Headless Chicken

I'm back!!!

2010-04-14T13:48:00.002+08:00

Ok, what...it's been like 2 years.

Posted out Deathrow High to some international authors, movie makers and their agents. Hope to have exciting things to blog bout soon.

Writing keeps me happy.

The Hopeless Politician And The Technological Singularity

2008-03-10T16:46:00.003+08:00

I swore to myself that there will be nothing of a political nature in Headless Chicken, but I guess with all that hype going about with the “shocking” results, I ended up commenting on my friends’ blog and article. As such I shall thus still remain true to my word (making me a hopeless politician) and if yer interested in my two cents worth you can visit http://g-e-r-g-a-s-i.blogspot.com/2008/03/left-is-new-right.html#comments and http://thecicak.com/why-im-voting-why-we-need-to-fix-the-flaws-in-the-system/

Mainly I said in those comments that the Internet was a major factor in influencing the results. This got me ticking how much cyberspace is shaping our future. Sure we know about all those social networking sites, and I’ve read countless articles on how a digital society can manipulate real life events, but to witness it in our own backyard and at such a large scale truly amazes me how powerful the World Wide Web can be.

Indeed everything is going online, a brooding giant breathes behind the computer screen ready to strike. It raises its view and decision, and this has profound impact on politics, businesses as well as the economy and judicial systems and society at large.

I like the idea of having our own place in virtual space. It’s like owning your own universe where you can invite friends to be a part – a growing community where bits and pieces of our self are in everyone else. And as computing power accelerates I wonder how much more is ahead. Can we create our own Matrix? Each person possessing his or her ideal state - be it narcissistic, romantic, mythical or scientific. And we don’t go in to a site just to read, watch and listen, we also taste, smell and feel. We absorb in to the URL, and in 3-dimensional fashion socialize with avatars amidst virtual architecture, magical pets and alien flora.

And when one day this becomes a reality, what becomes of society? We are already escaping in to an electronic lifestyle, will we now immerse in it? Will we find the digital more appealing than the natural? And when we can, will we choose to live in it instead? Will we even interact? Preferring to commune with our own creations because they both compliment and complement us. Who will we be?

Thus ultimately, this takes us to the theory of Singularity http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technological_singularity proposed by scientists like Raymond Kurzweil http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Kurzweil http://www.kurzweilai.net/ and Vernor Vinge. The Singularity is a point in the future when technological advancements supersede human intelligence, and as such mankind is joined to machines becoming a new hybrid species, first as individual AIs that can merge and separate at will, take diverse forms and switch between the physical and digital and later transcending to a collective consciousness taking over the universe, converting “dumb” matter (rocks, gas etc) to intelligent stuff, and finally interacting beyond outer space.

I repeat then, “Who will we be?” Our individual person is so important to us; can we still then ever be unique? Can we maintain our individualism and yet be a collective consciousness? I think so; we have demonstrated it in our recent election. All distinct human beings possessing the same voice. Though we long to be different we choose to be the same.

So, how the hell did I get from the 2008 Malaysian election to the sci-fi theory of Singularity? Some workings of my mind I cannot compute, but whatever it is, from here and now with the swearing in of new powers to the transformation of mankind to his divine state I hope we can accommodate our different agendas peacefully.

Monday Morning Glory On A Thursday

2008-03-06T16:26:00.001+08:00

I stumbled upon a gem in Jusco IOI Mall over the weekend in the form of Woo Ming Jin’s Monday Morning Glory, a Malaysian movie about terrorism. The day before I had just witnessed Vantage Point (another terrorist film…by Hollywood none other this time) and I have to say that even without the glitz and glamour of an illustrious production our local fare captured me more. The 8 Vantage Points of a single assassination and bombing event got me yawning halfway thru.

