Poultry in Motion.

I used to fancy myself as some kind of Bard.

Used to write poetry, and haven't for too long. It's weird, really. Amateurish as my verses are, they at least flowed forth easily before. In a brilliant albeit sick sort of analogy, I seem to have poetical constipation now. Can't do it. Would come across too obviously as trying too hard if I did.

This was one of the -Out of nowhere, pick up pen and start stabbing paper with it- pieces.


It's a superficial world. Deny it if you will.
I don't.
It's a world where covers, not content, sell.
Where the Good are always Beautiful, and true
Evil must have horns and pustules.
Where the heavy-browed are stupid and the
Nondescript person cannot be the killer.

Spare me the inner beauty drivel. The advocates either look like
Movie stars, who can afford to be magnanimous, or
Warthogs, and they need all the help they can get.

This is me now. Or at least, what I look like now. A sort of warthog movie star.
Do you love me? My warthog or my star?
And if one day a vile, twisted magic cleft my lip...severed my ears...
Would you love me then? I can't promise you you but I can promise you me.
And if one day a bright, pretty magic swept me into Brad Pitt?
Would you love me then? I can't promise you me but I can promise me you.
And if me fifty years later met you in the now? Old and cold and frail and pale...
Would you love me
Then?

It's alright. Sometimes I lie too. And like you, I don't know it either.
Sometimes the ugly things just surprise me and scare me so I
Say things I don't mean or mean to seem to mean to seem.
And then I'm not a warthog superstar but a frightened little boy
Staring at the darkness with my pretty, shiny toy.

Shhh.
I'm a warthog superstar.
And the nondescript person cannot be the killer.

-Subterfuge
Secrets of a serial killer.


Hey, I never promised it'd be any actual good. Worth mentioning because, like I said, one of those rare moments I just...did it, and then stared at the page later wondering what kind of weirdo I was. No, no, not going emo on anyone. This was way back, anyhow.

...Beats me. Sorry.

Please queue in an orderly manner for the refund of two minutes of your life.

Placebo Redux - Chicken Soup.

I was going to title it "Sanctimonious", and proceed to tell you about my re-discovered hatred of staff in schools. Yes, you do get the legendarily inspirational teachers that Make a Difference, but for the better part, they remain a bunch of fucktards with over-inflated senses of worth.

Then you look at the average student here in Singapore - Obnoxious pieces of shit, rebels without a cause, now with new and improved Problems You Don't Understand. And you feel sorry for all of them. In a -Kill them all and let gods sort them out- kind of way.

But I am happy, and do not wish to soil the rare contentment with the re-living of the above. Perhaps another time.

So, yes.

Chicken soup and the better part of two drumsticks sit snugly in the belly, providing that warm, contented feeling and occasional braaps of chicken-flavoured air. A common enough experience, but this one made special because - Lo! I made it myself!

It bears mentioning that there is hardly ever food in the house. I get back from a day clomping around some forsaken region light-years from my place to...nothing, usually. The mother will insist on reheating some obscure bits that are technically edible, in a pot for days on end. The fridge yields...condensed milk, if I'm lucky. The Sardine Can population has been decimated by too many moments of desperation, and I usually just mumble "Fuck it.", and toss two eggs in hot water for a bit. Mr Ancob was aghast when I told him we hardly ever ate together, family-wise, except for Chinese New Year's. I decided to spare him the sleepless nights the fact that there normally isn't jack shit to eat in the house would cause.

Lovely things, these semi-dysfunctional families.

But tonight! Tonight was different. I'd actually meant to get a batch of chicken drumsticks from somewhere, having had the craving subliminally infused into me by a segment of Eddie Izzard. Awry went the plans, as plans are wont, and I mumbled as I clonked the eggs into the container.

Passing my sister on the way out of the bathroom, I decided to venture communication, and made strange animal noises at her. Having earned my cursory look, I pottered about my things. The growls must have gone down well however, for in a very uncustomary fashion, she asks me if I wanted anything as she was going down to Holland to meet a friend.

Making appropriately condescending noises at her decadent lifestyle, I then earn an incredulous look with my request for raw chicken drumsticks (Bless thee and thy 24-hour decision, Cold Storage). Sending her off with five dollars and instructions to buy however many that would cost, random internet clickage was in order until her return.

She knocks. I open. And handed I am, a plastic bag of six fat luscious chicken legs, lovingly packaged with cellophane over black styrofoam and cryptically labelled "Chicken Parts". Technically correct. Grammar and syntax in order. I let it slide.

Six. Large. Legs. Chicken. For the low, low price of four dollars. Many an eye will roll at my ignorance of grocery pricing, but I do not care. I run my fingers lovingly across the springy, goosebumped (chicken-bumped?) flesh, creeping my sister out and losing my dollar's change in the process as she runs off screaming. But I do not care.

So I take two of them put them in a pot add salt and ginger and garlic and shit with water and boil 'em for abit after which I take them out eat them and polish off the soup.

...What?