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Midnight Malarkey

a peek inside the poetic freak

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There’s this phrase for the kind of love that people think fleeting. Usually it’s directed to first loves and young loves, drowned with lovey-dovey pet names and expected to end almost instantly at the first serious(-ish) conflict they encounter. I’m sure you’ve heard of it somewhere.

Sketches_3
Made this with my dad’s Samsung Note 4. Also serves as my first published calligraphy attempt. What do you think?

But, when I think of it, I’d want puppy love to stay.

Most people may relate this term with relationships that aren’t committed nor serious. I, on the other hand, imagine a relationship with a real puppy. And it’s the fluffiest kind of relationship I could think of that also comes with the coveted commitment.

Puppies look at you with adoration that love that borders on looking stupid. They wait for you by the door and wag their tails like crazy and can’t stand still for more than two seconds. They get easily distracted, but when you know it’s your puppy, they’ll come pawing their way to you at the slightest call they pick up and in the cutest way.

And building a relationship with a puppy isn’t that hard because when you love a puppy, there’s no way you fall out of love with it. It can bite you and you may be more cautious, but odds are as soon as the wounds are all patched up the first thing that comes to mind is probably something along the lines of “Has my little pup been fed yet?”

So for the cynics towards the term: Sure, I want the kind of stable relationship that has utilitarianism in it, to some extent. But, when you really get down to it, don’t you want a little puppy love to go with it?

BONUS VIDEO, YAY!

Doesn’t it also help put puppy love in the context of a relationship? :D

I like your voice. How it’s tinted
with a weird and funny accent.
The fact that it’s loud but soothing to the ear,
how the last syllable slightly resonates
and dissipates
and leaves me in serene silence.

I like how your hair is textured
yet soft to the touch when I pat.
Oh, and bouncy.
You shouldn’t wear any hair product,
I don’t like that.

I like how your eyes are readable,
every movement of the lids visible.
Even when you’re reprimanding,
behind your sharp words, there’s understanding.

I like your optimism, it can light the room.
How you can dismiss petty things so soon,
be annoyed in the morning and laughing again by noon.

I like how in me you confide,
how you make me feel comfortable by your side.

I just like you, you know?


 

Note to self: Never, EVER read too much romance when in an unstable state of emotion.

“Dead Men Can’t Catcall” by Samantha Peterson

This is just wonderful. ‘Nuff said. Go watch it.

“Fuck The Poor?”

And I know most probably don’t give out money to some random guy on the street and would rather give directly to a charity or those who need it, but it’s still sad to see.

Plus, it’s not hard to find info on charities that are in line with what you’re compassionate about, whether it be helping the poor or anything else. We’re just too lazy to Google it.

What I’m saying is, we talk a lot about how the poor are getting the bad stuff in life. How the government should care more, how evil the people who fake charities are. We defend them, at least innately or verbally. Even if you’re apathetic about their well-being, you’ll probably frown over bad stuff they have to go through.

But then we’re confronted time and time again with the choice to give. And we choose not to. Because we don’t trust the party that’s asking, because we don’t know about how the money would be used, because we’d rather give our money for another cause, and our line of reasons go on and on.

The thing is, it’s all based on either two; we don’t care, or we don’t know.

If you don’t know what you’re compassionate about, where to donate, what charity has proven itself trustworthy, just open your browser! Ask a friend or two who’s into volunteering and that kind of stuff. You know you know some.

And, if you happen to be too lazy or you just don’t care, say so. It’s better than making up excuses. Even if your image goes down, at least people won’t bother you with others’ trials and tribulations anymore (or as much as now).

“What Teachers Make” by Taylor Mali

Lyric video:

“When Love Arrives” by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

They’re both amazing. And here’s a typographic video below made by a fan (who’s not me).

Heart Escape by Team Nuyorican

So, I tried to type in the words as usual. But it seems that my hearing abilities have been degraded (or maybe I just don’t know the words they’re using) so there are some missing parts. Or maybe wrong words. If you happen to find them (the parts in this colour, or any other mistake I didn’t realise), do let me know. All help is appreciated. :)

She and I were inseparable. We had created the other. She finger-painted my eyes into me and I was grateful for the very sight of her. I dipped my thumbs, and painted each strand of hair; long, sweeping lines. Each pupil of an index finger twisted. I kiss her mouth onto her. We built the organs inside of one another.

We were the gods of us.

That was long before the shaking.

Before the earth began to shake under our feet. Before our voices became railed to trains. Before the world began to shake like fault lines.

“Your fault!”

“Mine!”

We became (what’s the word that’s supposed to be here?)

How vain were we to shove ourselves into each other like this?

Found it hard to function in another body. Knew your pace was 72 beats per minute without strenuous exercise. Love is not a strenuous exercise. It is an empty pocket. A bursting earth.

You are looting flanks in the valley, tempted by fates of breath to be the chest-first, clean-eyed vision of the setting sun. Unable to speak without each ringing, you are fading into a ghost in the smoke of all this breaking.

-crack-

Panic. Took out the luggage. It will be too much to carry. Break the locks. Ignore the anxiety. It’s a trap!

Grab the grenades in her vocal cords. Hurdle(d?) over the tears towards the exit. Leave the sandcastles behind her eyes. The ice sculpture in her lungs. The pendulum on her tongue. The medallion in her hips has lost its swing.

-crack-

The curtains have caught fire. There is smoke. Stay low. The tide will run down her face. Grab your “life back” jacket.

Breathe.

You will begin to reminisce. Let it flow. When everything became barren and hollow….

Breathe.

When the leaves begin to shrivel into flames.

Breathe.

When you confuse (dang, can’t make out anything here!) stay focused. Stare ahead. Grab the trophy. Not the gold ones. The teddy bears! Picture frames. Locks of hair and fallen eyelashes. Snatch her name! Hum your favourite love song.

Breathe.

Remember the hook. You’re going to need it. Tie the knot. Untie it. Bow-tie a new one into a strong artery. Leave some slack never vertebrate. (I know, it makes no sense.)

-crack-

Turn right. Go down the corridor. Until you reach the end. Make another right. Open the first door on your left. The password is:

“I want to love myself again!”

Breathe.

Run through the door. Make another right. Slowly. 

Breathe.

Make your way towards the window. Go. The ladder above the fire escape; climb into the next window. This is every room you’ve ever shared!

Breathe.

You(‘ll) remember how hard it was to….

Breathe.

You are a puzzle of missing pieces. Your (they lost me here) is a finger-less ring. Pull the pin. Toss the grenade. Enjoy the music of that place evaporating. Make yourself sing to it. Dance if you can.

This is the only way out.

“Let It Go” by Alex Boyé featuring One Voice Children’s Choir

Bell’s Ad

I don’t drink, really. But while I’m not affected by the least to want to try alcohol itself, the ad is heartwarming. :)

Then again, I may be partial, since my life, in a way, revolves around words and reading.

“An Apple A Day is Not Enough” by Taylor Mali

“OCD” by Neil Hilborn

Disclaimer: I didn’t make this. I just love it. You should see the live version too. :)

“The The Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali

If you enjoyed this, here’s his website.

Has this ever happened to you?
You work very horde on a paper for English clash
And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=)
and all because you are the word1s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.

This is a problem that affects manly, manly students.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English teacher in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that1s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn1t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally.
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement
or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).

So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.

But there are several missed aches
that a spell chukker can1t can1t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave a word
your spell exchequer won1t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might replace a word
with one you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douch?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You1re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.

Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties
out loud to all of my assmates.
I1m not joking, I1m totally cereal.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.

So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red penis your friend.

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