hey everybody!!!am bored but i don't feel like studying. been feeling that way the whole hol, so a bit fei hua.debating whether to drink hot/warm/lukewarm/ice-cold milo. will limit myself to another 5 more mins of personal milo crisis. will write a poem for y'all!!
eeks, writer's block. well, according to most strange ppl lauded by mass population, stringing a montage of strange metaphors with looney paragraphing makes a good poem. right. and i can't write stuff that rhymes. too difficult. could sound like twinkle twinkle little star if not handled properly. borrowed this book from library which seemed pretty cool at first glance.but it turned out to be a total dud. proof that you should never judge a book by its cover. the writer is apparently a music and theatre studies lecturer. he writes like he doesn't know what a woman looks like,the poor deprived goof, much less love/sex (interchangeable nowadays). the worse thing is, most of his stuff are about those topics which he doesn't seem to know much abt. the supposedly poignant stuff turn out funny... anyway, will stop being the failing literary critic. extremely bored now,listening to whitney houston scream "i will always love you".ok.
just read keiffy's blog.
oohmytian it's DISGUSTING. couldn't stop laughing.now in the mood to write crap love poetry
oh you are my heaven
oh my love
where art thou
muacks
there u go, mah opus...:) it's even got onomaetopia (however you spell that) the sound thing.oookkk...
should i bathe first?or drink milo?or listen to whitney? i downloaded 5 different versions of "i will always love you" it's amazing she does these strange vocal gymnastic thingys all the time. plus i got one in spanish. contrary to barcelonians, spanish is not that sexy anyway.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Song
Today on the bus home I heard a dangerous song.
It was venom, flowing into my ears and in my brain,
extemporaneous as a colourless surgical liquid.
It was warm and mellow, yet it quashed my insides,
fuming into descent and self rage, into an anchor in a cup of tears.
It was the slant eyed advocate, whispering in my ear lacy
Mutterings of self hate and hellish verse, and pinching my reddened
flesh to show how soft and crumbling it was.
It was the poetry of the sirens, each heartbreaking contralto
Rending the heart closer to the murderous rocks, each voiceful
quiver the slice of a nail--
Or, shall we say--
it was the soulful rhapsody on love,
curved like the body of the moon, silk thick with the blues
Of love and loss, of distance and stars, of nearness and breath,
and of the everlasting mystery of beauty, its welcome tragedy.
Every sentence an unobtainable rise or a fall, enough to dip my heart
in blood, and to sorely ache the frail dusty body which would henceforth
doubt its staunch disbelief forever after. And my bones nearly broke
themselves like monks in grief-- my body now near fatally astral and
vicarious, watching that unconquerable and hence unredeemable--
I survived, and now I am weak.
What of you churchgoer, visitor of the temple of man, the faith
of his mystery? (I know love and its convictions tingles in your limbs,
brands you like a slave.)
I think. I think I shall not tell you what the name of this
elegy of goddesses and mourn song of man is, lest its karma
one day be your irrevocable death.
joel tee
Experimenting
We don't need no safety net, we're out here on our own--
This is fledgling time:
Experiments in dusty attics
Count and do the mathematics
Free speech, free love, democratics--
And thus:
My muse, unloosed, just confuses
Perhaps the alcohol induces--
I.
We fumble in the dark:
Or you fumble, and I'm lying passive.
I'm lying now, when I say I love you.
And do you mean it, either?
Or were we just a pair of raging hormones--
You with the debonair flair
(And me, just there)
Conveniently, where
Hands in the dark meant nothing, just
Simulating stimulating
Groping and
(manipulating)
--Never you mind, now, dear.
Cup of tea?
Me? (Shall we?)
Fake your innocence: this is daylight; not the time to play with fire.
(Our situation isn't really
that dire--
we're too young
for desire.)
Liar.
II.
Number two was found in a fit of blue
But was unfortunately too straight to do anything with.
Nevertheless:
This was an unknowing inspiration; a summer waxed and waned
And passed me by, and was filled with memories of you.
I still remember the fragments, now, and the glass
pieces have been picked up and put into boxes and labelled safely
behind distant windows.
And wink at me, kindly, and I forget how they cut, then.
III.
The next was fully a year later.
Less intense; drifting incense of my passion burning it away
Keeping up the pretence (better this way)
That this
Was an unrhythmic uncyclical phase
(life's an irregular
chase,
anyway)
And I'm still caught up in this tangled web of roses
My prose's all about love, now, or lust--
And there's that song, you know, about how
The Girls: capitalised, italicised, romanticised in Italian and brought back down
Sharply
Precipitate a reaction that's not worth what you give it.
And dreams, now, and teasing behind the drapes
And familiar shapes in the half-dark of the room
(not the bedroom, you'd never be caught here with me:
Suspect me of date rape
whatever.)
Italicise me, romanticise me, remind me and mind me
And rewind your memories, when this is twenty years behind me
And Realise (yes, capitalised) that this is what binds me:
That I am a Girl.
--to you, and you were kind to me.
IV.
I never learn, do I.
Juggling two at once
Tuppence, I thought--it's experimental!
(and, of course, detrimental
to our mental health, but never mind)
So we promised to kiss.
