Alavi Anan Meem
I travelled far and wide, chancing upon lands thrillingly strange. Lands reeking of the corpses of Poetry, clothed in ink the color of spice, eyes wet with intrigue. I came across stars that twinkled at me, fluttering eyelashes coyly, winking down seductively. Deadly stars, untouchable in there burning beauty, enticing from afar with the promise of light. One heard tales of fools in delirium who had tried to reach out and caress these stars, envelop them in deep embrace for the width of a shuddering heartbeat, only to burst into flames, reduced to ashes in the blink of an eye. Stars like words and fools like readers who ventured too close and fell into obsession. Their graves lay in the Asylums Of Fantasy. Asylums were strange creatures. They spoke in whispers, groomed themselves to look as mysterious as possible, and everything they touched died a soft, slow death.
One day, an asylum silently beckoned me close. When I looked at it inquiringly, it smiled and led me to dew-licked leaves that lovingly carpeted a hidden path. A path that was as charming as if it had been cobbled but as wildly and irresistibly formidable as a serpent snaking it's way to some downy prey. It was called The Path Less Travelled. Like the dress of a temptress revealing one pale freckled shoulder, the road allowed a teasing glimpse of Adventure, shrouded tantalizingly in a blurry outline of mist. Fools are everywhere. Some dare to touch whirling stars. Others dare to walk on the most scandalous road they had ever laid eyes on. They all catch fire eventually.
If only the frying pan hadn't been so boring, one wouldn't be tempted to jump!
Alas, jump I did, tumbling crookedly down into the pages of this wonderful, magical book, giggling madly. From one page to another I hopped, tasting the whirlwind of Romance, running my tongue over the dagger of Philosophy. I had to dance in the lap of a sky the color of wet wildcat fur before I was allowed to fall down the rabbit hole. Landing in the arms of a stranger named Thriller who kissed criminally well, I gave myself up to ecstasy. An ocean of genres surrounded me, and I intended to taste them all. Comedy and Tragedy were old friends travelling on a road parallel to mine, Tragedy waved cheerfully back at me and Comedy glowered menacingly. Mystery was an old man who smiled at me in feeble delight when I came to visit. His daughter was the bewitching Young Adult, dressed in a dispassionate white dress that hugged her curves alluringly. Before I could reach out and touch her, the vision evaporated, leaving me with a bittersweet aftertaste and the promise of more. I was forced to clamber back into the frying pan as the earth beneath my feet lurched threateningly.
I flew back home in the frying pan, smiling with the knowledge that this was one fire I would get to leap into again quite soon.
“Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence.”
Yeah, okay, Forster. SO, WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU?
Tone: Dispassionate.
What could be described as the opposite of Dickensian.
Prose: Soporific. Savagely, sadistically tedious.
Felt an overwhelming urge to skim through the first 150 pages.
Social commentary: Strong.
Kind of awesome.
Story: Mind-numbingly, soul-destroyingly boring.
Might induce the reader to resort to some form of self-harm to rid themselves of the inevitable ennui it triggers.
I did like Professor Godbole, though. He was so very gay.
Epileptic is a star, an isolated point of light in a sea of darkness, luminous and remote.
Unfortunately, the stars are a million, million, million miles away from me and I can't appreciate their brilliance at the moment, preoccupied as I am with my silly little troubles. Perspective is a butterfly that refuses to be caught, elusive creature that it is. My attention span has suffered atrociously this past year.
I am sorry, David B. You rock, man. You really do. I shall return to you in due time and pay you the homage you deserve.
Faith in humanity: RESTORED.
STRENGTHENED.
UPGRADED.
I have been robbed of coherency. GIVE THE POWER OF ARTICULATE SPEECH BACK TO ME, J.M. DeMatteis. Reading Moonshadow is like putting your heart through a food processor. My heart has been reduced to a gooey, pulpy lump now. I've just shoved my semi-liquid heart back into it's chambers and am trying to defibrillate some rhythm back into it.
No luck yet.
So. Many. Lizards. Crawling around in my head. Nibbling timidly and then sinking their teeth into juicy grey matter as they gain more courage. These are venomous lizards, you see, and their venom is infused with some seriously trippy dope. Narcotic, stimulant and hallucinogen all in one. Enigma is the grooviest drug to hit the street since forever and my brain cells are now Enigma-dependent and and crave Enigma desperately. I am doomed to wander about aimlessly for the rest of eternity in a dazed stupor, drooling all over everything and moaning “Enigmaaa” in hopeless longing.
Evidently Chickentown
by John Cooper Clarke
The bloody cops are bloody keen
to bloody keep it bloody clean
the bloody chief's a bloody swine
who bloody draws a bloody line
at bloody fun and bloody games
the bloody kids he bloody blames
are nowehere to be bloody found
anywhere in chicken town
the bloody scene is bloody sad
the bloody news is bloody bad
the bloody weed is bloody turf
the bloody speed is bloody surf
the bloody folks are bloody daft
don't make me bloody laugh
it bloody hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town
the bloody train is bloody late
you bloody wait you bloody wait
you're bloody lost and bloody found
stuck in fucking chicken town
the bloody view is bloody vile
for bloody miles and bloody miles
the bloody babies bloody cry
the bloody flowers bloody die
the bloody food is bloody muck
the bloody drains are bloody fucked
the colour scheme is bloody brown
everywhere in chicken town
the bloody pubs are bloody dull
the bloody clubs are bloody full
of bloody girls and bloody guys
with bloody murder in their eyes
a bloody bloke is bloody stabbed
waiting for a bloody cab
you bloody stay at bloody home
the bloody neighbors bloody moan
keep the bloody racket down
this is bloody chicken town
the bloody pies are bloody old
the bloody chips are bloody cold
the bloody beer is bloody flat
the bloody flats have bloody rats
the bloody clocks are bloody wrong
the bloody days are bloody long
it bloody gets you bloody down
evidently chicken town
the bloody train is bloody late
you bloody wait you bloody wait
you're bloody lost and bloody found
stuck in fucking chicken town.
Fucker snags us on his fish hook, drags us through, I kid you not, NINETY SEVEN of the most heavenly chapters known to man, and then just leaves us to DANGLE IN AGONY.
How much more suspense are we capable of bearing?
Aug 27 is too far away, you sadistic douchebag. What, you can violate the law of Conservation of Energy, but you can't give a girl some peace of mind and just write sooner?
I won't even try to put my feelings into words. In fact, I'm giving up on writing reviews altogether, after reading Apocalypse Suite. My pen is retiring, it's ink bled dry like my vocabulary, because I am certain there are no words that could ever come close to describing my emotions right now, which are a chaotic mess of awe and shock and reverence. [b:The Umbrella Academy, Vol. 2: Dallas 6413286 The Umbrella Academy, Vol. 2 Dallas Gerard Way http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327878822s/6413286.jpg 6602273] . . . your existence is the only thing keeping me from collapsing into a sobbing heap on the floor.
