Tranquilizer!
A white water rapid that shivers its way through the saliva and reaches all nerve ends in a swift tingling sensation. It rolls on in mouth, soft, mashed...accentuated cheek hollows sucking on every fresh icy moment not wanting it to dissolve but only when it does do you get that darned absolutely scintillating taste of fresh ice.
Mint. It’s like porn. It gets you off slowly, it builds up, you want it to prolong but it’s got a mind of its own. It decides when it’s going to vanish off the roof of your mouth and leave you sucking in air, de mint hangover –lisped noises like uncouth slurpy soup ladler till you’ve exhausted the last draught of cool air.
Weirdly they say an overdose of mint can kill your potency but it’s so sexy! It’s like wet sex on beach…soft, cool, hot…that’s mint. Devil’s fire…tantalizing. Dunno what to call it…it is such a mind-blowing flavour, especially with chocolate.
'Buzz' maybe cause it really does give a high. Or maybe 'Jezebel'…mint’s like her you could say. Or maybe just dot…the symbol dot…cause it puts a period on all other senses, everything is focused on making it last, on dwellin in it.
It’s like that line on Jack Daniels in the movie Scent of a woman…dialogue goes something on the lines of
Get me a John Daniels.
Uh you mean Jack Daniels.
He maybe Jack to you son, but when you’ve known him as long as I have, he shall taste the same.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Can a cookie aspire to be a renegade?
Mmmm it’s a lil soggy in the center…kinda chewy and doughy…crumbly crisp all around…sweet. Soft tongue lapping about amidst the 32…that’s what a half-baked cookie =
Do half-baked cookies make the display? Do half-baked cookies gel with the palate? No. Half-baked cookies are for the taster, to be chewed well and dismissed and dispensed…a watery turnout…out with a sputter.
Well, I got time to rhyme so…aside *How on @#$%^& earth?!*
Gingerbread boy was a hero. Hmmm…but then of course tis just fantasy. Half-baked is subjective.
Would it be termed defensive to fantasize that there is an Island as in Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ for the queer ones, the ones out of line, the ones who ‘think’. Or that ‘half-bakeds’ are in fact a highly intelligent species grappling with myriad things and non-things just cause they got a humongous appetite to do so. Sounds a wee bit like schizos (?) Or is this all just escapism? Or is it assertion of individuality?
Or maybe I’m blowing it out of proportion cause the half-bakedness I’m referring to is pockmarked…has craters of indiscipline, lack of focus, fragmented drive, dreams, muddled assumptions of means and ends (maybe, maybe not), irresponsibility, impulses, fear, insecurities…man the amount of words that start with the letter ‘I’!
Maybe Time will tell. Maybe it’s still in the oven. Maybe the electricity just went kaput…maybe it will be back in 5 minutes and it will go on baking till it’s brown and brittle in the centre. But till then, if a half-baked cookie = tongue among the 32, it’s definitely something to reckon with. Maybe the next will be Jack-of-all-trades.
Amateur baker! Stick a fork in and check it out! If baked (gradations vary…maybe this one’s a chocolate chip) then fucking be.
Mmmm it’s a lil soggy in the center…kinda chewy and doughy…crumbly crisp all around…sweet. Soft tongue lapping about amidst the 32…that’s what a half-baked cookie =
Do half-baked cookies make the display? Do half-baked cookies gel with the palate? No. Half-baked cookies are for the taster, to be chewed well and dismissed and dispensed…a watery turnout…out with a sputter.
Well, I got time to rhyme so…aside *How on @#$%^& earth?!*
Gingerbread boy was a hero. Hmmm…but then of course tis just fantasy. Half-baked is subjective.
Would it be termed defensive to fantasize that there is an Island as in Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ for the queer ones, the ones out of line, the ones who ‘think’. Or that ‘half-bakeds’ are in fact a highly intelligent species grappling with myriad things and non-things just cause they got a humongous appetite to do so. Sounds a wee bit like schizos (?) Or is this all just escapism? Or is it assertion of individuality?
