I am terribly bored and sleepy. So what will I do? Write another story about being bored and sleepy? Nyah. No way. No chance in hell. In fact, I probably wont write a poem at all and relate instead, an anecdote, however uninteresting, for the sake of fuelling my dead blog along. Now I am saying this for forks sake, and have no interest beyond the matter that for some reason, all of this actually happened (though you will soon find out that what happened wasn't sufficienty great to be given this not-so-great -ut-still-trying-hard buildup)... ok I have lost the thread of the sentance, and a little more of my precious sleep, eyelids being the portal to a pretty damned fucked dimension... for later use.. anyway, so forks... there was a fork at this place where you get wraps and I stuck it in my head after being inspired By John Abraham who once mistook a feather for a fork, or so I believed. either way I was moving around looking like John Abraham, and a friend and I were discussing the innovative uses of a fork. Our combined cranial efforts resulted in: 1) To stab someone 2) Comb 3) retina stealer for high security entrances 4) Toothpick 5) Nosepick (other end) 6) Earpick 7) Scratcher aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand 8) eating. what the fuck. Now am in the mood to write a poem. Something that will be critiqued as a contemporary attempt to experience the power of the internet to mentally stagnate everyone into thinking the same things through the medium of poetry. On that literary note, to which I will return to in a short span of time, after a detour into examining the use and effects of cliches, I now make a short and unnecessary detour into the examining the use and effects of cliches. One: Make movies/ Novels/ Stories and Songs ADHERE to cliches as much as possible. The art is not in the creation of new forms, but in the depiction of the cliches. If you have any doubts on this one - Shakespeare, played with Cliches only. To give a more recent example, all of Jeffery Archer's stories are full of stupid cliches... told in the most amazing manner ever. Deviation from the cliches makes the movie weird, difficult to grasp and uninteresting. Ah screw that, detour done, back to the point where I write the poem afterall, it had a point, but I forgot, so I will write a totally different poem about something contemporary in as different a manner as possible. The poem is titled 'why the zeros walked in line'.
Let there be light
My literary endeavors are hampered by the fact that a call came right now by a friend who has crashed out at checknaka. Bastard is so fucking tully that he cant move and he is talking in weird ways. Will catch him and will be back. Cheers to people.