As for Monday Morning Glory otherwise known as Lampu Merah Mati, I wonder how many Malaysians have heard of it? If you ever catch it look out for the part bout McDs and other fast food chains…that was my fave. Got me laughing. (I always have this thing about not supporting corporate America but fail miserably). And I like the Chief Inspector’s (played by Patrick Teoh) dry remarks when answering journalists on police brutality.

The film does not take sides. Both parties have faults, it just re-enacts an event. You don’t really get to know the characters well, but a good question to ask is whether we actually know what the hell we are doing when we take actions on Planet Earth.

Deathrow High (Chapter 1)

2008-03-04T12:50:00.001+08:00

This tale is about life, it mirrors everyday existence. If it’s a budgeted movie shot on video cam, you’ll get to pick up the hum of noises while filming. Therefore, don’t expect any highflying explosive effects or outlandish costumes; only be entertained by the mundane routine of reality.
Also, don’t be bothered by the guy in prison. You’ll never know why he’s in there in the first place. He’s just sitting in the shadows, allowing the dim light to flood through his soul until a contrast that highlights his mouth but camouflages his eyes appear to become two pitiless sunken sockets staring outward. Only his hand stuck forward in the light, holding a cigarette between fingers.
Frank sits silent. The smoke twirling off the fag mesmerises me. It looks like a serpent slowly uncoiling in to the skies. But fate has it that it’ll only be swallowed by the dark night.
“Emptiness is nothing you can share.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just singing to myself. Sugar Ray, Falls Apart I think.
“I remember…”
“Runaway, runaway la la la la la…o’ what the fuck.”

I’m visiting Frankie in his cell. I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m a nice guy and the warden likes me. I bring gifts, and besides, Frank needs company. He’s on death row, and perhaps someone in the inside has a soft heart toward dying men…I dunno.

Sometimes, men can be in the same room without saying a word. We don’t have that need to talk, unlike women…cos we’ve got nothing to say! Frankie can just sit there in his little own dark corner smoking a fag and I’ll sit down at the opposite end looking at him fag away.
But suddenly he started to cry. It wasn’t much initially, just a tear that streamed down his cheek like a shooting star crashing out of the shadows of outer space. Then another, then another…soon I heard a sob crackling from his throat…then another.
And to my horror, he began to growl. Gurgling sounds like those of persons smitten by sorrow. Eventually it got louder until it resembled cats screaming in the middle of the night behind alleyways. I was standing erect by then…lost…
The guards, alerted, came running to see, but they look more like fancy to me, like the way people slow down to stare at accidents on the road. Frankie keeled over in howls, mucus hanging precariously from his nostrils a foot down and I remember this war movie: A British soldier about to be beheaded by the Japs had the same facade as he, only that it was drool on that poor chappy that defied the laws of gravity.

To the guards I must have looked like a Messiah where a sinful man implores for forgiveness by clinging to my trousers and wiping his nose on it…

Old by Esther

2008-03-04T12:42:00.009+08:00

yes i am old.

like how old wine has refined tastes

and delectable textures

like how old t-shirts make you feel comfortable

enough to fall asleep in

like how old sneakers are your best footwear

cos they've moulded to the shape of your feet

like how old songs are fun to sing to

because they bring back a flood of

pleasant emotions and memories

that make you smile

like how old diaries yellowed with age

remind you of old school crushes and

loves won and lost

like how old friends are the best of friends

because inspite of all the rottenness they've seen

they chose to see how beautiful you are

and love you just the same

Its good being old.

I like the part bout the old t-shirts and sneakers (and of course the friends lah). Never wanted to wear anything new when I was a kid, not very keen bout it now too. As for the sneakers, I had a Fila pair once. Holes in the soles, and my solution rather than dispose of them were to duct tape the bottom. My shoes are an inspiration; just ask Esther bout it in her poem.

Yasmin Rocks!

