Particles of Dust: Your self-serving opinions are merely a pretzel of dog turd

A uniformity of formless, lifeless minute particles in the air shares the same family tree of groundless, hotly-assumed opinions. And, because these particles are everywhere at anytime, it's pointless to avoid them; it clings onto your hair, face and clothes but you would rather leave them alone and continue with what matters to you than to try and remove them like lint - overall, it is a waste of time.

Not that we are gracious to let them stay - minimally annoying - and if you have a dust roller, it is handy, if not leave them be. For a start, these particles doesn't cause any bodily harm. As long as they stay in their nomadic shelter, we aren't bothered by their existence no matter how much of an epidemic: onto our favourite jacket or pants. Only specks to the eye and no one talks about it unless the weather is no longer in vogue to open the first channel of communication.

Negligible and point like, dust is itself self-explanatory.

You're dust and your visibility is formed when no one's looking; no one talks about you except a rag. That's all. But you, dust, is as forgettable and useless like dog turd.

Opinions are just that, unless it can transcend into something better for you and me.

A Brew You Might Like

Dearest,

This silly piece is done lovingly, tenderly and jocularly for you and it is only good for today, like Brew of the day. Savour it after an arduous day because only my words can do the things I wish I could do if I were by your side now. This piece is representative of a slipshod attempt of storytelling at its Finest - I do beg your pardon.

This brew is quite a winner in terms of acidity and hints of spicy undertones. Sip it slowly because it is only served in a shot like an espresso - a little more might keep your peepers big and bright for the night and it is not good at all - brevity, baby.

I was quite moved by your demand of The Daily Brew of Madness, and I sincerely wish to deliver the freshest brew everyday regardless of cranky cyberspace postmen, traffic and the like. In this Brew, you will find a footnote which explains the current challenges the author is facing but she is not excusing herself from taking a break JUST BECAUSE. The author takes her Brew very seriously and sincerely produces reading material of the finest quality just for you, her faithful reader.

I believe with every confidence that you would be quite bewildered with today's Brew. It is a little titillating for my taste; however it isn't a lost cause because this special Brew is set circa ‘99 in a beautiful land, quite far from where we both are now. Until we travel to that beautiful land, it's xxx for now. Years like falling hair, we once left ours in Napoleon's lair. That walk on a cold windy night with you, it’s always you.

You have given me something I still can't quite put my finger on what exactly it is; however I know one thing's true: We have been brought together for something great and something of the furthest. I haven't thought much of what lies ahead but I do know how alike we are, and how we always intuit the next crazy ride. It's a one way ticket my love, like Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. You're da bees' knees, and I, the cat’s pajamas - whatever that means - but we sure rock like young lovers do.

Sip this brew like a lover would taste his lover's neck - deep and tender. For you are not alone today while sipping this Otherworldly Brew. It conjures a utopia for you and me. Let the aroma rise like wanderlust up your nose and into your blood stream.

I lost myself in your fabled essence. Not anymore for you are real like moonlight and magnetic like Aurora Borealis.

My favourite piece of art: You.


Love like never before
Classy and bold, you are both
Love you once more and more
New love new day


*This is a concluding piece to Heartbreak Menu written sometime last year this time of year.

Sémillon Sway

I was tripped onto Oz
Like Merlin's hoax
Swirl on damp, crumbly soil
Mages pervade my veins
Cupping the last earthy sane
Resisting the spell of your gaze


*Sémillon is a terribly naughty wine for you and me.

Just A Little Longer

She wants to be covered by the same blanket every night till the one night she says no. Don't time her because she can't guarantee a date. They say familiarity breeds contempt but the sneer had not yet found her. It gives her space to roam. She was never the latest experiment or a microscopic wonder.

Let her stay for a little longer. She won't ask for more or less. The gnawing is still very much alive and she might become food for the worms if you ask her to give up now. You said to her "You will miss the boat." She said "Let that happen for I don't intend to step on board. It's sturdy and new but it's vile to my nose and terrible for my eyes to behold."

