Tuesday, March 31, 2009

AI Round 2

Let me just start with this question:
what the hell does it really matter if Adam Lambert is gay? There are articles, websites, blogs, that seem disgustingly excited with uncovering the fact that Adam is not heterosexual. So the eff what? In case you ignorami (ignoramuses? I digress..) haven't noticed, he's incredibly talented, and his sexual orientation doesn't matter. Period. If anything, it gives him an extra flair and potentially bigger fanbase because he does know how to work both the women and the men. I'm included in that bunch...he's one handsome, talented dude.

It just massively bothers me that the media and society in general needs to "expose" something like this as if it's a dirty little secret. Guess what...he's proud of who he is so no one really gets a "way to go" prize for uncovering something that was never covered up to begin with. What do you jerks want: a Pullitzer??! If they spent as much energy and time on finding their brain cells and souls then maybe this world would be a better place.

Moving on.

I've seen some discussions about Scott MacIntyre recently that have concerned me. Because I don't watch actual TV anymore, I've been catching AI performances (only the ones I care about) on the AI website and YouTube. Scott usually does a first class performance, but apparently, some viewers are concerned that he's not being treated very well by the production team and the judges. I've heard accusations such as: the production team or the other contestants not warning Scott that he was wearing pink pants one night, and another time when he didn't get his pick of song because the others took advantage of his blindness and chose over him. (I'm cringing as we speak). I can't confirm or disprove those accusations, but their existence saddens me.

About the judges' treatment of Scott, I think that Simon and Randy are too harsh on Scott, but Kara and Paula are too soft. I feel like the women tiptoe around Scott because he's blind, and that is not acceptable. Having said that, Simon and Randy need to recognize Scott's talent and give him some frigging props. He is true to himself as an artist every week, and always pulls off a beautiful rendition of whatever song he chooses. Plus, he plays a mean piano to match his soothing vocals. How can you ask for more?

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Original Sin--poem

You were born with it
(well, we both were.)
But your very skin emanates its glow.
Like amber honey, when I trace my fingertips
over your surface,
it covers, entraps me-
sticking one to the other.
I'm frozen for a moment
yet It is swallowed by
the rushing bliss that follows.
The crucial instant when quickened breath commences,
curiosity morphs into obsession.
The walls don't matter, my surroundings: redundant.
Logic screams for resistance-I laugh at its attempt.
All of my focus burns on your arms
holding me almost too tightly.
Skin and heat blur, into a mess of each other.
I inhale, you exhale, then switch,we fall-
Entwined in cotton, Silk, Satin,(whatever).
Chests heaving, blood pounding,
hypnotic heat shivers,
then a lull.
(a pause.)
My focus lessens.
Curiosity returns.
Will he stay, repeat, delete, or leave?
I know he indulged-
gave in, (damn)
like me.
The honey lingers on my fingertips, lips.
Curiosity turns bitter-guilt, doubt,
set in.
The Act, Dance, Fiasco, Affair
(see "mistake" for more)
is your Original Sin.
But what you don't realize,
(you never did, do not, will never)
is that you're mine.
You're Mine.

Little girl--poem

Little Girl, I can only pray.
Little Girl, I've only words to say.
But what can this mean to a child's heart?
Except some blabbering fool-
where do I start?
Don't ever take a stranger's hand,
or trust your heart to danger.
Don't make the same mistakes I did,
or try to sell yourself for less-
I'm dying here as I watch those eyes,
resting so gently on this cruel world.
Little Girl, this fool is still singing
empty Pleas to maybe an empty Heaven.
But if your heart beats strongly enough for both of us,
let your faith in living pull you through.
And may your God rescue you from forsaken paths
and Darkness
and the nightmares
I've (mistakenly) learned to trust...
Little Girl, take this prayer from me.
Wrap it in some paper-lock it deep within your soul
so that no one can ever see-
you're the One that Night can't control-
you're just a little girl.
Take this prayer,
from Little Me.

