Inspiration...Sadness...and whatever life takes
Saturday, May 31, 2008
clout
because you are a dreamer
who cannot express certainty with certainties
but only doubts with more doubts;
that love is doomed in your
hands;
when your head is stuck in
clouds;
cuRRent..jer ¶ 8:50 pm
because you are a dreamer
who cannot express certainty with certainties
but only doubts with more doubts;
that love is doomed in your
hands;
when your head is stuck in
clouds;
cuRRent..jer ¶ 8:50 pm
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Caveman
"Grunting like an animal- - that is exactly what we should be doing," he thought.
"I have been scribbling on this wall for hours," he announced imperiously in the spirit of his usual seriously self-important pronunciations from the precarious edge of a marble pebble pedestal. Scratching his wildly unshaven crotch with one hand and clutching a haven of confusion in another, the scribe hurled his piece of chalk into the sombre embrace of the dusty floor freezing in her guts and tumbled off his marble pebble pedestal: the angsty mind of Freddy Nishaw's simply wandering- - angrily- - oh yes, just like a child on an aimless rampage- - a mind that has alienated friends and enemies alike. Just last week, Arthur Shoppinghauler had telephoned him to call it quits.
"And the world mamboing in the madcap hopelessness of sanity is perpetually watching out for the world for any signs of insanity- - ever ready pounce on it as a diversion from their own insanity in sanity. Yet such insanity in sanity- the forced sanitization of our times - is the object of my contempt. Oh contempt, I have so much of it! So much of it!" Nishaw ranted, stretching each word to extra-sesquipedalian proportions in an attempt at aristocratic contempt. "Would you like some contempt?" Nishaw offered contempt in the cusp of his hands to an invisible member of the audience; Amy Randy declines politely and briskly proceeds out of the theater.
He is alone again in the cave he shares with frogs and chalk, a cookie and his failing mind. Nishaw begins churning about- in vertigoes and various circles- one and all the same thing- dazed and dizzy- his penis playing tag- whirling behind his naked body- as he spun- and churned about. Suddenly, the doorbell to his cavedoor rings and the penis caught up with the testicles and body. He pries open the cavedoor and spots Johnny Calves standing at the entrace, brimming with a smile that Nishaw so desired to put out with a fire extinguisher. "Is Jehovas Das Gott staying here?"
"Gott is dead!" Nishaw gruffed in contempt and slammed the door shut.
The world is but a stage; where every
one must play a part; yet this actor
stood alone; weeping himself in his
nakedness; in the spectacular spectacle
of himself- - lamenting: the globe the
world has shoved into my arms- have
made me no longer the man- - I- -
ought to be: master; and not slave.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:19 pm
"Grunting like an animal- - that is exactly what we should be doing," he thought.
"I have been scribbling on this wall for hours," he announced imperiously in the spirit of his usual seriously self-important pronunciations from the precarious edge of a marble pebble pedestal. Scratching his wildly unshaven crotch with one hand and clutching a haven of confusion in another, the scribe hurled his piece of chalk into the sombre embrace of the dusty floor freezing in her guts and tumbled off his marble pebble pedestal: the angsty mind of Freddy Nishaw's simply wandering- - angrily- - oh yes, just like a child on an aimless rampage- - a mind that has alienated friends and enemies alike. Just last week, Arthur Shoppinghauler had telephoned him to call it quits.
"And the world mamboing in the madcap hopelessness of sanity is perpetually watching out for the world for any signs of insanity- - ever ready pounce on it as a diversion from their own insanity in sanity. Yet such insanity in sanity- the forced sanitization of our times - is the object of my contempt. Oh contempt, I have so much of it! So much of it!" Nishaw ranted, stretching each word to extra-sesquipedalian proportions in an attempt at aristocratic contempt. "Would you like some contempt?" Nishaw offered contempt in the cusp of his hands to an invisible member of the audience; Amy Randy declines politely and briskly proceeds out of the theater.
He is alone again in the cave he shares with frogs and chalk, a cookie and his failing mind. Nishaw begins churning about- in vertigoes and various circles- one and all the same thing- dazed and dizzy- his penis playing tag- whirling behind his naked body- as he spun- and churned about. Suddenly, the doorbell to his cavedoor rings and the penis caught up with the testicles and body. He pries open the cavedoor and spots Johnny Calves standing at the entrace, brimming with a smile that Nishaw so desired to put out with a fire extinguisher. "Is Jehovas Das Gott staying here?"
