27 November, 2009


The other day when I wrote the previous post, I thought it had to be one of the most pointless things I've ever written. On re-reading it and fixing what mistakes jumped out at me, I discovered it was reasonably randomly silly. So I was satisfied... but that brings me to today. What shall I do today when today is already over?

It's hard to think of things to write when here I sit before a keyboard and screen ready to type something nicely profound. Something interesting enough to capture no audience's attention... which is what I'm already doing, but I'm being sarcastic. I'm sure you could tell. When I turn off the computer, lie down in bed, that's when the words flow and imagination runs with motor cars of the air. I could scribble them down and scribble them down, but the effort of getting out of bed and walking all the way over to the light switch is not worth it.

What people want when they read a blog is something different, something unique... something that captures their attention and imagination. Distracts them. Now, my other blog, it kinda did that, but I've temporarily run out of ideas and haven't been bothered (although my official excuse is [of course] that I haven't had the time) to pull out all the stories' bits and pieces and start re-fitting my jigsaw pieces together on a legible board of text.

Now, people will one day say that I have misused my words and that is not how you use a word that means something else... or ... there's no such word in the English dictionary. I'm not sticking with rules. These are thoughts that have thrown themselves out of my head and onto the screen. Some are there just for the sound they make or the colour I associate the word with - because there aren't always the right words I want for expression. Patterns, colours and rhythm. Puzzles that seem and yet don't seem to fit together.

Badabing, badaboom. Figure it out thyselfsom.

Musky though the raskers ride
Fudgy though the felpots slide
On the surfboards of the dry
Ballooning through the air.

Misty on the cyrus tail
Cushy on the fluffy rail
There the butterfly soars on streams
of lifting-falling pare.

Roar of wind
Whistle of hair
Shy of wobble
Why of care.
Here fly freebies of the blue
In the mood.

No comments:

Post a Comment