Chalk Faces

Words you can use to describe the following- purple, verbose, forced and downright banal.

Reasons apathy is my only response to your wailing- My plan for fluff blogging didn't work out and I haven't much else to put up here for your amusement and/or agonizing dragging death. Also, I haven't indulged my sadism in a long while.

Enjoy.

Downward curls and upward angles

A facile face, commonly discernible.

With a slight twitch and a wayward glance

The mighty sight moves off to perchance.

A glint and sigh with a bashful grin

Another simple one, identified without hint.

Toss a sneer and a muddle wave

You’ll have a splendidly confused daze.

Stoic stare, murmured immutability

Uncertainty unsure in perpetuity.

Off cadence breath or wavering peek

Works of comprehension clearly you seek.

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Gods and Grand Games

According to this highly reliable website, tomorrow is Play God Day.

I shall be taking on the role in full responsibility and engaging in all the barbarically holy crimes I am obligated to. So as to be a secular God, I have carefully analyzed all the possible deeds I could accomplish in a day and concluded on the following which I hope will satisfy believers of all faiths.

"If I could be God for a day, I would..." (commanding thee to imagine an innocent childlike voice of such high pitch, that you will be eager to claw your eyeballs out), "commit a few genocides, a couple of sexist acts, some good ol’ confusing reincarnations in the form of my son and myself and not to forget, just some frightful yelling that makes cows and chickens swap personalities just so they can each be severely disappointed. Also, like the original one, I’ll be demanding the first borns of every living being on earth. I likes me some infant toenails."

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Unwittingly on New Year's Day

I stopped making New Years resolutions a rather long time ago. So lets just call the timing for this a mighty coincidence.

The decision is to use this blog for flaunting my peerless wit rather than my writings which are scarce, often depressing and generally atrocious. And just for giggles, we shall assume that I am, in fact, right about my nonpareil wit.

Happy New Year and New Decade, who can tell me why we have a such an enduring obsession with capitalizations? ee cummings being discounted.

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Pumpkin Pies

"What are you dressing as?"

"The Lazy."

*cackle* *giggle* *squirm* *stare* *realize it wasn't all that funny* *realize you're inebriated* *get more inebriated* *grin*

Halloween is generally the greatest excuse to dabble in a little drag and get enough alcohol in you to clean the floors of Buckingham. For a few others, it's the trigger of contemplation of grim futures and of the endearing cycle of depressive thoughts and self-pity. But then, very soon, the death-fires dance on into the abyss, the colours green, blue and white return to their regularity and you realize it's now the 1st of November. You turn your clocks back an hour and glee in the fact that you have an extra 60 minutes to add to your day. That's enough to make anyone giggle and grin. If not, you need a drink.

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Haverford

[Another 10 minute poem written in Zurich. This one after a short nap and quick meal (also directly on the computer).]

Here I sit at the edge of Haverford

Watching the younger scuttle by

They brush past, they shrink on.

A wide gale of laughter,

My soft whimper of woe

Some boisterous, others unheard.

A hand whisks above the golden grain

Feeling wisps down below,

A tickling tendril totters up

Gushing giggles guffaw out.

The soil takes me in from the toes

I battle and win, but who’s to show?

They plunge down with sudden force,

The stabbing frost grasps me, clenched.

Such a feeling I have often known

Since the days of graying cold.

Now I court chirping birds

No longer being the one in Haverford.

[I came up with this while reading Beowulf. Go figure...]

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Undersaturated Overtones

[It’s been a while since I wrote something in under 10 minutes, sleep deprivation was the cure to that. Here’s a poem I wrote at the Zurich airport after the first leg of the journey to Chicago. (This is one of the few things I’ve ever written directly onto the computer).]

In a rush we scuttle and scamper,

Teetering from one end to another

A delicate feel of movement

But not much else.

Here we are, confined,

With no place to go.

It mushrooms within

Regurgitates itself time again.

You wonder at it,

Stare at its

Strange balmy pleasantness.

This is the end, here we go.

A feeble fluttering,

A sweet sensation,

An indication of final presence

Suffuses when surrounded.

Thinking of the inevitable

Just as we go.

Now we meet,

You and I.

After weeks of rumination,

Reflecting the inexorable

A breathless sigh in satisfaction,

Alas! we can go.

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