If You Say--poem

Pen to paper: the sole way I know how,
articulation seems meagre,
when from my lips, attempted.
I mean not to offendthine eyes or ear.
Simply delivered here,my purpose-
this seemingly tedious, onerous task,
(though writing orconsuming-which isonerous more?)
of exposing words, scribed upon my beating heart.
A formed confession, which I struggle to impart.
"Yearning," "desire" -I tire of such diction.
Yet, may it be offeredthat I am "lacking."
How naked when presented, as such as this:
"I miss you,"but "you" is a fluid term-
pouring "he" of yesterday, or years ago
into framesof a gallery of "what if's."
I fight to conjure a foresought memory of you in future nights
(not suffocating days).
My mind recalls not, what my limbs achingly do:
the sensation of strength wrapped in, around
pressed against this encasement-of physiological lust,
and mental infatuation,
(for "you").
Embrace, kiss, caress-mechanical Steps!
They spark nerves'responses,but do not put
dreams to a test.
Absolve me of the Seven-
for I'm Master of them All.
Or, douse this Burning Paradox of an empty soul
full of Pain.
(and explain how you accomplishedsuch a trick.)
Or, just confirm the Icy Truth, that I,
who Burns truefor You,
is just a passing flame,
easily Extinguished
with the Breath of
One Word.

Silver Lining--poem

I see the clouds rolling in
no silver lining gracing their presence
you're standing alone, sobbing in a field
no bed of roses to comfort your frame
you start to sway
a delicate flower fading amidst wintry winds
how beautiful a soul
you possess such gifts
an inspirationto ferns and green
the colour amongst darkness
what pain is seething here
my heart dies a little watching from afar
I find my arms reaching
wanting to keep you safe
as my heart keeps beating despite the blood
flowing out of it
creating the flowerbed to cushion your slumber
an invisible wall keeps me from you
just a few more steps...
but alas-
only an angel with wings so pure
softer than these Mortal arms
can protect your heart
I can only do so much
but what I can please let me
then I'll plead to the heavens
to send the angel and from my heart
will only bleed a silver lining
and keep you safe
in the warmth
of the new Sun


Catching my eye-
the Black Widow scene
my arms spread wide, pressed to the sill
how long I stooped, remains unsolved
the web of crimson ensnared my vision
weaving tighter, asphyxiating reason
a crux of monstrous proportion;
unable to tear away from window pane, to pane
while gooseflesh burst every pore of my being-
a horrified fascination, as you performed your Skill
your tools of artistry glistened 'neath the Orb;
with every glint a shudder ensued
you became an alchemist, turning blood to ice
I witnessed the frame as you shattered its contents,
peeling layers away with blades of damnation
my heart burned-
Consuming, you devoured my reason
any sanity remaining, defamed whilst bystanding
peeling and peeling, ripping, and desecrating-
exposing vulnerability with brutal performance flair
screams and blood strangled my abilities-
a vegetative state invaded my reality-
staring, staring, the layers still peeling,
until crimson pools licked the Earth-
forever tainted, my transparent skin and fading resolve,
no morals existed evermore-
just Crimson, crimson, the fire of Blasphemy,
your Talents reigned over molecules of innocence-
a broken visage lay in crumbles on the floor
such sympathy, piteous sentiment, reverberated throughout-
disappearing flesh-
the harsh realization of ravaged dimensions,
whisked away my corporeal illusion-
until the collision of your web to my victim
exploded Heaven's chance of accepting-
no soul still lingers just damaged tissue,
disintegrated skeleton-
I became the picture as the frame reassembled,
posted on your wall
of your finest accomplishments.


Sittting on the Sun
distracting rays attracting darkness
time's the Idol
you fall on bended [bleeding] knees
before it, wanting approval
you say you are important
"They" are the bane
the enemy, the unclean
this wreaks with contradiction
hipocrysy--my bane
principles, not people
but I'm not perfect
and you certainly are not
can't you see the blood?
Yours from those damned knees?
From the days of worship
to whom you call "God"
but you're calling false idols
it's Time again
you're bleeding for a moment of glory
your claim to the physical modern-day Troy
that's lasted for millennia
hordes are crying
gunfire drowning them
along with their tears
salt water stinging your wounds
listen, listen
for God's sake, open your soul
let your "bane" go home
or at least see the Sun
the one you're keeping
while citizens of reality
wither die life fades
night invades
let them go home
including your warriors
for they deserve salvation [freedom]
or let me question you
as to what home remains
and when you say you are a united people
you crave for unanimity
yet you divide and dissect
the irony lies in the emerging fact
that you and your rivals are all human
you live on the same Earth
you breathe mutual air
you all bleed red
and your tears can drown each other
until nothing remains but this empty land
for if you murder your enemies
their supporters will avenge it
you reflect each other
you're the same, the same
you're united
isn't that what you wanted?
Now tell me true
tell me now
that you're the better person
and that you're so different
that you deserve others' blood
just so you can block the Sun
while worshipping nothing
but death

