Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Cupid's Drug

Two relationship problems have arisen - one gay and one straight. Both of which were based on unrequited love and affection. Sounds familiar? Well... it's the twenty-first century method of saying "I love you, but not that much". Feels familiar? It's the twenty-first century bass beat for a fuck-and-go rhythm.

But I'm too harsh. The latter did not occur with my friends' relationships. Actually, I wish it did. The problem would have been solved in a heart-beat. I would have adviced my friends to tell their ex-partners to find the tallest building, go to the basement, explode only one part of the supporting structure, and pray very hard that they slowly get crushed. And with that happy picture in mind, I'd ask my friends to take a good dose of Crystal (maybe with a touch of Absinth) and hallucinate their worries away.

Oh no... life's too comedic for that to happen. It's never that simple isn't it? Relationships have to be so complicated that not even 3000 Intel chips combined could solve (and Microsoft thinks its that smart - pft!).

I listened patiently thinking, "What makes me the fucking expert here?!" My relationships aren't exactly in the amour boudoir of cupid's nest. Hell! My relationships aren't even near the rectal area of cupid's fart! I'm that far away from Dr. Phil's chapter on "A successful fag lifestyle" that not even a gay hamster would twitch a whisker in my direction. But still my friends trust my sagacious advice and I make it plaintively clear that they're mad.

Perhaps it is because of their maddening reasons that makes me the perfect person to dispense the necessary poison for them to chuck and regurgitate their angst. I must admit that I am good in dispensing the right kind of alchemical formula. So good that I could make George Bush himself claim stupidity for a day. Now that's a good drug!

And with humility and shame, I admit that I am the drug. I am that benevolently toxic fiend who makes their world spin with perceptive clearness. I am the shadowy supplier of ecstatic thoughts and peaceful slumber. Indeed, I am the rust of twenty-first century machinic embodiment which is the leading cause of communication static.

It is shameful! Oh, I know, I know. My modesty gets the better of me sometimes. But you know what? We crazy people keep the tracks running, the clocks spinning and the backsides shitting. Without incoherent minds to make clear of ambiguity, we would be swimming around the tonsils of a humpback whale and calling it civilisation.

Yeah... I know I'm right. At least till this drug is over.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Dear Players

Dear Players,

I am writing in regards to your insecure and constant need for solipsistic, self-affirmation. I am also writing in regards to your inability to love or in anyway understand the conditions of loving another individual unless it is in the context of an orgy fiesta.

A player is defined under my terms and conditions of affection as: a narcissistic, insecure, emotionally sterile, egotistical son-of-a-whore who has a I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-what-you-feel attitude to everyone except his own mother (but I might be wrong); a player could also be defined as a sly, conniving, lying, half-truth-telling, indeterminate fruit-fly that buzzes around everyone and eats anything that spells 'organ'.

Now, don't get me wrong, I do not have an epistemological or a discursive problem with Players. I mean they can hump their way to the limits of civilisation, just as long as they don't hump my way. I am really, really, really not interested. Actually I find Players quite naturally detestable.

Please be adviced that this is a note of caution. Should you wish to purposefully contravene this warning, I will make sure that what I do to you would be worst than what a thousand flies from the camels of Africa could do within your rectum. If you doubt yourself and think you smell even just a little bit like a Player, please avoid me too. I might get an allegic reaction and poke your eyes.

To those who, like me, are just looking for that one person, or perhaps, a bit of company in the name of friendship, then by all means send your hearts to me. As ephemeral as they might be in this online world, I still appreciate the attention. But if you wish to 'fish' in this (presumably) ample ocean of meat, then you will find me quite inedible and (I hope) poisonous too.

Your attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.

Yours Sincerely,

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Dead Man Writing

Sometimes you stand atop a crest and realise that there is nothing around you except that crest which was built upon the foundation of your own skin and sinew. Waifs come through and waifs go through; wraiths linger on, feed and move on. (Those wraiths... how I hate those god-be-damned wraiths.)

Under the grooves of a silent hymn one could almost hear a mellow vibration; a faint murmur in a temperate tone calling out but three constant beats, "You're stoo-pid." The magnitude of the reverberation shatters the very soul for I am surrounded by nothing and nothing is a lot. It reminds me of my loneliness and the condition of my loneliness. After all, it stands to reason that if one hears a tune long enough, it should be imprinted quite boldly within the psyche. That I realise my stupidity is a good enough start for the new year.

Enough. Why are you so cryptic?

Ah... yes... I over-indulge and explain I shall.

"I shall explain" - you mean. Whatever. Now what's all this nonsense about you standing on your own skin and sinew?

The feeling that one gets in moments of dire idiocy. It feels like I stand above the battlements of war and claim victory but I rest upon my own corpse. This 'war' you are not privy to know. It is internal, inter-personal, and a burden I carry in clandestine.

Fine... Well, is the war over a person? A thing? A context?

The person is the war and the war is sutured in my naivity and idiocy. Do not ask me to explain further. I may only provide a succint justification.

I wish you would be less succinct. Anyway, you said you hated wraiths. What or who are these hell-spawned wraiths?

People who are less than things - beasts, fools and grubs. People who never veil the truth but offer truths that are always half-lies. These un-people feed upon fear, feed upon passion and feed upon spirit. These insatiable fiends find pleasure in one's pleasure until one is a husk and in that emptiness they find the void fuelling a different desire - a desire to fill that space with pain and humiliation. What is worst than hell-spawned? Nothing. Indeed, that is what the wraiths circle within - nothing. And surrounded by nothing I am surrounded by wraiths.

Why aren't you a wraith then?

I am dead. Temporarily, yes, I'm dead. Nothing can't touch me because remember that nothing is a lot and a lot of nothing must be a lot of something yes? Wraiths are no exception. But it's lonely here you know. Very lonely. I wish there was more company of dead men. It would be 'nice'. But it's funny... we never seem to find each other. I wonder why?

So... what's the context of your stu-pi-di-ty?

Isn't it obvious? Why, I'm dead! It is quite remarkably stupid to kill oneself don't you think? To kill emotions, to kill passion, to kill affectivities. Quite remarkably stupid I must say. But then again, if I wasn't dead, I would have never seen these wraiths. Ah... the irony... oh... the irony... could be a song...

That's all right. Last question... You said temporarily dead?

Oh yes, temporarily dead. You know - sleeping beauty, prince charming, kiss on the bloody lips, a shag on the turret after revival. Something like that. But until then, quite happily dead thank you. Quite happy indeed.