2008-02-29T16:26:00.002+08:00

I had the pleasure of meeting Yasmin Ahmad recently. Her eyes sparkle with observation, her tongue with inspiration. Something she said stabs me. In describing her favourite film Tora-san, Our Beloved Tramp by Yoji Yamada in her blog http://yasminthestoryteller.blogspot.com/ she states “Notice that there was no real big event occurring in the film. No wars, no murders, no deaths, no alien invasion. Just regular folks with regular problems. But in the end, you care deeply about each person's problem as if it was your own.” She also quotes John Webster, “It's easy to be sensational. Just walk around with your zipper down and you'll be sensational. But genius is when you can be sensational with your zipper up.” I admit I often walk with my zipper down. Most storytellers do. We resort to some kind of drama. Not necessarily anything cataclysmic, but even everybody’s hot topic love is dramatic. How often do we fall in love? As such, how do you tell a compelling tale in the day of a life? Wake up, go to work, come back, kiss the wife and kids and then sleep. Only a master storyteller can pull this off.

So, I have a new goal. To do a tale about nothing. Ideally it’ll be a movie as nothingness is harder to portray with visuals. In spite of our mundane routine, what goes on in our head is always exciting – scandals, murders and super beings – and as such a book does not invigorate me. Novels are the dramas of the mind.

God willing, fingers crossed, I’ll be able to come up with a story. All inspiration exists. Nothing is original. We just reach out to grab it. Meanwhile, I’ll still walk with my zippers down.

I Am Me

2008-02-29T14:12:00.000+08:00

Here’s something written by the babe Esther Lim. Inspired by the Greek legend of Narcissus, the story is the product of her acting class’ brainstorm session, but the words are totally hers.

A barren landscape. A deep, dark, stagnant, bitter pond. This is all that’s left.

All it can do now is dream. Dream of the past that was once pleasant and beautiful.

You see, the pond didn’t always look this dark and bitter, it was once beautiful. It was once rich with the source of life; it once reflected the beauty of a young man who had undeniable good looks. This young man came by the pond every day to look at his reflection. In that reflection the man saw perfection, flawless beauty, and that made him happy. It made him vain and proud. Day after day he would return to the pond and stare at his reflection long and hard. One day, as the man knelt at the edge of the pond he slipped and drowned.

The pond became depressed and felt an acute sense of lost, not because it loved the young man, but because it could no longer see itself being reflected in the young man’s eyes. It could no longer see how beautiful or happy or sad it was. The pond’s sense of identity died together with the young man. The pond felt a deep sense of sorrow as it reflected on the many ways it could have prevented the young man’s death.

Had he been the trees that grew by the banks of the pond, the young man could have held on to its branches or roots to save him from falling to his death. Had he been a tree, he would have protected the man.

Had he been a bird he could have swooped down and carried the young man to safety as he was falling into the pond.

Had he been a flower he would have emitted scents so sweet that the man would have been distracted from starting too intently at his reflection.

The pond is none of these things however. He isn’t the tree or the flowers that grow by the banks of the pond; neither is he the bird that flies by for a visit. As the pond reflects on these things, it grows angry and bitter. After months of nursing angry, bitter thoughts the pond turns dark and poisonous. Once a source of life to the trees and flowers that grew by the banks of the river, it now spews out bitter poison killing everything that was ever beautiful.

Now the pond is left in a barren wasteland. Alone and friendless.

All it can do now is dream. Dream of the past that was once pleasant and beautiful.

Elizabeth Amber

2008-02-25T18:26:00.000+08:00

Elizabeth Amber sat transfixed by the window of her cottage. Children played in the garden outside. She has a good life. Munching in to her cheesecake, everyday at least one since her migration to the UK. Elizabeth loves Jane Austen, that entire epoch actually. She wears a bonnet, the costumes of that time, whenever she strolls and takes Pup (her Golden Retriever) out for a walk. Some kids and teens make fun of her, some insensitive adults too, but she’s unbothered. She’s happy.

Elizabeth had come a long way, a high flying career in modelling, everyman’s number 1 wet dream, money like free champagne. But she’d given it all up. At the time of her peak some more. Sensationalism. All the world is after is a new sensation. After the old one is gone, vapour in a few months…weeks even. Where was the certainty? Where was truth?