Loosen your hold but not too much so she may sway safely and still trust in you. She has seen too much, gone hazy with your wine, and very unsteady this time. She will take your hand and let you guide her for the first rite before she let go again and walk on the tightrope designed for her fall. Bones too hard to be broken because it has lost its ears to hear the sickening splat - old bones they call it - to command a fractured mayhem. An excellent replacement for a watery heart and fungal brains.

Her feet will be dragged and she would struggle with wordless passivity. Expect her to dance like a bright sunflower and she will droop like morning glory or unforgiving like poison ivy. Form her with your remembrance and sculpt her from your heart.

She has memories and sweetness trapped under her lids. She may not open them again just so she could hold them until one day she forgets how to open them.

'And when you can't believe, I'm on my hands and knees.' - Junk Of The Hearts, The Cardigans.

A Tribute To Mr Cat

He is true and wonderful, and never one to lie
If he did, it was behind my back
Not strong enough to turn around as a muscled lie
To choke me with disbelief and despair

He has rubbery ears
Stretched beyond mortal endurance
A snug fit to embrace my fears

No matter how many times I repeat the same offense
Being walloped by disappointments
He continues the generous act of listening
He doesn't care for fancy clothes or the latest hair
But he cares for my affairs where no one else does

Mystery and style puzzle him because
He prefers to sip coffee with me
Let my stories jiggle his sides
And surrender an inverted half-moon on his lips
That's what I like

He has rubbery legs too
Never seem to tire from walking too long a distance
Or a beat faster than me
To get my beloved oatmeal raisin cookie
The corner coffee shop before closing time

I can be a bully sometimes
Yet he can see past my shortcomings
Thinks I'm someone with a fiercer voice
And too many battles of conquering her disloyal hair.


**I wanted to write a tribute for you the other night but you pissed me off. It doesn't really matter now because by the time you read this, I will be forgiven. Meow.

Almost Like Magic

It pricks like electricity trickling down your skin, and even when you are both a continent apart, it doesn't matter because the spaces in between is the only thing that is tactile; you could almost touch it. Nothing is so important as compared to the words spoken: it gets bigger, fatter and more delicious, you can taste the taste, and smell the spirit behind every word, it's intoxicating and quite bizarre – a stranger passes you a pack of cocaine as you take a walk in the park. An auditory high and it treats you right and kind when you least expect it, and because you least expect it that's why.

The Voice is the purest sound you've ever heard; it will haunt you like a half remembered song. A song you want to lock it but there was never a keyhole to possess it and let in safety, only your memory. It belongs to you; no one else gets to hear it.

Because you have been let in to this privilege, this little magic, this let's fade into the sunset nonsense, that you slowly and tamely accept it. Let it tame you until you no longer want to resist it. Chemistry, like an unborn baby is fluid, pure, innocent, it just happens. To abort it is no sin here, you won't go to hell. You would only end up searching but never finding that something to fill the eternal void. It comes and passes you by like sweet breath; you know you should inhale it and not hold your breath, even if it lasts only for one moment, because that’s all it takes for magic to be born. Or, take another cue: when lightning strikes.

Talking about you, baby.

*You said it has been a while since the word Magic is used, so.

Rebelling Romanticism: Dawn Is Queen But Not To Me

I feel my eyes gone overweight spontaneously, at a beautiful hour aptly named, Dawn. Dawn has been crowned beauty queen since time immemorial, I have been convicted of turning my back on her, and looking in her eye with brazen arrogance on most days, when she breaks and awakes. I'm her least of favourites because I refuse to worship her beauty, and trade instead for eye bags and lethargy. She has punished me with an unwavering hold, lending her majestic gaze upon me, so I can never sleep in peace.

Her favourites are always there to greet and bow at her misty feet; fresh-faced, and just a little sleepy but awake. To be ignored or defied is unacceptable. Someone subversive like me is deemed fit for her abhorrence. Dawn is fond of contriving her presence on the periphery of the horizon lazily, and gloriously; spreading her endless bosom for everyone to succumb to but I will not yield. I have no reason to except by my permission.

Dawn is cruel in the tradition of beauty queens. She upholds that useless piece of trait and tradition like her personal vendetta account squarely aimed at me.