Comedy of a Rose--poem

Wrapping hands around the wind
this warped torrent falls onto dust,
no trust will build or soothe this aching heart
rise up to the sun
the light blinds the fool
my folly is my trade-laugh in it,
find joy somewhere to stand up to the day
the night grasps hard
it always seems that darkness is the victor
I lust in its mystery, its unending suspicion
eyes will well-adjust prodding fingers
above my chest into my neck-
it's hard to breathe-
some stupid black hole-
purgatory continuously reaching for heaven
or hell-some change so desired from a paradoxical stability
s fresh air can be delighted in again
I envy the Moon penetrating darkness
having its place so prestigious
could I be the glowing sphere that lights up another's dismay?
Could I be the mystery
the child of night
the woman who's growing,
waiting to bloom?
For a bud I remain in the sterile day
waiting, and waiting for this, for you
for an answer true
for some sort of a key
some gentle light
a nurturing bath-
kiss this rose
and see her as the light

On the Ears of a Ghost

I thought I should tell you
your lips were sincere
but your tongue betrayed
the myth of innocence
I heldYour body
to mine-
I thought I should tell you
you felt good;
In the least I hoped
you would
as I kissed my way
down from our lips
curling toes
I thought I should tell you
iIt's not ok-
Not [never]
just now
the promise I made
to myself
to guard
the whimsical purity
you whisked
and skimmed me off
my cliché feet
the multi-task-
kiss, touch, grind,
taste [blah blah blah]
to skim, scam,
leave me to[o]
with my golden Key-
with trouble-
then sleeping-
dreaming of the road,
the tire tracks,
stains from lips,
the imprints from a ghost
I thought I should tell you
it hurts, but I knew
I figured-and pushed-
I thought I should

The Architect--poem

I have some ideas-
some delicious estimations-
I can imagine your eyes,
how smoky they are in the dimmer lights
while you gaze at me and I can see
how you want…well…
then there is your hands-
they are strong, they are my protection-
you hold my passion
(one day my heart)
within them-
I cannot forget your lips-
they taste bittersweet, making me crave
their firm determination paralysing me
holding me to the floor while I savour my
imprisonment-you arms embellish my need
and hedonist desire to feel as though
the world has halted in honour of this
blissful embrace-
have I told you what story my eyes would tell
if you let me look into yours,
and stop time from disturbing
the exchange-my hands would paint
a picture of a situation, tableau, scene,
whatever the hell you’d want to name
this entanglement-my lips would speak
breathe and sing the secrets
boiling beneath my skin,
anxious to escape and offer a taste of
the True Hunger-
my arms would mesh
wrap warmth around you hold you to my heart
so you can hear it beat, pulse, throb,
making my blood rush, revealing the truth,
numbing my body, so I can only whisper
the epitome of this moment-
the sum of all my craving-
I know you will feel the same,
just one question, love-
because I’d be willing to give you
the ecstasy I yearn-
what are you waiting for?

Correcting Pronouns --poem

I'm not sure why...
I could take a guess...
I could hypothesize
and theorize-
but it's not all about me,
about "I"-
you're in it-
you are it.
Whatever "it" is,
whoever you are-
you could be one of two…of three…
of them all-
but that's not quite true-
for when I dream the nightmares tease-
I see your face and feel your lips like it was yesterday.
Part of me curses while I shiver inside-
I never felt as warm and as frozen at the same time
like I did with you, in your arms.
Damn them, save them for someone,
who can put up with it all, who can put up with you.
I’m craving the new, whoever “new” may be.
I’ll know when it’s true, for the cold will vanish,
melt into a kiss that I’ll hold
till Time cuts in.
I’m your ghost of “what if’s”-
you’ll yearn what you missed.
I won’t try to prove what I’m worth,
what you lost-
when you dropped me on the ground
with all your trash, and you walked away,
as if hurting me was as simple as dropping the needle
after a quick, somewhat satisfying Hit.
But wait-I’ve guessed-Hypothesized-Theorized-The irony-
I’ve proved my worth-
I’m more than a drug,
I’m a bloody dream.
You were my vision until my eyes cleared
and all I saw was you forcing me down.
Look again-I’m not there.
I’m miles away, holding a change,
Creating a fire that could smoulder
my pain, your ways, for good.

