 11.23 pm, going "Tiger ger down dere, Carlsberg zharbo here, eh, where the Herpes ger ah?"

Clarification: No I did not engage in any unlawful promiscuous activity during the miserable one week holiday, Thank You Very Much. The doctor postulates that the virus was transmitted to me when I stupidly wiped my face with a dirty towel/let my dog lick it etc. Furthermore, if this infection were to be sexually transmitted, that would have to mean…..which is entirely ridiculous. Not that I would know anyway, since the karma sutra is rumored to be very radical, for all you know, it may be stance 69 or something. BUT, this completely detracts from my point.

Anyway, the ghastly cloister of red bumps had better disappear in time for MAF. Would very much NOT like to spend the moon-gazing season with everyone staring at my forehead instead.
Interestingly, the blotch has taken on a highly symbolic shape (weird mutated/deformed flower/lightning/post-intergalactic implosion/explosion star etc , which seems to tickle my mother and various other individuals highly. This morning, she (mom) took one look at me in the rearview mirror of the car and started in this grotesque hacking laughter, pointing her index at my reflection. As you can probably picture, that was an extremely compromising position, and an even more precarious stance to adopt when Driving One’s Precious Children To School. That bizarre act was either the manifestation of a premature onslaught of menopause (wait, I thought they were supposed to be moody….), or she choked on her saliva etc, because my pain is not to be giggled at. Humph.

Distasteful humor has never been so cringed at, with the influx of Harry Potter/ GuanYin/Bao Qing Tian jokes. Seriously, Yang Gui Fei’s exquisite tattoo on her forehead probably took the tattoo artist the whole of a staggering 15 minutes, however, my blotch has taken 72 hours to form, with the inclusion of stimulus action (dirty towel episode), viral incubation period, cream applying effort, pill-guzzling and waiting at the doctor’s (thankfully there weren’t many patients around at that time). And I haven’t even included into the calculations all my whining and moaning.

The wonderful cream has set me back by $30, so it had better not leave any scarring. Otherwise, it will be Tremendously Difficult for my neighbour to continue his practice thereafter.

Argh, will stop bitching and go mug. Being ugly and therefore disadvantageous in society does not entitle one to brownie points with the tutors during the promos.
On the bright side, (Yes! Tw is eternally optimistic!!) I probably could use this emotionally trying time as a stepping stone to spur me on to greater heights! Gain a foothold in the world of Anti-discrimination Against the Ugly activism, become chairman of FAT!SO?Society (alliteration! haha) And include it my testimonial to be sent out to Various Universities.

May they be converted. (shouldn’t be too difficult, considering the fact that most of them identify with my cause.) Lol…

To my mother(,with resignation and determination):

The Years

To-night I close my eyes and see
A strange procession passing me--
The years before I saw your face
Go by me with a wistful grace;
They pass, the sensitive, shy years,
As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears.
The years went by and never knew
That each one brought me nearer you;
Their path was narrow and apart
And yet it led me to your heart--
Oh, sensitive, shy years, oh, lonely years,
That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears.

Sara Teasdale


To my mugging (,with hope):

Conversation Among the Ruins

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

Sylvia Plath

To my Dog (, with love):


The Dog

The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I've also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.

Ogden Nash

it's 2.06 am and i'm still not asleep yet.

it's one thirty and i'm still not asleep yet. the coffee doesn't usually work this well. i stood against the railing for a full 20 secs. it's a really long time if you do it alone in the middle of the night. the smell of cigarette smoke intertwined with black, sugarless coffee swirled up the stairwell. i do wish he wouln'd smoke that much. i didn't dare to go disturb him just now, when he was still awake, still downstairs. i could hear mahjong tiles colliding against one another. it's a beautiful, lyrical sound to hear when 3743584 friends are over at your house. it just occured to me that i don't know how to play mahjong, neither does my family own a game set. i must sound insane, rambling on about non-existent mahjong sets.

i want to go up to the extension on the third floor, but i'm afraid. you have to climb over the window sill to get to that little slab of whitewashed cement there. i always fantasized about sitting up there, reading by the moonlight or doing some painfully cliched thing and still enjoying myself. it would be my guilty indulgence, going up to the faux rooftop.

but getting there is difficult, and the moon isn't very bright. i would have to switch on the stair lights to find my way up. everyone knows that light isn't supposed to desecrate something as holy and spontaneous as this. well, not electric lights anyway.

i can just imagine the emerald sky, a few hours before dawn, there wouldn't be any birds, so late that even the crickets have silenced. the infallible bridge of darkness is not the least bit forbidding, instead, it provides stolid, staunch security. it is during this month that the nights are most magical. the long gone friends, relatives, brushing shoulders with chang e and the jade rabbit, with you right in the middle of all of them, singing your weird mantra, a mesh of getai favourites and traditional moon hymns.

you (yes, now it is no longer i, for the magical, transient transcendence does not concern itself with physical entities, even if this stasis is only momentarily). you would be thinking about lunchtime love on a schoolbus, the ariel who offers you the milky side of an oreo cookie.
sheeps fly about with their wolly wings, and the luckylass who catches some of their shedded fleece becomes the most popular girl in school, at least for the next few hours. the golden flecks stick onto her skin like diamonds. (no, not glitter, how could you possibly be thinking about glitter.)

then the matron would rev up the engine and send all the kids home, right up to their front doors, where mothers left out baskets for the deposition of their children. lawns were an unnecessary wastage. yes, school ends after lunchtime.

the matron then returns to her old but grandiosely furnished office in school. a coffee stain on her book forms a warm, indelible bookmark. nobody sees her using 12 different keys to unlock her labyrinth cupboard, carrying out the glistening golden girl, unconscious but still beautiful. at least for the next few hours.