We haven't yet.
kelly lai
ahhh.. in love with their writing. ok, somewhat intimidated now, what are we supposed to do together? he seems awfully worldly, hope i don't spontaneously combust once everyone discovers i'm dumb.i should stop saying that. so implusible. so fluctant. i never could stand those weak changelings. now i'm just another one.argh, i actually get nervous before calling han. what if he screams at me?what if he hangs up? [it's my phone dammit.]
right. haven't written anything for quite a while now, not in the mood for poetry. it seems so flippant next to econs. i love econs. sadly, love is unrequited, this is probably the only crush i'll ever have in jc - on a subject. yayzers.
but whatever.need to get in the mood before cap. will not be overtly concerned with how my poetry fares against mr joel poet laureate tee.can't stand it, i wished i wrote "song".hrmph.
Today on the bus home I heard a dangerous song.
It was venom, flowing into my ears and in my brain,
extemporaneous as a colourless surgical liquid.
It was warm and mellow, yet it quashed my insides,
fuming into descent and self rage, into an anchor in a cup of tears.
It was the slant eyed advocate, whispering in my ear lacy
Mutterings of self hate and hellish verse, and pinching my reddened
flesh to show how soft and crumbling it was.
It was the poetry of the sirens, each heartbreaking contralto
Rending the heart closer to the murderous rocks, each voiceful
quiver the slice of a nail--
Or, shall we say--
it was the soulful rhapsody on love,
curved like the body of the moon, silk thick with the blues
Of love and loss, of distance and stars, of nearness and breath,
and of the everlasting mystery of beauty, its welcome tragedy.
Every sentence an unobtainable rise or a fall, enough to dip my heart
in blood, and to sorely ache the frail dusty body which would henceforth
doubt its staunch disbelief forever after. And my bones nearly broke
themselves like monks in grief-- my body now near fatally astral and
vicarious, watching that unconquerable and hence unredeemable--
I survived, and now I am weak.
What of you churchgoer, visitor of the temple of man, the faith
of his mystery? (I know love and its convictions tingles in your limbs,
brands you like a slave.)
I think. I think I shall not tell you what the name of this
elegy of goddesses and mourn song of man is, lest its karma
one day be your irrevocable death.
joel tee
Experimenting
We don't need no safety net, we're out here on our own--
This is fledgling time:
Experiments in dusty attics
Count and do the mathematics
Free speech, free love, democratics--
And thus:
My muse, unloosed, just confuses
Perhaps the alcohol induces--
I.
We fumble in the dark:
Or you fumble, and I'm lying passive.
I'm lying now, when I say I love you.
And do you mean it, either?
Or were we just a pair of raging hormones--
You with the debonair flair
(And me, just there)
Conveniently, where
Hands in the dark meant nothing, just
Simulating stimulating
Groping and
(manipulating)
--Never you mind, now, dear.
Cup of tea?
Me? (Shall we?)
Fake your innocence: this is daylight; not the time to play with fire.
(Our situation isn't really
that dire--
we're too young
for desire.)
Liar.
II.
Number two was found in a fit of blue
But was unfortunately too straight to do anything with.
Nevertheless:
This was an unknowing inspiration; a summer waxed and waned
And passed me by, and was filled with memories of you.
I still remember the fragments, now, and the glass
pieces have been picked up and put into boxes and labelled safely
behind distant windows.
And wink at me, kindly, and I forget how they cut, then.
III.
The next was fully a year later.
Less intense; drifting incense of my passion burning it away
Keeping up the pretence (better this way)
That this
Was an unrhythmic uncyclical phase
(life's an irregular
chase,
anyway)
And I'm still caught up in this tangled web of roses
My prose's all about love, now, or lust--
And there's that song, you know, about how
The Girls: capitalised, italicised, romanticised in Italian and brought back down
Sharply
Precipitate a reaction that's not worth what you give it.
And dreams, now, and teasing behind the drapes
And familiar shapes in the half-dark of the room
(not the bedroom, you'd never be caught here with me:
Suspect me of date rape
whatever.)
Italicise me, romanticise me, remind me and mind me
And rewind your memories, when this is twenty years behind me
And Realise (yes, capitalised) that this is what binds me:
That I am a Girl.
--to you, and you were kind to me.
IV.
I never learn, do I.
Juggling two at once
Tuppence, I thought--it's experimental!
(and, of course, detrimental
to our mental health, but never mind)
So we promised to kiss.
We haven't yet.
kelly lai
ahhh.. in love with their writing. ok, somewhat intimidated now, what are we supposed to do together? he seems awfully worldly, hope i don't spontaneously combust once everyone discovers i'm dumb.i should stop saying that. so implusible. so fluctant. i never could stand those weak changelings. now i'm just another one.argh, i actually get nervous before calling han. what if he screams at me?what if he hangs up? [it's my phone dammit.]
right. haven't written anything for quite a while now, not in the mood for poetry. it seems so flippant next to econs. i love econs. sadly, love is unrequited, this is probably the only crush i'll ever have in jc - on a subject. yayzers.
but whatever.need to get in the mood before cap. will not be overtly concerned with how my poetry fares against mr joel poet laureate tee.can't stand it, i wished i wrote "song".hrmph.
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