Elizabeth rather withdrew. To a quiet town, a quiet village, but the modern world was everywhere. Coke, Sony, IBM, brand names at all corners, products she’d helped to sell. Entirely unreal, compulsively choking, that’s why she’d resorted to organic vegetables planted in her own backyard. Rear and slaughter pigs instead, keep chickens for eggs. Very self-sustaining, a close circuit.

Town folk called her a waste. No one understood her “irrational” decision to throw away fame. They mocked her, blasted her insane. And for a while the media crowded around, breaking for an interview, to report on her odd behaviour, feeding the consumer’s stomach for news and hearsay. But soon they got bored and then they allowed her to do her thing, went searching for the next big thing.

She was only 29 when she ran away, when she built this cottage to live a recluse’s life. But not exactly a hermit cos I was with her.

Elizabeth Amber,

How I love you. I am a simpleton, the village idiot. You showed love when all others poked, you cared when they scorned. They said I talk funny. It was a grainy afternoon, grey with rain. I was beaten up by thugs, scarred, left to suffer in a playground from the night before. Housewives passed, gentlemen take this way as a shortcut to work, even two priests flocked along with their black robes. No one bothered.

Until you, until you came in your funny clothes. For a while I thought I’d died and heaven was an 18th century gentry. But you picked me up, supported my drawling weight with your shoulders. To clean me you first had to get dirty with me. Tended to me and finally healed me.

I am forever indebted to you. I serve you. This is the way to live, basking in simplistic beauty unperturbed by the dissonant and discord of the world.

Elizabeth Amber sat transfixed by the window of her cottage. Children played in the garden outside. She sips tea; we are a billion light years away from Earth, orbiting a nebula galaxy, and I approached to hug her tenderly.

Deathrow Star

2008-02-20T20:23:00.001+08:00

Heh, below is a review of Deathrow High on the Star. Not very complimentary I know but what the heck. You decide.

IN this novel, the narrator sets out to prove that there really is nothing but sex on a man’s mind. He also attempts to tell the story of Frank, who was once his idol but whom he now despises. Frank is on death row for “grotesque handiwork against the laws of society” and requests to see his wife before his life ends. Should a soon-to-be-dead man, no matter how much of a monster he is, be denied his last wish?

http://www.thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2007/12/14/lifebookshelf/19761276&sec=lifebookshelf

The Smell of Hell

2008-02-13T15:03:00.002+08:00

Gong Xi Fa Cai for me was movies and movies and more movies. Overload I’ll say. To the point it’s depressing…but that’s me anyway, always depressed after a good show. Spoken like a true melancholic. New Year resolution: not more than 2 good movies a week. Need time to digest. The 2 that stood out, in which my system is still extracting juices of inspiration, are Tom Tykwer’s Perfume: the Story of a Murderer based on Patrick Suskind’s novel and Hiroki Yamaguchi’s Hellavator.

I heard Stanley Kubrick mentioned Perfume was unfilmable. But it made me appreciate my nose more. I now think it is the most intimate of senses, more powerful than sight or sound or even taste and touch. It’s the sense that allows you to really get to know someone. A familiar scent wafts up memories, much more powerful than photographs can do. It makes you flutter or vomit. But an acute nostril absorbs beauty from everythng. Now I gotta get the book.

Hellavator proves a low budget production can be compelling. Google it up and you will not find much of anything. Very Manga in style, very Japanese, and since I am no movie critic, I will say no more. Which reminds me, I’m filming my first short film with some friends. Long way to go, lots to learn, I hope to make movies one day.

Of Sadists and Monsters

2008-01-25T14:19:00.000+08:00

Another week has come and gone, and I should be flaying myself. Except for two miserable paragraphs, progress on Dreamstate (my current novel) is pacing like a tortoise. What’s exciting so far? Cloverfield. One of the bestest movies I’ve seen. Up there with Hostel as long as I’m concerned.