The Waking--poem

Into the throes of sleep
where nightmares wait
and shackles burn, craving to scald the tissue
while carving your mark on my wrists
I still taste your name on my tongue
savouring its novelty
then comes the bitterness siphoning my consciousness
‘till the blood thins,‘till I become this,
a Wraith or Fading Creature sucking on Hope
with ensuing gasps-
an attempt to maintain the legendary strength,
that once coursed through these veins
tirelessly, but now you see there’s poison lurking here-
with every word I scribe
you vanish from my eyes-
why you remain in my dreams, my nightmares
distresses composure-
what I have left to count on, is Waking disappointment
and the Revelation that I helped create these scars-
as though each fault, I bestowed on the world
won retribution by gnawing a brand
into my frame-I’m imprisoned here,
the invisible walls, encasing guilt, caging the Anger-
the noose of Reason tightens, darkness floods my Sight-
eerie Peace thunders in-
I wake with memories of You, turning your back,
andWalking away,
far, far,
from Desire’s Grave



Shedding reptilian skin
after moonlit mistakes,
should have bequeathed
a chance to cleanse
my sins from the surface-
Or bestow upon me
life anew.
I am abandoned, exposed
flesh breaking, whilst
rhythms from the night
sickeningly lull
my aching membrane into a trance-
when fantasy’s thoughts thrash at the core
gnawing away at sanity’s embrace
even when sanity has dissipated,
faded from the foreground
morality should reign: a consciousness
of what I used to deem
sensible, or the contrary.
In this moment, this fleeting specimen
of the universe’s glory, I am huddled
on the marble floor.
Crimson pools seep through the cracks,
replacing my crimes that should be buried
with the bones that grasp
remnants of ancestors and all the nostalgia
that six feet of decrepit earth can bear.
The bystander wonders in horrified awe,
why I repeatedly shudder,
why I practically retch,
because of my own misdeeds?
and why I am so confused,
as to the obvious reason behind my scars?
And why this layer of identity
falls with appalling ease
like the shavings of a butchered creature-
why tears are forming-
when I am the perpetrator-
the One still clutching
the blade

Thursday, March 19, 2009


Greetings cyberspace.

I'm pretty sure no one will be reading this any time soon, but alas, I'm using it more like a journal anyway (for now..).

I've been listening to some Demetri Martin. That man is funny! Speaking of funny, I'm enjoying recent comedies, especially from Judd Apatow and any of the actors and writers who have worked with him (or worked with those actors). If you haven't seen "Role Models" yet (not an Apatow film, but ok) I suggest you stop reading this and rent it. Or buy it. It's epic. "Superbad" is pretty much one of my favourite comedies, too. Christopher Mintz-Plasse is a completely newbie to the movie scene, but he's already a legend. "McLovin'" landed him his legendary status. I think we all want to have that nickname. As Michael Cera's character in "Superbad" said, "McLovin'" sounds like an Irish R&B singer's name. Clearly, Ireland is full of R&B singers. Nothing like Vanilla soul.

Now, I'm not completely won over by all of the Superbad-esque, slap-stick, in-your-face-rude and crude movies. Some are just over the top and not my taste. YOU might be into them, but that's the beauty of comedies, ain't it? Different strokes for different folks.

Ok. No more lame clichés. Sorry: that one even scared me.

I have not watched "Dark Knight" in a long time. This makes me sad.

Moving along.

Yes, I watch American Idol once in a while. I'm a patriot, adore Canada, no doot aboot it, eh, yadda yadda yadda, but Canadian Idol just doesn't cut it for me. There is always something sinfully and disgracefully entertaining or stimulating about most episodes of American Idol. The judges can be quite infuriating *cough Simon cough*, ridiculous *cough Paula cough*, but Randy and Kara are doing ok. The contestants, on the other hand, make or break the entertaining part of the show. This year, they've got QUITE a rainbow of talent and styles. Adam Lambert is clearly the most talented and/or well-rounded. He's smart, too, because damn that boy has audiences (and Paula) wrapped around his finger. I'll give some kudos to Paula for recognizing his talent, but she's a bit too flightly for my liking. Simon's just a douchebag most of the time, and called Adam's latest performance "indulgent rubbish," to my horror. Adam did what he was supposed to do: he took a song and made it his own.

