When.
syncopate
a stop and a start
tick tock heart;
I.
bite marks
and blood stains
give me a cigarette, please.
Go.
and excoriate
to make sense
of the stillness and
the stasis
of an ever frozen still frame.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
it always turn out to be an anomaly; something told me to learn vicissitude but its the democracy of plurality that is always visible. and yes, follow, catenate, concatenate. and you'll always end up laughing at why everything was cut away so clean.
why is it still a masquerade? would it kill, to take the masque off once in a blood moon and black hole sun? we don't need to bare fangs to know that some things are just as untouchable as shattered stars.
does it hold any true meaning, behind, why it is so cryptic? night whispers shall go into the grave with you if the air only defines inconsequential pedestrian affairs. speak as sharp as light as it rends.
but still the light fails and shimmers into ashes, the masquerade is kept and all of you will still be pretending.
and we are still pretending.
verbatim 5:53 PM
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Thursday, June 23, 2005
it is best that we do not even begin to comment on this sort of thing. let people be exhibitionist. you may disagree in your hearts but that doesn't really matter because your words will never matter to those who deemed it featherweight in the face of the sludge and brimstone of their actions. pardon the expression, but this place is more uptight than a constipated anus. if you put it more poignantly you could say that it is a beautiful prison. sure, we don't have graffiti adorning the streets or the trains and we do not have blatant cretins stealing purses from under your arms. but we traded it off little subculture and abundant lambs leashed off by vogue that they do not understand.
on a lighter note, please get plastic surgery. i know you love flaunting your body, but regrettably the world would very much like to reserve its artistic savourings for something more palatable. you could always start on your nose!
verbatim 12:45 PM
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Tuesday, June 14, 2005
if you listen to corrinne may's "save me" for the 3rd time you will realise that its a song that grows on you. except that its mold.
ms may, if i may be blunt, you simply cannot even begin to compete with lyrical heavy weights like tori amos and damien rice. neither is your vocal enchanting, because its so thick and deep that what comes out is rather throaty to be really earnest. sure, you are a good singer, but really, loopy lyrics and the overtly-deconstructed bridge and then the immediate skipping to the chorus in a higher key is something that 80s and 90s song writers grew out of. i'd thought Berklee taught you better. and i'm trying my very best to remember the best, catchiest line from your song, but all that comes up are snippets of something of sweet something something save me. its somewhat radio-friendly, but its sure like a TV Mobile ad. blink and you'll miss it. and you won't be missing it sorely as well if you actually caught it.
its rather a pity that the song you released as a single is poor, because there are genuinely some good lyrics that you had written for the other songs. i don't know about the sound though, i've never heard them all really. but if first impressions are anything to go by i'd predict that you would continue to produce albums for a little while but you'd probably get nowhere and then get really tired of the indie scene (not that you are indie enough anyway because you sound too mainstream) and then go into a soporific semi-retirement state of teaching music to snobbish fat kids who stained your piano and guitars with their grubby digits, or teaching literature to an assortment of unimaginative wooden secondary kids-happy-zombies in Singapore.
its just too bad that you aren't really talented enough. but its ok, maybe your kids might do a little better. then again you can flip open the Life secion of Straits Times and you will understand that it will be at least 20 years before the there is enough subculture to groom good artistes.
verbatim 12:42 PM
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Monday, June 13, 2005
bad singaporean poetry.
its bad enough we have american english and spanglish and the much abhorred adored singlish. and thanks to gaston who showed me this horrible book of poetry by GRACE CHIA or CHUA (doesn't matter they both sound the same like a soporific blah) i never want to be a singaporean ever ever.
Consider this:
I Like BIG BOOBs
B
U
T
I dunnnnnow Why??
T
H
E
Y
Said.
I
Was
A
GIRL.
maybe i'm not the best mimic but u get the picture. so understated! so deconstructed! so simple, yet profound! *gasps* *bloodless hands* *faints*
i seemed unable to get rid of this image of breast-bound unsexable cherries tearing at pages and pages of script and attempted poetry drowning in their tears of agony-lonely-baloney and the whirr of their vibrators.
oh, absalom, absalom! ruin be upon thy blighted hands! your sons be put to the sword at thy enemies, your daughters be carried off by the enemies and made to play with bad poetry and vibrators.
oh, get a damn life.
verbatim 11:41 AM
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Saturday, June 11, 2005
how does one even begin to
speak the thoughts in your mind
when all i saw was
a flashback of still frames
that played in a circle
to this infernal tune
that spoke for nothing
except that
the pictures were pretty beautiful.
verbatim 12:50 AM
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Monday, June 06, 2005
change one thing, change everything.
but yet as a cycle, metamorphosis comes full circle.
the alliance in defiance that had caused the seed to burst out of its womb had long gone since then; the seed, as it shall, will take root and fashion an armour for sleep. and as the sleeper goes, a juncture awaits where to cocoon bursts and gossamer manifestations take flight.
a flap of butterfly wings can create a tropical storm.
a flicker of shadows can create a private war.
verbatim 11:20 PM
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l'effet de papillon.
arrêtez le début. je vous mettrai par les pas. vous tisserez, vous développerez, et prendrez le vol en matin couvert de rosée.
une tache floue chromatique. dans la joie grandiloquente et splendide. mais, arrêt d'arrêt vous avez un coeur de chronomètre. vous avez essayé de commencer, mais vous vous êtes arrêté.
quelqu'un d'autre prendra vos ailes très légères.