Dawn, is slowly fading into oblivion like, Daphne, the river nymph who fled from the Sun god, Apollo's ardent pursuit. Dawn is Queen to lovers before they part after the kiss. Dawn is also fleeting because she lives on a diet consisting of nothing, that's why she's weightless and hard to capture except by mirrors. But the moment she looks away from her mirrored image, she's lost until the next daybreak.

I loathe Dawn for her unfaithfulness and disregard for her mourners when she's gone too soon and returns like it never happened.

Bad Fruit

This sentiment which I bore is one of unease. Being critical of others' works is a very dangerous thing, one of responsibility to yourself as a critic, and it is also an act of faith. A conscientious remark, opinion, thought and impression is often an ideal few of us could achieve. It is always tempting to draw from subjectivity and it's easy too.

The indulgence of tearing apart an original piece of work, especially a creative one, is always ripe for the picking, and suffering when the fruit is gnawed by teeth and lashed by tongues, all in the name of Taste. It has to be this way before a piece of work - the fruit - is deemed good or bad, fresh or unripe, unique or common. Some fruits have a slight requirement like, Time, for it is a nurturing and impartial judge; it has always stay constant and unwavering, so Time is a trustworthy ally. Fruits which require Time before an impression or Taste is acquired are generally helpless; there is nothing to lean on except patience and endurance without rest but a constant effort to stay resilient.

But a trained eye, like that of a Fruit Grower, is able to perceive and analyse the potential of a fruit during harvesting; through the dexterity of the grower's hand and visual astuteness. When a fruit bears a mark of weakness - uncharacteristic colour and softness - which is lame for survival and consumption, elimination without second thought is inevitable. No matter how little is left to be salvaged, is useless. Only a simple truth remains: A bad fruit. The problem is, who is the Fruit Grower, and how can we identify such a person?

I came across a piece of work, and I couldn't shake it off my mind. It was hard not to think it contrived, accompanied with a sense of dread. It left me with a bitter taste like a rotten fruit, and because I chose to taste it due to the fact that I'm no expert to judge a fruit just by appearance alone, so the experimental way it was for me. Like a novice, who is still impaired with experience and proper training, I picked the fruit, despite its sallowness on the outside and limpness to the touch, cut it, took a bite... and I met the Fruit Grower that day.

Palecock

I say no doubt you are crowned cocker-lula-baboo
And you say I may have been withdrawn and in gloom
To whom but you, you say, my queen noncho-lalu-babloom
Prancing in your (pale)cock feathers you expect me to swoon
To you I see none other than a pompous goon

Gaily I consider handing back your backward pomp with clever songs
Your head gone swelling in funny angles
Perhaps I may lend a hand for the shape gone horribly wrong
Adjusting your thick clumsy brows for I'm kind and gentle
But not too long for you to think I may be your Song.


**Inspired by the pompous goon. I'm not your Song, not now not ever.

You Know I'm in Love with You

You know I'm in love with you but I can't say it in your face so, I'll say it here, post-pulp style - it will become a classic thing decades from now. You know I'm in love with you, and only you, and only now while it lasts. When the night warms my lonely neck which prompts me to stare at the black ceiling, wishing you could hear the urgent thud-dup-thud-dup-thud-dup behind my ribcage. However, don't just listen but steal my heart like a thief comes in the night, not by ripping apart my ribcage to get it because that's not stealing but beastly thing to perform.

When I hear my favourite song, and it sings about our love story, only it hasn't happen yet but I will make sure it does. For I will dance like Abigail from Salem, Massachusetts in the forest back in the sixteenth century, and I will also dance like an infant without the belly in perfect beat. I no longer want to sleep and I want to forget all my favourite poems and trade it for your every line and laughter. And when you ask me to recite my favourite poem, and instead I say nothing, you know I'm in love with you.

So, I think I'm in love with you, and I'm done for because I haven't got over loving myself yet. Can you wait for me?

An Effectual Attempt to Die

What would your last song be? Did happiness rob you from the way you should live, and prevent you from feeling the throbbing of earth's proverbial pain? When the unwelcome pause visits, do you take it in like sipping Darjeeling tea or a bitter cup of memories?

