Archive for May 2009
“Puggy’s bathos is apropos, quite a pathos-etic she is. I pity my placid mental faculty and lauding her lucid elucidatory discernment. She’s the next un-Terran Jehovah personification. Praise her for she will JUDGE you on this realm of sanctity.”
I thought this aging shout-out in the other universe of far, far away only rings true to certain type of aliens that I (regret) happened to meet.
Today after 1, 2, 3, 4 years with the fictionalised deus ex machina, I realised how “apropos” the shout-out closer to home. Homing down to the (pug)ilistic and temperamental nature of the fictitious Bantha.
Felicity isn’t tenacious to the shaggy fur of hirsute animosity.
The bathos effect (abrupt change to ordinary style: in writing or speech, a sudden descent in style or manner from the elevated or sublime to the commonplace, producing a ludicrous effect) is aesthetic only to the lapping parasite of arid waste inside the hairy monstrosity.
In this (false) realm of (fictional) sanctity, the nasal grunting personify like the nature of acerbic echo in the middle of the cavernous dune.
Hearing Tuskens ululating “laodicean” never been so apt.
This write-up is an homage to Star Wars and Kavya Shivashankar of the 82nd annual Scripps National Spelling Bee winner. Kudos for her “composed” sang-froid! Don’t go cuckoo, yeah?
I wrote fiction in defunct “vivid station”.
Living in friction with sacrosanct “livid sanction”.
Leaving on a ‘locomotive’ to the “blue berth” away from “loco native”.
Good fiction, yes?
Echo…call her and she will call you
Curse her and you she will curse
You can’t win if you argue
The last word’s always hers.
–Ai Qing (1910– ), Chinese poet. “Echo”.
For echo is the soul of the voice, exciting itself in hollow places.
“Don’t play with fire,” she warned. “Selfish and greedy!” She blared.
She tagged her neighbour’s wallpaper with Banksy-esque stencil graffiti. Caricaturing the public with black and white gospel of her own.
She waxed philosophical about being eccentric as equal to being generic, escaping the gravity of irony altogether. That’s good. That’s bad. The lanky chav concurred, “It’s the strewth! Huzzah! Hallelujah! Bravo!”
Satisfied with the compliment. She drivels again — looking plastered.
“Am I bovvered?”
“Look at my face, is my face bovvered? Face? Bovvered?”
At a point you really wish David Tennant (Dr Who) shuts Catherine Tate (Lauren Cooper) with his Sonic Screwdriver — screwing her self-absorbed mind shut.
“What a fuckin’ liberty!”