Sep 15, 2009


i've cleaned my room thoroughly. i broke the cycle of imagined impediments and just went for it. yet i feel strangely unrewarded. but i digress. point: i shunned the chinese water torture of the music i've been wallowing in for months in favour of some sailor moon s episodes. i let them delight my peripheral vision as the japanese language softly penetrated my subconscious. after a few hours of pretty soldier ranting and shrieking, i had to face it: winamp won. but i wasn't about to play jethro tull again.

how about... vanessa carlton. i'd dubbed her unenticingly corny years ago, still i kept her be not nobody in my library, should the occasion [of me craving corny?] arise. and tonight i put it to good use. yes, drenched in gallons of undeniable corniness and plagued by annoying vocals, but streaked with a quaint sense of individuality and oozing melody. classical piano meets poppy swagger meets a natural inclination toward hooks that perpetuated the sailor moon vibe i didn't really want to lose, that something in the air i could probably locate within a musical spectrum if i knew my stuff. but that would kill it. refreshing. dreamy.

pop is indispensable to life on earth. corny is comfort. corny, corny, corny, corny, corny, corny, corny...

i'll tell it as i best know how, and that's the way it was told to me: two little boys, brothers, allegedly but doubtfully chinese. the cherished firstborn was called tiki-tiki-tembo-nosarembo-chari-bari-ruchi-pip-peri-pembo. the insignificant younger one was called chang. one day, chang fell into a well. tiki-tiki-[...] ran home and yelled: "chang fell into the well!". a swift and successful rescue ensued. the next day, tiki-tiki-[...] fell into the well. chang ran home and yelled: "tiki-tiki-tembo-nosarembo-chari-bari-ruchi-pip-peri-pembo... *gasp for air* fell into the well!". a not-so-swift and not-so-successful rescue ensued. hence, chinese names today are all short.

i spend half my time running from cliché, calling my affections a rabbit made of rags, my sexuality a dog ripping the meat from a bone, my thoughts fetuses in formalin jars, my fear a pharisaic crucifix, my sorrow the untreadable wake of a wretched blitzkrieg. i spend the other half hanging around the well just in case.
in this day and age and place, we all mistake poetry for efficient self-expression. poetize this: cliché makes the world go round. for in this day and age and place, it is to cliché that we have reduced our very human nature, our instincts and pursuits.

heck. pretty baby, don't you leave me, i have been saving smiles for you; pretty baby, why can't you see, you're the one that i belong to... ^.^ pop-song no naka nara ieru... [see second line]

1 comment:

  1. Woo... a libertarian otaku with linguistic proficiencies and an actually accurate outlook on life, without being over 40 :)