Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Inebriated visions in pink

Alcohol. When consumed in volumes, makes one speak volumes. Alcohol, I believe, offers a clarity that most embrace, and few understand and there are still a bunch of a select fewer who treasure it as the last semblance of a human trace left in the alcohol stream. And, therefore, understand the true import of the pungent viscosity of the wondrous elixir that you're downing by the gallon.

I see you. Sitting on the table opposite mine, while I pretend to gawk at a stupid cricket match on the plasma across you. Couldn't be more loserly, could I now. You know the guy you're downing the Bud with just ain't worth it. The Nokia is your excuse at times, the match or the loo at others.

I see you. Basking in the blue backlight of the Nokia. Lighting you up in an unearthly beautiful hue.

I see you. Scratching the label off that sorry unwitting bottle of beer. Adjusting your sunglasses on your head at 11 P.M. With that hair, that wondrous shock of hair, that Yves himself would discount your unpronounced but surreptitiously understated roundish belly for.

I see you. With the pink, suggestive, and if I may be allowed to add, only tastefully suggestive pink shirt, the conservatism, just screaming forth from the white spaghetti underneath.

I see you. With the mammoth ring on the finger. A constant reminder of the horrendously stupid mistake you made probably a year back, considering you still have a beer outing on a tuesday evening.

I see you. As you disdainfully sign the bill and gulp what remains of your beer. As you put that credit card immaculately back in that red clutch. As you take out a listerine strip and offer it to the expectant cock across the table knowing all too fully well what you'll be enduring in the parking lot.

I see you. I know I want you, covet you as you leave the table and walk away. I hate to see you go. But it would be a sin to say that I don't love to watch you leave. The alacrity of your asymmetrical perfection can only elicit a sigh of relief, as you now stand a distant memory to be wiped out with the next potent mix of Bailey's, Kahlua and Cointreau. And if you're really lucky, I'd dedicate to you two rounds of tequila post your exit-de-trance.

Another one bites the dust. The pointlessness of the situation reigns supreme as I come back to the conversation on my table where we burn old friends on the spit, gawk at the new women in the bar. By the fifth tequila you're nearly out of my head. Only to be filled by another masterpiece in the image and splendour of the maker. I try and understand your thoughts, trials, tribulations and smiles and how I could be the white knight salvaging all that matters to you. Another tequila please.

No.
I don't see you anymore. Fading, like an infantile injury from the mind of a greying individual. Drowning in tequila seems to be an option which becomes infinitely more viable. The clink of a zippo and you're nearly forgotten. As I retrace my steps to the car, I don't even remember what the whole toast to pink in the bar was all about.

I see you.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Diamond diabolique

What do I do with you? Its a holographic image I'm trying to scrape off my skin, but a few unsuccessful patches of leather later, I realize that this one shall be a little more indelible than the last. A drunk fucking tattoo one can excuse as a mistake. This one's bigger. A coarse engraving. Interspersed with diamonds. The crudity won't let you rest, the shimmer won't let you get rid of it. So it stays, festering to cancerous proportions. All the issues come tumbling down getting neatly arranged via credit card into lines of grade A cocaine. And how, though crazy and momentary it was, there is no other bliss that would remotely satiate.

All one could have done was to wait for the anomaly to understand and fold. Instead the hand was played and played well. One loses the pot as well as the plot. All that is left are unbreakable anomalous diamond shards spilling over, screaming for release. Redemption. Wine and the harp provide mediocre recourse. Even a catnap revives an astute kaleidoscope of sinking despair. Lack of resentment, overdose of willful melancholia. Unfounded and confounded with a questionable bitterness that is cloaked, misty, seemingly emerging from the shadows every night but still hopelessly elusive beyond reasonable doubt.

Shine on. They say diamonds are forever. One hopes.

A reverential flying fuck and a half.

Fucking asswipe of a computer. Stupid motherfucking cunt of a machine. Just fails to deliver. Killer of thoughts. Murderer of expression. A wastrel of the virtual. Fails to recognize true emotion. Its quite apparent when you type the most endearing word in the English language. Fuck.

Small, yet fluid, electric on the nerves at a mere mention, immediately a harbinger of a million thoughts. A sum total of all hopes, disappointments, goals and losses. The balance between cunts and goddesses from Olympus. Yet, type the word, and a heathen crooked red underline shall rudely bring you out of your reverie with an equally inane option for spell check. Really. Fuck.

The world outside has gone much on the same lines with the pointlessness aspect as well. The flourish of a fountain pen is a thing of the distant past. Burn fuel but save electricity. Fucking nincompoops. Political correctness. Equality of gender. Fucking dog poop catcher full of stinky hogwash, if you ask me. You're judged. Fuck it.

In a recent sequence of inadvertence, I attended a congregation where feminism was fanned faster than a clit in heat and almost to the same passionate and orgasmic levels. Irked the living daylights outta me, rubbing me the wrong way with the pointlessness of the whole exercise exactly like microsoft word does with the spell check minion. Don't get me wrong, I love women. An intelligent conversation with one goes miles. Miles longer than where an inconsequential fuck would end. The former has the potency to get me off my posterior and make her a nice cup of tea, whereas, the latter could be forgotten by the next evening. Sorry, morning.

There are other things that I could discuss or rant about, like economic disparity, or maybe something even more pointless, professional sports, perhaps? I might appear to be a classical textbook definition of a patriarchal asshole and well, maybe I am. But seriously, is there anything remotely more discussion worthy apart from a woman? Let me answer that. No.

Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, this dedication shall forever be in the reverent exploits of the fairer chromosome. May woman inherit the earth. Raise your goblets.

To cunts and goddesses.

To Aphrodite and Medusa.