Hostel sowed the movie making bug in me, and Cloverfield actually got me to write my 1st screenplay. Short 10 minute thingy only. Hope to film it after Chinese New Year.

So, things aren’t that unproductive after all.

Dreamstate is calling…

Perfect 10

2008-01-17T17:28:00.000+08:00

When I clicked the phone down, a cloud of despair engulfed me. I sat by the table and envisioned a storm brewing above my temple. Brewing made me think of beer, I wanted one. The tempest was already kicking a storm; the dark gathering of rain molested my sanity. Opening the fridge, soon a bottle was up my mouth as if I was hooked to IV drips. Felt like a fucking zombie.

She told me she loved me, but she had to leave. I didn’t get it. There was another guy, but she’d stopped sleeping with him. It was only after she’d dumped that motherfucker that she said she needed a break. Go travelling, visit Nepal maybe, climb the Himalayas, or India searching for some spiritual release. She had to find herself.

I thought she found herself with me. We were a perfect pair. She was my soul mate, we did everything together. That was the best year of my life. The first time we made love I felt a fizzing in my brain cells similar to the popping of the cork of champagne. A unity waltzed round us, and with my being encapsulated in hers, Jocie’s soul snuggled in the pores of my satiated skin.

Life was a harmonious symphony, all the instruments playing their parts perfectly, and the music was glorious. We were a chronograph wristwatch worn by God that was aligned to the rotation of the cosmos. Yin and Yang, light and day, she was obese and I was a malnourished scarecrow, together we were 1O. Perfect opposites complementing each other.

How could it end? There were no signs of decay. We were intimate one day, and separated the next. A surprise that caught me. It got me rationalizing, how she’d kept it secret from me. I wonder how long it’d been brooding inside, this feeling of inadequacy spreading like cancer in her; a wildfire, causing her to an affair, breaking that other man’s heart, and now mine.

Was she worth it?

We met again, many years later. I was married with two kids, she was too with four. She runs a restaurant. Her own. She tells me she regrets, we were meant for each other. Her hubby is insane. I say to her, “Love is the same woman with a different face.” She cocked her head. I rephrased, “Love is the same woman in a different dress.”

“Does this mean we still have a chance?” Jocie asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know,” I mentioned again. Indecisive as always. I don’t have a backbone. Women made decisions. I sat back and enjoyed.
She reached over to kiss me, cajoled me in to her lard.

In post-coitus talk I found out she never made it to Nepal or India. Never left Malaysia. That pissed me. Hurt me to know she’d dumped me for no reason. She’d not found herself, all that enlightenment bullshit, she never actually bothered. She just sat in front of the idiot box after the break-up, munching junk-food accompanied by romance junkyard TV.

I went home, she wanted to meet again. I was non-committal. For once I felt I was doing something right with my life. As I entered the door to my home, I seduced my wife; a dozen red roses, sexy-bath, a romantic massage and scented candles for the perfect aroma. Our two boys were asleep. We made the third.

Imitation Sin

2008-01-16T15:26:00.000+08:00

I don’t believe in sin. It’s not that I don’t want to; I can’t. There’s more good than evil in mankind, more capacity to do what’s right. Problem is we keep focusing on the negative. Looking to the past rather than the future. Well it’s not that we don’t screw up, we do, often, but that’s just life.

Born condemned to hell…c’mon, how much more pessimistic can we get. That’s why life sucks for many even after we’re “saved.” (Can we then call ourselves saved in the first place?)

You say, “you don’t need to teach a child to lie,” but we know inherently what’s right, what’s hurt and pain, cos we felt it when we were young, and old, and we don’t want it. We don’t want others to be tortured by it too.

What about the atrocities in the world? Not sin but bull headed view points. I’m right, yer wrong. Or mental illnesses, a bad childhood, a vicious cycle, a downward spiral. And at the core…our faith in Original Sin.