Many lines inside us travel in different momentum, and there at the base of the neck stands the gatekeeper, and every gatekeeper is unrelated to the other. They come from a different time, sometimes ancient or even from a time we have not yet known. Each gatekeeper has a favourite author, politician, thus the things they deem permissible into the neuro-highway is vital to the way you absorb pain or pleasure.

Pain, is comparable to the coldest region in the world and its job is to lead an expedition to the Antarctica, and then leave an ugly mark on the less than virginal ice-land before trying to navigate their way out alive, if not they would be honoured in print but be forgotten soon.

Pleasure, is hard to talk about because pleasure could be a life-saving bowl of donated hot soup for the homeless but reduced to diluted flavoured liquid unfit to be eaten for the i-centric generation. Pleasure is listening to your favourite songs, having breakfast by yourself and the quiet sun hanging around like an old friend, and hearing the words 'I miss you today' from the person you are missing. Pleasure is ever changing and demanding. Sometimes, it turns greater than it should be by manipulating your state of gratification, and if the gatekeeper adheres to its hedonistic request, you are probably done for.

Who is your gatekeeper? No one knows for sure but there will always be a diaphanous form teasing you and tricking your reliable senses when you think you know who it is. An effectual way to die today is to try and locate the gatekeeper's neck, twist it and conquer its fortress, your fortress, so you may live again.

*PS. Cobain, (the one who nicknamed me Courtney with no similarities to begin with except for the sake of pop culture) - another induced failure to write something upbeat.

Love, Courtney

An Ineffectual Attempt to Feel Sad

There is nothing to talk about except sadness. This night, with thoughts hanging like fruits on a branch, from a tree along some road is just like any other night: Common and cool, bland and empty, noiseless and sad. Sadness from the world wearied world, as it turn, things cruel and faceless continue their acrobatic acts without a trap to call it a day, too much alcohol and morphine to sow from one new vein to another's liquid passage. Heavy steps sagged the unmoving cement, and cribs left in a dangerous playground. Women losing their last breath, and men losing their sense.

Sadness has breathed an eternal breath, like ashes cast across a body of water; a pillow of feathered lies flown freely, and audaciously into untrained ears. The lax hold of a lover's hand, and resistance from a mother's embrace. Perils abound, and arrests no one's attention except by time and ignorance.

Women lose their faith over womanhood, and traces for samples of leftovers to emulate, marching to the beat of a counterfeit drummer. Sadness overtakes them, and reverts back in time, to a patriarchal ideal: To surrender self-expression for servitude, to please and seduce, and finally, a dream product of the reductionist. Docile, sweet, gentle, pleasing, and bland like water is neither complementing nor useful to self-expression, reason, courage and self-belief - faux individuality has nothing to do with these qualities.

Digging into the histories of your neighbours and friends is exciting, as long as it isn't yours to be exposed, which usually presents a sadder version. However, it is effectively concealed, like a stretch on a panty hose, which is still potentially attractive to rip apart without much loss except general embarrassment by today’s social standards. Sadness is almost beautiful when it is pellucid like dew drops or a misty-eyed lover.

I lied many times, and sadly ineffectually.

Candy Floss and iPod Knight

I told a friend on cyberspace last night, that the weather is the cause of breaking down my writing machine. He said I was being difficult, unwilling to compromise with the cooling system. I appreciate that insight, really I do. At one point of our conversation he said, "Hey, you are moving!", which I presumed he was moved by some of the lines I'd written (I did a little analysis on his X predicament). He actually meant I was getting my rhythm back in writing, thus my writing machine. Egotism and folly goes hand in hand. And, which also meant I was being a tad self-absorbed when I made that presumption earlier.

He was recounting an incident to me, my mind yielded to the Middle Ages; I put him in the light of a knight. The nature of his profession required certain chivalrous elements, a heart of empathy and a keen consciousness of serving the less privileged.

The ladies who had worked with him on several projects were enamoured with his chivalrous ways. Being in close contact with him on a daily basis, and tucked away on a little exotic locale or island is less of work and more of romantic inklings. By exotic island I don't mean Sentosa, it is not real, but it takes the crown as drag queen of synthetic islands. Now, I risk the predictable consequences for saying this, but I might have been caught under his spell too, if I were in their shoes. Thus, the phrase Men At Work is actually very sexy.

