Category Archives: insane rantings

Thoughts Of The Constipated Writer

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(Source: online)

Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts

 
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/

 
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas

He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena

He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision

(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)

Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do

Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.

image

(Source: online)
 
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.

 
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BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.

P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.

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The wise oldie

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Going beyond the limits with intelligence... (source: unknown)

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But intelligence itself does have limits. Of course, I do not mean it is possible to understand women as the picture literally implies. (Source: unknown)

Aha!
    My eyes have seen it all now
I have walked up and down the earth
Sat at affluent feasts and slept in wracked ghettos
     And didn’t feel very different from a human being
I have touched the heart-melting fire of passionate love
Felt the fiery apathy only the worst criminals feel
     Yet wasn’t immune to the awe, shock or pity I got from people
I have cruised the highways and sat in dark depressive alleys
Mastered the secrets of ecstasy and protracted painful pleasure
     And believe me it’s not megalomania, dope or sex
My mind now knows all there is to know

I have enjoyed the sadistic captivating power of words
Felt the occasional disappointment of poetry and smart-tonguing
I have seen the selfishness in the heart of men
And seen how much good humanity is capable of
I have seen their fears and how they take shelter in ignorance
I have seen them dare to hope
Even though they are really helpless in and by themselves

My mind now knows so much
I also know the danger of knowledge
I know the weakness of intelligence
I have tickled the philosopher so sore he cried
I have lured the scientific mind into grey areas of uncertainty
I know just enough to make me humble
And enough to make me know
That I am only just a bit above the most of humanity
And enough to make me know
That barely 5% of readers could possibly be insightful
Or wise enough
To see flaws in my reasoning

S T R U C K ! ! !

English: African Lion and Eland Antelope skele...

English: African Lion and Eland Antelope skeleton diorama to be displayed in the Museum of Osteology. Photo by Jay Villemarette (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So hear
You know I am already a fool
When it comes to you
I stalk you like a haunter
A haunter ill-prepared
To apprehend the victim
So that each time
I come close to you
I am all amped up
Adrenaline pouring through my blood
As I prepare to hop on you
And claim you for myself
But at the climax of my anxiety
I am reminded that
There really is no way to bring it through
This lack makes me burn hotter with sickening desire

For a moment
You look in my direction
Just in time to see me on fire
Oh darn! I reek of burns
I try to run away
But the trail of smoke betrays me wickedly
You try to reach for me
But, again, I think
What will be the end to it
What happens after you catch up to me
Stand and stare me in the face
So I run
Adrenaline oozing through my sweat
A strong pheromone
On someone dreading attention
And you chase me
Why you do I don’t know
But I won’t even dare to ask that
If and when you should catch up with me

I just run
Like a foolish lion
Who faced a horned antelope
To discover late
That he hadn’t grown any tooth or claw!

The Writer’s Pity-Party.

The poor writer's "big" feast.

The poor writer’s “big” feast.

Let’s roll out the table
Burst open the kitchen
And serve the tea
This writer has had enough

Days of struggling for inspiration
But there was no rain.
And despite his hard work,
The ground still remained barren –
A perpetual desert-ed piece of white paper
Lying on the writer’s table,
Devoid of any ink.
Days of trying to express
What little drops of inspiration
Splashed his way.

Whilst showers flooded
Neighbouring villages,
Those farmers could hardly gather
All the harvest bounties.
See the many followers
Sitting at their festivals.
Even days these rich farmers give no food,
They all still get wine and drunk
And discuss the ingenuity of insanity.
After all, a king’s ragged chair
Is still seen as a throne to others!

I could just throw a writer’s tantrum
And decide to ignore all,
Settle for another more profitable occupation.
Or plant crops which cost little effort
But ain’t worth much either.
Ha! Yes. Something like a vegetable
Seasoned with some spices
Which really lack true nutritive value!

Or I could just be a subsistent farmer
Who grows crops barely enough
To satisfy friends who come visiting,
And they end up in almost-meaningless talks
So neither the farmer nor visitors
Feels bad for a visit
That could not quite give them what they needed,
Till the visitors start making excuses
For not showing up again.
Who dares blame them?!

Or maybe I should just be a seller –
A reviewer/critic who assesses
And re-presents others products.
That way I can get to distribute some food
To my visitors,
And I un-enviously advertise others’ products
Whilst not being guilty of theft or plagiarism.
Well, give some credit to thieves even.
Cloning others’ crops ain’t exactly easy too!

Oh! Of course, I still visit them rich folks.
We can’t be enemies or even literarivals
But today, I just want to sulk
And serve bland tea
To anyone who happens to visit,
Hoping they don’t think me desperate
And they are in the mood to talk,
Not just tick a “like” as a review.
After all, it still takes a real farmer
To grow even bland tea!!!

PS.
Hope the visitor/reader is savvy enough to know if this piece is really about farming, or writing. Please check the title again. Just in case.
*Literarivals -rivals in the world of writing/writers.

No Title

I see nothing
Besides blank white space
No doodles of art
Or words of wisdom
I am writing nothingness
Onto this nothingness
I am supposed to be writing the seventh line
But I see no letter or word
Am I dumb and unable to communicate sense
Or just blind to the sense I am communicating

But, if I am seeing white
I must be seeing clearly
Even though there’s nothing
To be seen on this blank space
Except the fact I have attempted to write something
And given the reader of this blank space
The feeling that he/she is reading something
The satisfaction of witnessing a work of art
That he/she has just read a piece from/of my mind
Let’s all stop and rest now. Thank you.