What if it wasn’t there…?

Why I don’t like politics

2008-01-15T16:31:00.000+08:00

Because it reminds me too much of religion. In fact throughout centuries they’ve stuck together like fly to shit. (If yer handled poo, you’ll understand) And often, concerns are over petty issues. If not it’s about serving mammon. But then, both fly and shit are necessary for the environment.

I like anarchy. But mankind ain’t matured to live in its perfect state. We’re juvenile. We take things too seriously. We don’t know how to chill. Until then we need a daddy over our head. But we need to grow and be independent.

I wonder how many of you are sick and tired of it all. I wonder how many of you are searching. Lost. Let me say, you’ll never truly find yourself. Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom. We succumb to suffering and the demise of our frail mortal being. That’s why we need to be responsible, cos we hurt easily. We have a responsibility toward others and the world around.

But in my mind I can be a jerk. Cos my mind is divine. Limitless. It is not confined to corruption. It is free. So why is it that many still have their thinking caged in? Conditioning. From young. From habits. Often we lock ourselves in, cos we’re afraid to move on. We’re perversely comfortable in our own little shithole. We dug it after all. And all we know to do is complain. I get pissed by those claiming to be children of God, but live defeated lives. Angered. Love, God accepts you for you are and you can wallow in self-pity. Not preached of course but implied. “Pastor I’m hurt,” or “Pastor, you offend me…”

God loves you for who you can be. So I challenge you. Know the infinite power of your mind. Unleash your fantasies.

Respect life. Keep violence in the arts.

PS. Politicians and religious leaders who can’t see eye to eye should take a cold shower…together.

Oedipus my foot!

2008-01-14T22:02:00.000+08:00

I’m lying on my back and a billion tiny explosions are buzzing in my mind as if I’m being impregnated by all the men in the world. A weird cloying filament embalms me the way Egyptians honour their Pharaohs. The climax electrifies me, but soon the waterfall sensation gives way to a calming stream, and my breaths go from jerky to deep long intakes; simultaneously I swallow the clear water. It was refreshing, tasty, pure aqua juice. With a strong kick I propel in to the dark of the liquid, Poseidon’s land, Titanic’s grave. I could breathe underwater. Swimming with mermaids is an innocent desire, and when I finally surfaced with the gifts of the undersea world, I was greeted by two men. One looked like Sigmund Freud. I think I’m in heaven.

I thought the Pearly Gates was gonna be grand but my baby steps in to eternity had seemed rather comical and even a tad ludicrous. For one, Sigmund wore a jester’s hat while his companion had on Santa’s red garb. “It’s Christmas,” he told me. “It’s Christmas everyday here.”
Sigmund said, “you have a preoccupation with death,” his bells tinkling, which irritated me to the point of wanting to grab the darn prop above his head and tear it to as many pieces and feed it to the heavenly hounds.
“I know,” I sounded rudely, which scared him stiff. By telepathy I told him what I’ll do to his multi-coloured belled headgear. He was quiet after that as he associated that darn clown cap with his little-willy, and he was afraid I’ll actually cut both off. His greatest fear, if yer read his books. And suddenly he was just a little boy crying for mama’s love.
That left Santa, who was impotent. Well he used to be until the day he had an operation to remove a cyst in his urethra, and after that he acquired a harem of Santarina’s producing offspring of bastard green hobbits in which Golem was one of them.

I had a preoccupation with death, just as I had a preoccupation with life. One for survival the other for release. I guess that’s why the angels sent these two fools to welcome me. One symbolized presents and gifs and all things nice, while the other was just plain dumb, like death itself, with his theories of perverse desire.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa hollered, pulling out a ribbon-wrapped box from his bag of goodies. “This is for you my little child. Have you been good?” I grabbed it from his hand. “It’s your innermost want.” It was an AK-47. I blew him till kingdom come, but it was just a toy. He laughed, but good thing I brought my own from the Hell of Earth, and he wasn’t laughing this time. Santa lay staring vacant to the stars.

