Wastepost

In the desert there existed a grain of sand. It was just an ordinary grain of sand, although it may have been slightly priviledged because it had the luck to be situated on the top layer of the ground; enjoying the assorted benefits of being able to roll around the endless expanse of the desert both in the gentle evening breeze and in the wild desert sandstorm; something hugely enjoyable.

It considered itself a grain of sand of the world. An intellectual grain of sand, but its peers often thought it was slightly presumtuous in this regard. A grain of sand was a grain of sand. And in the desert all you saw was other grains of sand or the stars anyway. The latter depended on whether you were on the top layer or not. But eventually, arguably, every grain of said got a chance to stay on top.

Its elders thought it naive, and quietly listened to its boasting without saying much. They considered themselves wiser, of course. And the young grain of sand resented this. But it pretended it didn't care, bacause that's how it rolled.

It saw in its elders a reflection of itself as seen by its peers. And it saw in its peers a reflection of itself as seen by its elders. It chilled out a bit on top of a freshly formed dune. Thinking about this.

Analogy and Feathers

Green sparks! greaan sparks revolted in the red fire. they amulgamated and formed little flames of their own. They had been hiding in the tiny metal substrate the secret ingredient; the exotic dense substance that had missed the attention of the destroyer class disposal unit sent from the Establishment.

Kangaroos flew into the mind in billowing cloaks liened with regard into the flaming pew stickers in the renaissance of the decaprio saga. The giselle bunchens and other assorted lingerie models not withstanding the gossip of the amazonian pshycopaths, the egyptian druglords and american jailbirds.

but reclaiming land has always been a reconnoitering mission of serious psokage that has embittered the masses against the would be devils of the landlords. liberalist ideals have formulated the basis for the spawn of animated cartoons to disintergrate into remorseless interpretations of Sexual Man.

B ol cols trembling old a controlled attempt a ontrolled shally wally bang bang bang of dispropotionate. A metaphor released into a vacuum that was the test. an analogy released into a singular universe it ceased to exist but what is an analogy but something dependent on something else?

I am an analogy an analogy of you him them. You are an analogy an analogy of me her him. We are analogies floating on each others whim, we will not survive in vacuums.

we will not survive we are dependent i am dependent on  you ? on you? it pisses me off but i am forced to admit i am dependent on you are dependent on me? it may piss you off but force to admit that you are are are depended on me. convolution be damned this is a scenario a problem of perception we must solve this.

The messed up cases

She didnt tell me that she liked her little boys. I wasn't angry cos i didn't hav a choice. Had i had a choice; it was too armorous, her voice.

She seduced me with a tiny little gleam; deep inside her dark brown eyes, but to me it passed unseen. Had i had a choice; i would have saved myself, had i wondered; wondered...

Never before had the waterfall stopped falling, never in history was the cliff top so unseen. And as the sea went on from horizon to horizon; i passed by in my black ship with sails torn and mast destroyed.

Disguised, protected beneath a veneer of broken flesh; Lest the siren see me once again and tempt me to her warm cold lonely breasts.

Gangsta Rippin'

Many people have called me a 'poet'. And by many i mean about five. Many others have dismissed my 'poetry' as meaningless and many have meaninglessly referred to it as 'deep'. Still, many have speculated on the origins of my lyrical brilliance. Truth is it could be any one of the following.

1. Aliens implanting test chip in brain.
2. Accident involving Milton's Paradise Lost and a slippery floor. book ending up embedding itself in brain as a pshychological snapshot that morphed into a life of its own.

But i actually started off my 'career' writing gangsta rap when i was fourteen. And probably owe most of my poetic brilliance slash lameness to Eminem. That boisterous white boy who showed me how to be black and proud of it biatch! I wrote:

yo!
yo yo yo!
my words are like a death toll
i make the nay saying bastards' heads roll
an apostrophy lost
my grammer is like pus
seeping through the wounds of my broken english
but i dont let it stop me i get stronger with it
yeah im a wordsmith, with a mcahine gun
i scare your pants off and i make you run
i make you scream and want to find your mum
i'll make your m**** F***in bleed from your ears son

Im a gangsta rapper
with the shock treatment unit
its me agianst the world baby

I ain got no regrets
this is a battlefield
and i slip and slide like James Bond on speed

Yeah..Uh huh..

Or Something similar..

Pretty soon, my gangsta walk and gangsta talk garnered me a lot of attention. And nick names. And there was that unfortunate incident where i was adding a bit of color to the national anthem during assembly and this guy laughed his head off and gave me away to a prefect, who then proceeded to yell at me very loudly. for a long time afterwards.

never liked them, prefects.

But not everybody was a playa hater. I had a few fellow artistes in my crew see. Although only one of them was a fellow rapper (most of the others used to sing Westlife) and him and me eventually formed this band called the Shock Treatment Unit.

A few performances on stage are also to my credit, as are a few audiences of bemused people. Although i never got a chance to actually really get down to some cold hard gangsta rap on stage. A pity.

Anyways, my gangsta rappin days are behind me, i hear you breath a sigh of relief, and an era of rhymes simply followed. Followed by a few kind people who felt my work was worthy a compliment or two. I kept writing more because of them and have found that a lot of interesting things that mostly take place in my head and would be inexplicable in plain everyday descriptive language can be expressed quite accurately in the throes of a few jumbled words.

And when i write stuff like;

A dead poem breathed new life into a vacuum with its last breaths
it created pulses in the air with its dying heartbeats
the pulses became butterflies and created storms in far off places
changing many landscapes and changing many faces
the dying cries of the poem lost itself in the screaming wind
for now the storm of his heartbeats had come back to him
and he passed in peace within the matters of his own doing.
What more can a poem ask but immortality in the act of dying?

Sometimes even i can't figure out exactly what i mean.

My Luminous Skull

A doodle on a notebook. scanned and played around with on PhotoShop. Result of an awesomely lazy tuesday evening. Click to enlarge.

Letting go of the urge to fight. Instead; Write!

Write till the end of light, write for the hypocrite

Write for the bright, the shady and the right

Stop to fight, but do not forget to write!

Keep writing till the lines being written have been lost out of sight

As my luminous skull glows eerily in the night

All i feel is the urge to release, let go, and write!

A Brief Note on Surrealism

Surrealism: a movement that rejected rationality, a movement that advocates the use of a free mind, a movement that recognized the limitations of human knowledge and experience and a movement that realized that to live within these limitations was to live in a constant state of social desrepair.



Surrealism is an ‘ongoing social revolution’ its advocation of imagination and free unreigned thought inspired many of the movements’ members to produce some great works of art, which has caused the term ‘surrealism’ to be mainly associated with the art world. But let us not be mistaken, surrealism is very much a socio political movement and a philosophy in itself.



It's artwork though, is quite beautiful and the Surrealist artists were a bunch who (like the movement did to existing socio political conventions) scorned commonly held beliefs and customs in the world of art. Their works represented the very essence of surrealism and is an aid to anyone attempting to understand the movement and a gateway to the cosmos of the imagination.



Here are a few (printed without permission), they are extremely erm, surreal im sure you will agree. I'l be glad to hear you thoughts on surrealism or anything else related to this post. i am still an early student of the movement and would love some input!

Ange du Foyeur by Max Ernst

Automatic Drawing by Andre Masson

The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali

The Red Tower by Giorgio de Chirico

"There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad.” Salvador Dalí