I've had opportunities of observing men at work on the sly, and the word sexy just overtake their form, without them realising it, and that's the whole point. It is so much more meaningful that way, and close to watching The Making Of Candy Floss. Spun sugar is just another form of sugar, but so much more exciting than a bed of crystallised ones. It is hard to take your eyes off the candy machine, as slowly and surely a larger-than-your-head soft spun sugar becomes pink and fluffy. An eye candy is formed, and the big fluffy pink thing is sent off as a commodity at the circus or fair, for people like me to indulge.

Observing men at work is not a passive activity unlike watching television. So *Seth, may I watch you work while sipping a Pina Colada at whichever exotic locale you would be next? Retrospectively, I don''t blame those ladies.

Note: To make sense out of my title for this note besides the obvious candy floss, *Seth simply takes his iPod very seriously.


*Seth's real name has been changed to protect his identity. The last time when I wrote something along this context, it caused quite a stir among my female friends and some men. Here is the link to the first part of my Dreamboat saga: http://gravely-euphemistic.blogspot.com/2008/10/hello-dreamboat.html

Till the next Dreamboat or Knight.

He thinks Africa is a country and he is fucking wealthy

I can talk the continents with you tonight if you would only let me speak for a moment. But I don't think it is good time yet because dinner is served and before I reach for my chopsticks, I wish to tell you what your talk is all about: your self-admiring voice which sprints from your pipes and found its way past your unattractive lips too much, too soon. And wipe that bit of saliva off before you start talking again and don't stare past the neck down - you can but keep it to three seconds - because it is rude.

Yours is without doubt a monologue. I prefer a dialogue, not with you - hell no - but just someone who understands the dynamics of a conversation between two person or more. A five-year-old has a better grasp of emotional intelligence than you do.

You masticate your sashimi with your mouth open and in the process pulsating saliva at your opposite diner and finally into his beef sukiyaki. There goes the Wagyu beef slices.

Will you shut the fuck up? I didn't think so because your Narcissus syndrome is almost visible as your precarious posture is perched too near by the pond. If you fall into the pond, I can't save you because I forgot how to swim - backstroke is not going to save you either but that's my only offer.

No, don't shut the fuck up because you are still sore over the 450k (or was it billions?) deal that you lost because you placed your business acumen on the wrong continent? Just be quiet, I'm not quite finish yet even if you repeat your 450k and billions because it makes me go to sleep.

Illustrating your shaky geographical sense with such confidence is truly remarkable when the map tells you Australia is also a continent and so is Africa. Are you surprised? Well, I'm not. Yes, I already know Europe is also a continent and no, Africa is not a country. I say, place your next 450k and billions on a continent called China. Yes, it is a continent because you said so earlier and with much conviction: ''The next continent that's going to be richer than the others. China."


*Observation in a Japanese restaurant.
Was seated next to a table with a man - and another man whom barely spoke - who messed with the continents and bragged about his 450k over and over. I wanted very much to use my spoon and flip some of my chawanmushi at him.

Forever and Never and Ever: Love

I was broken into two after the talk under the invisible moon. The moment hangs and it starts to move with every intent to bring me to my knees so I may first crumble, disintegrate and then descends to a place where earth's heart resides - it almost feel like home.

I imagine that feeling with a name, Forever, and in its ephemeral beauty, it Ever happen but Never stays. Blood and tears are Never what it feeds on - only a Gothic folly.

Forever will never be revealed simply because nothing can beat it. However, an imagined Forever could be heard first: a groggy cacophony and it rebounds from the heart, splitting through every vein and artery to attract a Mayhem garbed in burgundy, crimson or sickly pink. And you can only see Forever in the eyes of your lover. Not easy to tread but Never have you witness such terrifying beauty graced with unspeakable pain that, only someone like you would want to possess it.

Love simply and you could end up searching for love again and not yield until you see the one with Forever in his or her eyes and Never would you Ever search again. The pain starts and I hear a cry I haven't heard in months; now it wants to belong to you, Forever and Never and Ever.