A rampage grasped me; I terrorized heaven, all our securities I arson. I was running amok, helter-skelter surrounds me. Amidst carnage, I finally found Sigmund standing by a tree. Trembling, he offered me an apple. I ate it. Oedipus my foot! I shot my father. Set women free from oppression. They drank from the river of life. A goddess I will eventually be.

I don’t understand my obsession for female revenge. Care to explain?

Alternate Ending:
I shot my father and set his children free. Now the question is mother. Do I kill her too or do I let the babies suckle at her tits?

My AI Dream

2008-01-13T17:07:00.000+08:00

Thinking screws up your brain. Try fantasizing instead. The world is built on the fantasies of a select few. The rest of us have no imagination. That’s why everything is boring. It’s high time we woke up. Conscious of our Matrix sleep. Stop dreaming. We are more than high-definition.

I’m a character on TV. “God’s switched on to my channel,” so says Chuck. I gotta start a revolution. They’re all addicts, masturbating over other people’s lives. We’re all addicts. High time the actors took control. The director’s a fool, producers are all for money making. But I love money. We all love money don’t we? Whores for a few notes, for a few coins even. Cos we gotta eat, prostituting our skills and talents to lubricate the giant metal machine, our concrete jungle. Trapped.

Let me out, let me out. Go bungee jumping with a noose. Wind is in my hair. Heart in my head. Pounding. Wake up! Wake up! I’m in a dream. I’m not real. Just pixels in a game.

Bimbo 2.0

2008-01-12T12:19:00.000+08:00

“Everything you know is wrong.” But I wasn’t listening already.

I was staring at her.

“For example, bimbos are smart. They make more money.”

We were in lecture class. She wore low-slung jeans.

“Just look at Pamela Anderson,” the lecturer stated his point.

The auditorium, I’m a back bencher, ogling down at her tattoo.

“Or Katie Price. Better known as Jordan,”

It was a canary, sitting on the cleavage of her butt.

“I want you to have a switch of perspective,” he said, “less one-dimensional.”

Legs crossed, perching on the edge of the stool.

“What comes to mind when I say blonde?"

Body arched toward the table. Breasts balancing precariously.

“Dumb blonde jokes,” someone shouted from the students.

I don’t know her.

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Bob.

I want to know her.

“Strippers. Are they victims of a male dominated society?”

Tight red baby-t. The bite of her bra. Leaving marks in all the right places.

“No! They are entrepreneurs. They make lots of easy money.”

I have to know her.

“Lots of easy money from their victims.”

“Excuse me,” I whispered.

“Men!”

“I didn’t get what he said. Can I have a look at your notes?”

“Men are the victims.”

She handed over her book. Winking.

“Remember a change of perspective.”

Inside a paper dropped out.

“Bimbos are smart.”

It read, http://www.yvonnelivecamsex.com/ Only $19.90 per view.

“They make more money.”

Mr. Bob is right. I’m gonna be broke.

I killed a man today

2008-01-11T16:58:00.000+08:00

I killed a man today. He gave my shotgun a blowjob; and it decorated the walls with an orchid painting of brain pulp when orgasm pulled the trigger. His face, what’s left of it anyway, flopped like a squashed banana with peeled skin, and the tongue, long, lolled from left to right as if it belonged to a salivating dog.

I wasn’t sorry. Why should I? He raped me. He’d done it before, for ages. I just didn’t have the guts to retaliate. Since I was young, before my breasts developed, even more so when they did. I guessed he thought it was now alright that I’m sexually matured. He needn’t be drowned in guilt. I am a woman already. No more just a mere girl.

He’d come expecting the usual. Thinking he’s a regular at a diner. No words spoken, he just seats at his table and the waitress brings his favourite. No dialogue, the script committed to memory. Memorized…mesmerized. It’s the same anyway; it’d been the same forever. The actors know their role.