"Gott is dead!" Nishaw gruffed in contempt and slammed the door shut.
The world is but a stage; where every
one must play a part; yet this actor
stood alone; weeping himself in his
nakedness; in the spectacular spectacle
of himself- - lamenting: the globe the
world has shoved into my arms- have
made me no longer the man- - I- -
ought to be: master; and not slave.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:19 pm
Monday, May 19, 2008
Numbers
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
That occupied most of the day- - that and chasing counts with a quiet pen that discovers the occasional fault on the slate: flooded with a mafia family of various shapes and sizes and angles- bummers who lounge in their comfort of potential error. Strangely, they appear quite like hieroglyphics to the outside world; but to an insider like Renny Theycar- - they are assassins with a ninja capacity to decimate his bakery or topple another business that will possibly decimate his bakery and jeapordise his own bakery business of making bread victories his business.
"Hieroglyphics?" Theycar picks up my thoughts and chuckles- perhaps the only whiff of humour in 267 days- ready to provide an insider's POV that is perhaps only funny to the trained mind like Theycar's trained mind's trained mind's trained mind's trained mi...et so on and so forth. "It's definitely Arabic in origin- damn those Muslim traders. Look at it, just look at these numbers." Almost shouting; shouting that even Ashoka Naidu seated 31 cubicles away would catch the whisper of his tempest and be tempted to challenge the tenet of Theycar's ignorance by invoking the ancient knowledge of his ancient ancestors.
"You see, Arabic Numerals aren't exactly Arabic." Theycar pounces on my thoughts and cackles a bit in amusement- perhaps the only entertainment for the remainder of sun-up. Then, he looks regretfully at his desk and spots another pile waiting on another rack; he hears regretfully from the speakers of another ping from another e-mail incoming- -more work; more numbers- - entering the reality with neither explanation, nor cause of being.
"They are; therefore they are," he mutters.
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
A slush of coffee for Theycar-
the accountant- who stares into
the ceiling of nights- to wish only
he were the man with many doors.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:48 pm
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
That occupied most of the day- - that and chasing counts with a quiet pen that discovers the occasional fault on the slate: flooded with a mafia family of various shapes and sizes and angles- bummers who lounge in their comfort of potential error. Strangely, they appear quite like hieroglyphics to the outside world; but to an insider like Renny Theycar- - they are assassins with a ninja capacity to decimate his bakery or topple another business that will possibly decimate his bakery and jeapordise his own bakery business of making bread victories his business.
"Hieroglyphics?" Theycar picks up my thoughts and chuckles- perhaps the only whiff of humour in 267 days- ready to provide an insider's POV that is perhaps only funny to the trained mind like Theycar's trained mind's trained mind's trained mind's trained mi...et so on and so forth. "It's definitely Arabic in origin- damn those Muslim traders. Look at it, just look at these numbers." Almost shouting; shouting that even Ashoka Naidu seated 31 cubicles away would catch the whisper of his tempest and be tempted to challenge the tenet of Theycar's ignorance by invoking the ancient knowledge of his ancient ancestors.
"You see, Arabic Numerals aren't exactly Arabic." Theycar pounces on my thoughts and cackles a bit in amusement- perhaps the only entertainment for the remainder of sun-up. Then, he looks regretfully at his desk and spots another pile waiting on another rack; he hears regretfully from the speakers of another ping from another e-mail incoming- -more work; more numbers- - entering the reality with neither explanation, nor cause of being.
"They are; therefore they are," he mutters.
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
A slush of coffee for Theycar-
the accountant- who stares into
the ceiling of nights- to wish only
he were the man with many doors.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:48 pm
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Invitations
Spreadeagle: you scream
into heavens; with your arms-
and your thighs- ajar.
Storms and sighs and of sexless
nights; you see: only angels
Seeming coy: you take no
heed- and lay down carpets red-
for friends come all in.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:42 pm
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Grain
They used to say: the darkest hour is one
before dawn; yet when the murkiness of
night is drawn out in seconds; the solitude
of dusk protracted 'yond man's measure;
it is but eternity in every grain; hopeless
in every other.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 8:35 am
They used to say: the darkest hour is one
before dawn; yet when the murkiness of
night is drawn out in seconds; the solitude
of dusk protracted 'yond man's measure;
it is but eternity in every grain; hopeless
in every other.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 8:35 am