Or maybe I’m blowing it out of proportion cause the half-bakedness I’m referring to is pockmarked…has craters of indiscipline, lack of focus, fragmented drive, dreams, muddled assumptions of means and ends (maybe, maybe not), irresponsibility, impulses, fear, insecurities…man the amount of words that start with the letter ‘I’!
Maybe Time will tell. Maybe it’s still in the oven. Maybe the electricity just went kaput…maybe it will be back in 5 minutes and it will go on baking till it’s brown and brittle in the centre. But till then, if a half-baked cookie = tongue among the 32, it’s definitely something to reckon with. Maybe the next will be Jack-of-all-trades.
Amateur baker! Stick a fork in and check it out! If baked (gradations vary…maybe this one’s a chocolate chip) then fucking be.
Friday, December 09, 2005
!KcoT!KciT
I don’t understand patience. Patience, I believe is a word used in retrospect. You gotta run! Run! Get the marathon over with, reach the finish line, burn your lungs. Of course no one told you to sit on your ass. But no one said that they would understand your patience either. Patience can be acknowledged, understood, given space for only when it’s over with. Its usage is determined by convenience...after you're done shooting across fire.
When you’re pumping adrenaline, breathing hard, sweat trickling down steady you don’t want to think gosh! It’s far!. It’s a similar mechanism that doesn’t want me to believe or acknowledge what I’m saying...anything not to induce the feeling that time is running by or maybe even running out.
Sexist upbringing leaves you with certain sensations and notions. Well, I really can't freaking clamp my legs together just cause i'm female and maybe it helps accentuate curves and yes i got nothing in between but i still can't so lay off! Born female there’s a posture, colours, design, interests impinged upon. Choice comes much later, especially if you get lucky to figure out the unsaid, that we are in fact persons.
So what I’m up against is a sexist attitude at every turn, which is escalating, as I’m 22, a campaign that has to be cracked by tomorrow morning, a whole gamut of emotions cause I just don’t know what the fuck I mean to him and left with expectations as low as ‘can you please not bark at me’, that others are zipping by to Sao Paulo and I’m having issues with getting to Thiruchirapalli, that now all I want to do is sit down with The Mahavishnu Orchestra and discover ‘the unknown thought’ and meditate on relevance, Pearls before swine taunting me, my insipid gray marshmallow teetering on a rounded bottom of extremes, and oh yes the blasted weather that’s all gray too. Where the fuck is the time for patience!
Patience is privileged.
I don’t understand patience. Patience, I believe is a word used in retrospect. You gotta run! Run! Get the marathon over with, reach the finish line, burn your lungs. Of course no one told you to sit on your ass. But no one said that they would understand your patience either. Patience can be acknowledged, understood, given space for only when it’s over with. Its usage is determined by convenience...after you're done shooting across fire.
When you’re pumping adrenaline, breathing hard, sweat trickling down steady you don’t want to think gosh! It’s far!. It’s a similar mechanism that doesn’t want me to believe or acknowledge what I’m saying...anything not to induce the feeling that time is running by or maybe even running out.
Sexist upbringing leaves you with certain sensations and notions. Well, I really can't freaking clamp my legs together just cause i'm female and maybe it helps accentuate curves and yes i got nothing in between but i still can't so lay off! Born female there’s a posture, colours, design, interests impinged upon. Choice comes much later, especially if you get lucky to figure out the unsaid, that we are in fact persons.
So what I’m up against is a sexist attitude at every turn, which is escalating, as I’m 22, a campaign that has to be cracked by tomorrow morning, a whole gamut of emotions cause I just don’t know what the fuck I mean to him and left with expectations as low as ‘can you please not bark at me’, that others are zipping by to Sao Paulo and I’m having issues with getting to Thiruchirapalli, that now all I want to do is sit down with The Mahavishnu Orchestra and discover ‘the unknown thought’ and meditate on relevance, Pearls before swine taunting me, my insipid gray marshmallow teetering on a rounded bottom of extremes, and oh yes the blasted weather that’s all gray too. Where the fuck is the time for patience!
Patience is privileged.
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