Adam's not a country singer (thank the Lord), but country was the theme of the night. Instead of watering himself down and changing his style to "fit" the country genre, Adam, in all of his black nail-polish wearing glory, took a Johnny Cash classic and glam-rocked it. Yeah!

Aside from Adam, there are some other...talented...people on the show. Honest and full props to Scott MacIntyre, who has a beautiful voice, and can play the proverbial pants off of the piano. Oh: did I mention he's blind? Geez. I can see and don't play nearly as well as him. Or sing as well, for that matter. A few of the girls aren't too bad: the two blondes are different. They're not great singers or performers, but they're both strong women who try damn hard and are gorgeous. I'll leave them alone. The other guys have their moments, but just sadly pale in comparison to Adam's ability to make the stage his b****.

*Aggravated sigh*... Enter Lil Rounds, though. And that guy who's name I don't remember but who seems to think he's hot and adorable because he can play the acoustic guitar and looks like he walked out of an American Eagle ad. Not that these two (and a couple of the others who annoy me) aren't talented, per se, they're just such....dimes. There are clones upon clones of them in the industry, and I'm not sure they deserve to be given "the" production opportunity. I'm not the one to decide that honour, though.

Here's what is plaguing my brain about AI (AI? Artificial Intelligence? American Idol? Resemblance? I digress...): Adam "should" win because he's hella talented, or Scott, but what is AI all about? Looking back at past winners, only a couple original singers have made it far. Sadly, even David Cook has vaporized. I had high hopes for that guy. I hope he makes a "comeback." Even though he just won last year. Ouch. The others have come and gone, and we've all forgotten their names. Adam will always be remembered IF he: wins and gets to keep his original edge on his music, or if he does NOT win, and moves onto his own career as an original artist. He will be forgotten, though, if he wins and is "forced" (I use that term lightly) to produce fluffy ear-poison that dominates the music biz these days. He better not become another snuffed out star with boundless potential only to be silenced by red tape and ignorant producers. *shudder*

So, should he win? If AI is about sugar-pop conformity, then no. I don't want Adam to fade. He should make it to the top two, then the crown should go to someone else who can face the "conform or reform" dilemma. I wouldn't wish the conformity curse on Scott, either. I hope he can find some edge soon, too. He's very talented but is only slightly lacking in the "wowza!" factor. Lil Rounds sounds like a wannabe [enter R&B singers' names here]. She's really not amazing. She's ok, but that's it. The judges have praised her--actually praised her--vocal abilities, and that makes me feel like my brain is being ripped out, stomped on, then shoved back into my head.

I need some more comedy.

By the way, I realize that Adam is likely gay, but I swear, if he ever asked me out on a date, I would say yes in a flash. Rock and Roll, baby. I'm letting him wrap me around his finger...as long as he remains Adam Lambert and not an AI machine. I wish I had that kind of power!

I love to sing, and have recently become secretly (or not so secretly) addicte to karaoke. It would be epic and exhilerating to command a stage like Adam does. I mean, I've got similar hair to him, a mischievous nature...I guess I just need that thing called vocal talent. *chuckle*. I'm ok, but that's where the bar stops. OK-ness doesn't cut it for finger-wrapping abilities. *le sigh*

Back to comedy. That was depressing.

Someone at Rogers recommended "The Ten" after he saw me pick up "Role Models." Bleh, is all I have to say about that movie. It has a couple decent moments, but it's too ridiculous. Movies like "Superbad" and "Role Models" are "escape-to" movies where you love to get lost in the laughs. "The Ten" is more an "escape-from" movie for me. Not ideal. I didn't finish it, even though I got to near the end. Again, it's probably just a personal taste thang, but it's not tasting so good to me.

Don't you hate it when reality slaps you in the face? Even if the reality tidbit is "good," you still just forgot that it is impending, and you need to prepare for it...My interview for Social Work is tomorrow night. My jaw just clenched tighter. Ouch. I need some decompression time. I just hope my excitement UFC's my nervousness' ass.

Well, time for me to get back to my current reality, and not to tomorrow's--or even tonight's. I'll be spending the evening with my big sister, Spirit of the West, and Great Big Sea, so I really can't complain.

May the Force be with you...and check out Role Models.