Watch out, Love is right behind you.

IT has fucken-techken-our-world but we love IT no matter what.

We live for technology and the meaning of love is slowly slipping away. Technology is our mother, father, friends and sex. It has apportion our lifestyle into a little thumb drive where all our personal data and our idiosyncrasies are stored in a little piece of useful but really, a useless piece of shit. And you and I are both reading this note from this useful piece of shit. The irony.

We bought into the reality of a new unreality and crave for only what is presented before us - like your fancy xxx brand flat screen and the like - without having to move much. Sit down. Let that hardcore piece of hybrid plastic do it for you. Why walk a few more steps when it can do the talking or make up wonderful excuses for you sometimes, so you may feel better and still retain the minty repute of a friend or lover? So much of it has taken over our lives, minds, that we might have quietly step out of our everyday roles to the people we think we care about. But wait, you can always ease your heart by sending a lengthy Short-Message-System and top it up with a Facebook hug, kiss, grope, whatever.

But, it has it's qualities, such as... . No matter, you probably know it better than me.

Irony is The New Love.

An idiot kind of love letter for nobody

Shall we, darling? No, no, don't label me a romantic just yet just because I used terms of endearment now and then. Hardly. So, shall we, darling, take a walk and have a little talk while we walk and hold hands under the waning moon? Maybe yes. Maybe next time. What do you have in mind? Write a song? Look at the stars like an over aged cherub or just write me idiot love songs and not blush when you sing to me. It's all right because I don't even think you would do any one of those romantic things or just plain lazy to even think - you'd rather sleep while watching some nothingness on the television.

You prefer to be a humanoid with celluloid features; a motion picture, moving but unfeeling. Don't be mad at me now. I didn't think it rude at all because I know you know that you can pretend to be sleepy - or dead sometimes - but you can't pretend to be romantic because it would only make you look like some yuppie who has no taste and too little imagination because they mostly speak in a phony accent.

How about singing me the songs you have written? Don't be difficult darling. No, I am not being difficult either, if not I wouldn't have penned this letter just for you.

Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head

Pick out a piece of your mother's blouse, pants or dress. Try it on. If the size disapproves of yours, wrap the piece of garment on your feet and stamp on it. Walk towards her vanity and observe the objects. Reach for the hand held mirror, hold it a finger away from your face and acknowledge the sad reminder. You know you have beautiful eyes. A bunch of make-up pencils are held snugly by a rubber band. A rainbow of colour pots are nestled in a dainty china plate.

There is nothing you couldn't do to make yourself prettier, although you keep on listening, when mother said your supposed prettiness was abducted; when you slipped out of the womb a minute too soon - a preemie.

Mother always purses her lips pale when she looks at you.

Her best silk scarf - a vivid purplish red with black trimmings - you wrap yourself with it. You consider the aftermath. However, you lack the fear of mother these days.

The unsparing disregard for mother stands apparent when you ripped her satin skirt off the hanger and invented your virgin smirk. In the opaque shoe wardrobe which you loathed, is preened with rows of shoes, proud and elegant. Countless of mother's inklings with her slight tone always urges you to putsch her little religion - Vanity.

You hear mother calling you. You coax your smirk back and thread to the hallway where mother stands with her regular nine bags of vanities, this time round, for you. You decide how lucky you are as a seven-year-old.

madness my love

Tell me you love me and I will stop this instant. Madness is lost. Madness is far healthier than normal, healthy. Illustrating madness is to pour OJ in your colleague's - the one you wish would go POOF when you do the snap-snap finger play while you pretend to whistle a tune - mug and drinking from that mug and then do the same thing all over again the next day. You can get away with it because you are the sorry sod who is hating yourself and role-playing yourself everyday, five days a week. Now, that's mad.

It gets hard when you try to stitch your filigree of thoughts into a quilt instead of letting it be - bullet train style, insane auditory rape or art-noise, supersonic speed and a few flying rats and roaches which didn't make it during the technological storm.

So, love me still? Madness has a way of asking you to ask yourself the same inane question without you blushing because your thoughts on love was never there. It is a way of getting attention. Yes, I guess I got mine, finally. Thank you for sharing it with me.