viddily so, perhaps

i suppose i ought to be grateful the power went out the night before, and that when the lights returned to the void, the wireless was found to have died a premature death, with nary a whimper, just a dreadeddullclick and the worldwideweb remained a vaccumedvoid, spasmic fingers in death-throes clickclickclickityclack... i suppose i ought to be grateful becoz i'd turn to ye old dvd for solace and entertainment and entertained i was, for i'd finally had the chance to partake of Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange, where before i could not bare to even sit thru even 15 minutes of unease (and mind you, i believed i'd have the staunch stomach for anything *burp*), as painful to watch as it was before, it was now a sheer delight from beginning til credits' end. old Ludwig Van had never sounded so triumphant and majestic and MacDowell is unto celluloid godhood, even if it was for those paltry xxx hours. invigorating i was. viddily so, even.


unsure to react appropriately, i type these words haphazardly, in a desperate attempt to capture thy escaping mindscaped moments, but alas i am left with dismal words and jumbled thoughts, swishing around in the rapids of thy mind, a mind emptied as the credits rolled and immediately filled up once more, like sewage gushing into the dank darkened tunnels leading to thy brain, invigorated i was. i didn't even notice the smell.

with half-opened eyes and stank leftover cigarette breaths, i exhale and the words filling up the page may perhaps be indecipherable the morning afters, but i reckon it couldn't be avoided... it needed to be expunged and quick, for a nightmare filled night awaits me, brimmed with tainted violence and scarlet blood and orchestrated sex and bare breasts heaving in languid motion, perhaps? ... or perhaps i may yet slumber like a wee kitty, or a wee dogget, obliviously filling the space with rhythmic snores, a twisted symphony, a top-ten elevator-hit .. or perhaps it may only be a sillied smile on my face? i certainly hope so.

and thy morrow doesn't seem to matter now (not as much as it was yesterday) just the inescapable thoughts which i fear may still be swishing in the mindmuck within, afloat on a piece of crumble, veering down the tunnel of infinite imagination, dulled like a butchers' knife unto molten rock, cleaving thru the membrane of sanity disguised as a sweet smelling rose, a tulip perhaps (but not an orchid, for orchids are but a vile product of thy country's commercialization), or just a dewdrop on a single fragile leafygreen, cascading lonelily down the ash-soaked waterfall at the edge of the tunnel (yes that same tunnel, do forgive the smell luv) gushing unto the collective wastes of humanity, stacked up unto the clouds, sunshine peering thru the skeletal remains of forgotten cultures and fossilized traditions, cradled amidst blackened soot that rises up from the train of thy thoughts, careening down the tracks where the bolts have been loosened ... aaahh but what a ride it would have / will be, viddily so, my readers, viddily so.

altho i hope i don't have to pay the train-conductor, for my pockets are filled with nothing but dreams i've yet to dream, and unspoken promises of a better morrow, when today is as important as yesterdays ... but i'd forgotten what i dreamt the night before ... or perhaps i didn't dream at all ... and Ludwig Van is on self-repeat on the dvd and i realize that mayhap i already am asleep and i am sleep-typing, for i've heard it has happened in some parts of the dreamworld, perhaps so, perhaps so ... but i have no pockets in my pants. and if they are, they be sewn tight as a whistle, a steam of air escaping into the subconscious of the traffic outside the window, oblivious to my typing. my mind spilleth forth but the silence is utterly deafening, can't you smell the sewage?

Reactions to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange - circa November 2nd 2007

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