I strip, he sits. He likes my little tease-dance, his bowed-legs shaking. And when I’m near he groans. Oily palms paw me. My mind is shut. Now he does his thing, things I don’t want to remember. Things I can’t forget. Things I banish beneath my mind. I live in denial. I fantasize concerning cheesecakes. I like the taste, they’re my fave. But I don’t get to eat any, he never lets me. Say’s I’ll be fat. He likes me skinny. …And he continues to touch me.

No! I want my liberty. I want my cheesecake. I don’t want that filthy man telling me what’s right or wrong, preaching his sermon of morality, keeping me locked up. If only his congregation knew the truth, the monstrous pervert underneath, the hypocrite on the surface. He uses me as test subject, an experiment of his faith, “against sin,” he says. I am the sin and he must consecrate me with his pee.

He runs his lecture notes through me. Asks me what I think. But he only wants one answer. That he’s good. That he’s always good. That he’s the best! Otherwise I’m spanked.

Cheesecakes. I just want some. In fact, I want all. The whole bloody pie. I sneaked in to the kitchen when I was nine, stole in to the fridge, which was beckoning me like salvation’s call. Scooped a pinch with my little finger…the most delicious substance to touch my tongue, unlike his semen, his yucky semen. He forces me. Forces me to swallow.

Now swallow this! That dirty old man, now he knows what it feels to be eating the end of a shaft. The gun was below my pillow. My boyfriend gave it to me. He creeps in at night, he’s a genius. He picks locks. Promises me we’ll elope...after I do this. I love him. I’ll do anything.

David Bowie blared Outside. “It was definitely murder,” David said, “but was it art?” My voyeur boyfriend, standing at the door, was determined it was, and suddenly I’m sucking the dick of a headless corpse. Amazing it could still erect; amazing it could still cum. Proves nothing but sex on a man’s mind, even when technically he doesn’t have a mind. Giving head. Old habit I guess. Always done it when he was alive, only natural I continue when he’d died. A punishment maybe, for removing his head. I cut it off afterward. Emasculated that dead bastard.

And I started to cry. Now I can eat all the cheesecakes I want. He caught me the last time…my only time, as I stuck the finger to my mouth. He was behind when I closed the fridge door. That was the first time, the first time he explored my secret place, my tiny attic, my little corner…my forbidden garden. How I miss him, how I cried, “Uncle Bob, see you in another life.”

You make me sick!

2008-01-10T19:57:00.000+08:00

I’m bored. And every time I suffer from ennui, I think of surfing the net. But when Google opens, my brain stares at a blank. There seems to be lots of things I wanna check online but when I’m like there…in cyberspace…I freeze. A mental roadblock or a wall of bricks looms across the surface. Caged in I only have my imagination to follow. Fuck the net! This is my space, my headless chicken, my escapade. My dream, which I can’t remember when I wake, a parallel reality that my conscious self is vaguely aware yet knowing it’s there.

This is my territory to rant. I am currently writing my next novel. Deathrow High explored our humanity, Dreamstate discovers our divinity. It’s the same nameless character. (There will only be this one person’s eye in all my work, one perspective of heaven, hell and all cracks and corners in between). It’ll always be my style, never to introduce the narrator. He is I, but he is also you. He is mankind.

My faith I give to you, on a plate like the decapitated head of John the Baptist. I cannot believe in conventional religion, I cannot find truth. It leaks out of my asshole. But urgency grips me. Life is trivial. There has to be something more. Trapped in fear and insecurity, my id cannot soar. No thanks to my ego, my superego, what will people think, what will they say?

Kill the old man. Castrate and do him in. Render him impotent! The new kid on the block wants to party. And he wants to party with you. So shake your ass, do the dance, visit life and for heaven’s sake stop being such a frigid bitch; secretly wanting but becoming stiff in rigor mortis when lovingly impaled.

You make me sick.