Inspiration...Sadness...and whatever life takes
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Deluge
"I am drowning in footwear! "
Oh wait. That was someone else's definition of a prurient dream. Apparently, it has to be vaguely associated with a panderer hawking sandals to raise money for my whorehouse.
On the other hand, I am wading in a thigh-deep cornucopia of papers. Papers. A painful inundation of papers... Ironically, I am now suddenly inspired to actually slosh around in tis quandary-inducing papers; imploring them utterly to dominate me with ropes, scourge, SM leather and candle wax. (And, my occipital lobes hurt)
Argh. The DHS papers just gagged me with their socks. The ACSI papers really did relish in seeing me being flagellated . RGS would make you hanker the chimeria in which one were blindfolded with pink underwear. Really. I shouldn't go on about it. It is monumental tedium.
cuRRent...jer
I'd be drowning soon.
¶ 4:39 pm
"I am drowning in footwear! "
Oh wait. That was someone else's definition of a prurient dream. Apparently, it has to be vaguely associated with a panderer hawking sandals to raise money for my whorehouse.
On the other hand, I am wading in a thigh-deep cornucopia of papers. Papers. A painful inundation of papers... Ironically, I am now suddenly inspired to actually slosh around in tis quandary-inducing papers; imploring them utterly to dominate me with ropes, scourge, SM leather and candle wax. (And, my occipital lobes hurt)
Argh. The DHS papers just gagged me with their socks. The ACSI papers really did relish in seeing me being flagellated . RGS would make you hanker the chimeria in which one were blindfolded with pink underwear. Really. I shouldn't go on about it. It is monumental tedium.
cuRRent...jer
I'd be drowning soon.
¶ 4:39 pm
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Tirade
Even if I may concede TCHS boys are generally inviting (eyes, cunts, drool, penis, etc.) and ostensibly sinfully voluptuous, I must accentuate they are mostly sorely insufferable fops without being already a downright parochial 'I love Cheena" sinophile.
(Sorry Bernie, I understand you would hate me for the above comment)
First, there was this TCHS whoring flaneur whose boyfriend finally decided to dispatch of after much treachery. (Copious statistics for further such examples)
Then, there came the narcist, one of the deadliest and fetid creatures that walks our Earth. Pulversing everything (and everyone) in order to elevate one's position. So everybody can see his pink underwear from below. Yea.
And there were the sycophants. The toadies. The "lets not break any rules" reactionary league that spends most of their time keeping watch over their pseudo-majestic clocktower.
And the bloody sanctimonious ones who would try to evangelise one out at the doorstep. (Slams crosses on them)
The blury sportsmen trying to imitate what RJC sportsmen do in the toilet. ( Well...I'm not against tis one)
Not forgetting. An emetic principal who could render a Josephian paralysed with.... (Okie...not elaborating..it is almost embarassing and very much distasteful)
And sometimes, you just wonder, if TCHS is actually a cavalcade of homunculi... (Must be the sexy, coveted khaki shorts...)
cuRRent...jer
¶ 11:50 am
Even if I may concede TCHS boys are generally inviting (eyes, cunts, drool, penis, etc.) and ostensibly sinfully voluptuous, I must accentuate they are mostly sorely insufferable fops without being already a downright parochial 'I love Cheena" sinophile.
(Sorry Bernie, I understand you would hate me for the above comment)
First, there was this TCHS whoring flaneur whose boyfriend finally decided to dispatch of after much treachery. (Copious statistics for further such examples)
Then, there came the narcist, one of the deadliest and fetid creatures that walks our Earth. Pulversing everything (and everyone) in order to elevate one's position. So everybody can see his pink underwear from below. Yea.
And there were the sycophants. The toadies. The "lets not break any rules" reactionary league that spends most of their time keeping watch over their pseudo-majestic clocktower.
And the bloody sanctimonious ones who would try to evangelise one out at the doorstep. (Slams crosses on them)
The blury sportsmen trying to imitate what RJC sportsmen do in the toilet. ( Well...I'm not against tis one)
Not forgetting. An emetic principal who could render a Josephian paralysed with.... (Okie...not elaborating..it is almost embarassing and very much distasteful)
And sometimes, you just wonder, if TCHS is actually a cavalcade of homunculi... (Must be the sexy, coveted khaki shorts...)
cuRRent...jer
¶ 11:50 am
Friday, August 27, 2004
Taut
I wrecked Don Giovanni. I was too taut with uneasiness. Slided on the notes at the last phrases of both verses. (Heck! Just defenestrate that slut.) One examiner maintained I needed to be tauter with the score for Ballad of Mack the Knife. Albeit the swaying was quite pertinent. And it was mostly a cabaret song. So...
Still, I am utterly disgusted by my performance. Stab me. Stab me.
