Scaredy Crap

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Jump back, what's that rumbling sound?
You avoid an enraged colugo that's just come down
Perspiring glassy beads, your skin's goose-pimpling,
You feel a frantic fear, and you just can't stop its incessant gaveling
Instantaneously, you scamper and quicken your pace up
Could also be the Fizestra behind you, it wants to cut you up

Now, you should have fallen down and splintered a bone
You should've been writhing in pain, your shrieks would bother them none
And then it would come oh-so-close to you and smell you out
You'd know it's gonna be over, there ain't a shadow of a doubt
You grab a fallen branch, turn and swing it around right then
Of course there's nothing right there, its just the hallucinogens
You're confounded and dazed again, you're brain-fucked again

Daft doorknob, they're using you - you're just an experiment
They're killing you no more than they're feeding infants wet cement
Shut the fuck up now and get ready, there's another test
Chew up this Peruvian Torch, so what if your mouth's abscessed?
Lesions and contusions? Just this one, we'll see what they crack
And after stitching you up, you'll land slap-bang in rehab

And is there any other place you'd rather be?
Yes, the pain's there and yeah, you do bleed
But this acid trip is all you're ever going to need

It's 4:45 in the morning. And I am generally irritated. This was written in 15 minutes flat. I have scaled new heights of horrible-ness. It's quite pathetic, but let me tell you something. 50 Cent could do with a wack songwriter. He needs one.

Sigh. It has come to this.

It's all askew

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Hey, randomly shitting on blogspot is good fun. That too without having my blog URL and title in capitals on my gmail status message, mind you.

So, let's nuke it:

Sittin' on a boulder, little Burt wonders, 'What do I do?'
'Should I point my pencil at my eye and drive it straight through?'
'Or should I be still and watch the bird crapping on Roxy's statue?'

Now he's at home with his Math homework, he's got a lot to do
'What's the interest on this instalment, what does it accrue to?'
Mathematics tortures him, and it all seems scarier than voodoo

Cold fusion is idle speculation, a theory they all eschewed
While he whiled away his time, an intense battle brewed
He'd neglected the murderous Macbeth - a huge assignment was due

Enough - he locked himself in the bathroom - a self imposed curfew
Reached into the toilet tank and fished out the bottle of Quaaludes
He swallowed them all, and then lived out a million bedazzling hues

It's 3 AM in the morning... Really.

Laz-Y-Boy Bloggerturd

Friday, October 2, 2009

I would have been writing about a lot of things if they had been slightly different. Like if Schumi had made that sensationalunbelievableoutoftheworldheroic comeback. Like if Britney Spears had taken the stage at a sold-out concert and exploded. Like if India would have actually justified it's obsession with the retarded game of cricket. Like if I would have grown a third head when there had never been a second.

All of that didn't happen. What did happen was that we had to write a 'walking poem'(yes, this is yet another gandu doing what everyone else has done) and I wrote a poem which doesn't deserve to be called a poem because I can't write poems and if I can't write poems this can't possibly be a poem. But write I did. And though I agree that one of the justifications for shutting down all the blogging sites would be the leeway that poop-spewers like me get when it comes to putting up any and everything we think of on our blogs when none of it deserves to be even on the back of a shopping list, I'm not going to let that shame me into not posting it.

Yes, there is a serious lack of content here and to keep this blog alive, I have to flog it to within an inch of its life.

Prepare to be 'Oww'-ed:

As I amble along this forest path
A light breeze swirls around the leaves
The slanting afternoon sun breaks through the foliage
Its rays tinted all purple and orange

A gnarled, rotting trunk lies on the forest floor
In a pitiable state of decay
The living trees around it seem dark and almost mournful
Melancholic and sorrowful at this untimely demise

I walk on slightly despondent, but little do I know
On that very trunk, a little Peepul plant grows
Maggots and earthworms scuttle around in its rotting innards
And a clump of tumbleweeds bloom in all their unwanted glory

The rotting, visibly lifeless trunk
Once supple, mirthful and erect
No, it isn’t dying.
In these numerous, unwitting beneficiaries

It lives on.

And so do I. I live, despite writing this. Life's fair. Sort of.