An unprecedented endeavour on my blog sees the expungement of The Fashion Meter. Apparently, the humour was exceedingly taut. So stilted it was almost wheelchair-bound. I supposed these obiter dicta of haute courte came across as desperately emulous of Bernie, my very candid homosexual friend who writes rather fashionably about RJC boys having fellatio sessions in the "clandestine" toilet cubicles and how he enjoys the chimeria of decorticating the khaki shorts of TCHS boys while disporting himself with a quasi-denuded Julian Hee poster.
Ergo, I do plan to desist from publishing The Fashion Meter anymore. Besides, I find penning about effeminate minister a tad tedious especially if he did introduce some delectable policies...Could be quite stultifying.
And yes, I am currently afflicted by writer's block and a dearth of concupiscence. Vaguely trapped in a taut mental noose. I am afraid there will be no further poetry entries until I have convalesced. Writing verses does despoil one of much inspiration to write almost anything else. Till then.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 1:43 pm
I wrecked Don Giovanni. I was too taut with uneasiness. Slided on the notes at the last phrases of both verses. (Heck! Just defenestrate that slut.) One examiner maintained I needed to be tauter with the score for Ballad of Mack the Knife. Albeit the swaying was quite pertinent. And it was mostly a cabaret song. So...
Still, I am utterly disgusted by my performance. Stab me. Stab me.
An unprecedented endeavour on my blog sees the expungement of The Fashion Meter. Apparently, the humour was exceedingly taut. So stilted it was almost wheelchair-bound. I supposed these obiter dicta of haute courte came across as desperately emulous of Bernie, my very candid homosexual friend who writes rather fashionably about RJC boys having fellatio sessions in the "clandestine" toilet cubicles and how he enjoys the chimeria of decorticating the khaki shorts of TCHS boys while disporting himself with a quasi-denuded Julian Hee poster.
Ergo, I do plan to desist from publishing The Fashion Meter anymore. Besides, I find penning about effeminate minister a tad tedious especially if he did introduce some delectable policies...Could be quite stultifying.
And yes, I am currently afflicted by writer's block and a dearth of concupiscence. Vaguely trapped in a taut mental noose. I am afraid there will be no further poetry entries until I have convalesced. Writing verses does despoil one of much inspiration to write almost anything else. Till then.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 1:43 pm
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Click
Insipid.
Vapid.
With blankness rabid.
And a dullness not too sapid.
Conjuring merely five rhymes and a non-sequitur,
to disprove the fundamental notion of the mobid ... (consequences of Kingshaw's death otherwise than suicide merely induces foofaraw to an inane degree exploiting the...)
blah blah blah blah blah.
Click. Click. Click.
At the keyboard I prick. (What kind of rhyme is that!?)
Oi! I am dessicated.
Staunched. Oui. Ja. Yes.
Wrecked in the fashion I'd never understand.
A frozen rictal mind.
That literary acumen is lethargic.
Stalemate.
Writer's Block.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 10:16 pm
Insipid.
Vapid.
With blankness rabid.
And a dullness not too sapid.
Conjuring merely five rhymes and a non-sequitur,
to disprove the fundamental notion of the mobid ... (consequences of Kingshaw's death otherwise than suicide merely induces foofaraw to an inane degree exploiting the...)
blah blah blah blah blah.
Click. Click. Click.
At the keyboard I prick. (What kind of rhyme is that!?)
Oi! I am dessicated.
Staunched. Oui. Ja. Yes.
Wrecked in the fashion I'd never understand.
A frozen rictal mind.
That literary acumen is lethargic.
Stalemate.
Writer's Block.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 10:16 pm
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Ineffable
The elders told me things I'd rather not know,
with sweet innocence being their only foe,
that crawls behind my spine.
I'd rather not know.
That ineffable ignorance,
that rancid fragrance,
that runs through my mind.
I'd rather you tell me not.
Cascading into the chthonic depths of aboulia,
that penurious yet covetuous fantasia,
trapped in this deadly oblivion of mine.
Oh desist! I say you tell me no more.
It all becomes clear at midnight,
the advent of the new day,
as fear strikes the innocent heart of thine...
then ignorance would find,
its sweet flavour.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 11:29 am
The elders told me things I'd rather not know,
with sweet innocence being their only foe,
that crawls behind my spine.
I'd rather not know.
That ineffable ignorance,
that rancid fragrance,
that runs through my mind.
I'd rather you tell me not.
Cascading into the chthonic depths of aboulia,
that penurious yet covetuous fantasia,
trapped in this deadly oblivion of mine.
Oh desist! I say you tell me no more.
It all becomes clear at midnight,
the advent of the new day,
as fear strikes the innocent heart of thine...
then ignorance would find,
its sweet flavour.
cuRRent...jer
¶ 11:29 am
