22 December 2012

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22 December 2013

And all that was left were the televisions to watch themselves
Antennae faces on dusty, cockroach crawling shelves
Blind but for the flickering faces of bygone scenes
through forty-four inches of colour-coded screens

And the radios heaved a crackling sigh to empty rooms
Offering no breaking news of gay glory or gory gloom
They shushed the black silence with a noise hoarse white
Through the earless hours of the loneliest night.

And streets, still coursing to a million tarred and traveled places,
Winked ironic greens, meaningless ambers and impotent red graces
As deer crossed highways with eyes caught in their sockets
empty wrappers wandered the avenues unconstrained to tidy pockets.

And windmills waved pointlessly to the passing time
Their world a audience-less stage for this utilitarian pantomime
Round and round they argued the value of their existence
The slightest breeze cheering this stubborn persistence.

And all the while not a single host was there to ask
What came of the creatures who lived in glass
For roaches now rule the dusty shelves
Where all that's left are televisions to watch themselves

To Kill Bieber

I’d like to begin by saying that it’s not that I hate Justin Bieber, it’s more that I wish his parents had been pro-abortion or that they themselves had died before puberty.

Now I can already hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth from the scores of tasteless Bieber-ians but prithee, hear me out.

I don’t hate Bieber as a person (I couldn’t because he’s not human). It’s what he stands for that makes me spend countless nights sharpening my Oukapi.

Music, people. Music is the miracle, the most enthralling teacher and the greatest wonder.

While I can appreciate the genius of his marketing and PR team it’s music for whom I weep. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a bubble-gum popping sing-along ditty every now and then but when it’s the only options we have on radio and TV are Britney, “Fiddy”, Scherzinger, Parlatones and Bieber then woe is us.

Think of the children. Think of the babies. We have robbed them of a true appreciation for music – the craft, the expression the art.

When we grew up and when our parents were growing up there was the mind-numbing pop, disco etc. but on the radio you’d also hear the sounds of Motown, Stimela, Hugh, Jimi, Nina, The Cranberries, and Kurt Cobain amongst the easily digestible fodder of Macy Phakela, Kylie Minogue and Malume Piki-Piki and that weirdo who sang Scapman.

Even the Bee Gees wrote some of the most awesome disco tracks with great melodies, catchy but crafted instrumentals topped with well written lyrics like:

I ain’t no vision I’m the boy who loves you

Inside and out.

Backwards and forwards with my heart hanging out.

I love no other way

What are we gonna do if we lose that fire?

Sure beats “I’m a G6, I’m a, I’m a G6” right?

Let’s think about the kids. They have to know that there’s more to this music thing. They have to know that you don’t have to make booties drop when dropping an album. It’s totally feasible to have a club vibe to lyrics that are informed and politically, socially or religiously charged.

Bieber? Bieber? Yrrrrr I wish I were Christian so I could murder him on Saturday and be absolved of my sins on Sunday morning.

Mr. Pothead

A pickled Mr. Pothead poked a pre-pubescent pupil past the praying pew to peek at the priest popping pills into the pure, prayed upon wine. Peering round at peers and properly praying people – preoccupied with pious practice – Pothead pondered its unholy purpose. The pretentious priest, who remained prim and proper ‘mongst the preached-to parent populace, had a putrid practice with prayer-choir pupils and their petrified penises (pun purely by haps). At mass he’d pray, piping psalms pro piety and preached from Peter and Paul. But the Pontius Pilot prick played putrid games the pure pope would admire or abhor.

Excuse My Penis

Even though I was once told not to blame my penis for my mistakes, it continuously betrays my youth. 

Whilst some may think insanity and the inability to control one’s thoughts is an undignified disposition I find the involuntary activities of my loins a much more troubling state of affairs.

Excusable as it may be for a teenaged boy to pitch a tent at the high school ball slow dance a grown man who harbours the growing expression of his most primitive reflexes is near unforgivable. Just imagine sharing a dance floor with every guy and his pride and glory.

But the shaft is not just a shaft. It has a head and with this head comes a mind of it’s own. 

Sometimes we don’t even know why there’s suddenly no space in our pants because we were busy typing a spreadsheet document. Maybe it’s reminding us to take a quick browse at Youporn. Priorities. 

It is important to note that, once our dear friend has his mind made up there’s no talking yourself out of it. One cannot compare the urges of Madame Pussycat, aka the vagina, with the aching of a man’s loins. When women are overcome by desire they’re still functioning, taxpaying members of society and women, on the most part, can maintain their standards.

(But) when the penis takes over the mind of it’s owner it has little to no regard for reputations, standards and office deadlines. 

Please understand, ladies, that this is not an excuse. It’s fact. There are hundreds of millions of men wandering in a seemingly aimless zombie state with sex in their eyes. We are but leaves in the winds of our lustful wants.

So I implore you to please forgive my penis for it knows not what it does. Hell, I don’t even think it’s mine most of the time.

Sexual Harassment: The Rules of Engagement.

In any interaction between human beings there are spoken and unspoken rules that dictate how one should appropriately act (whether the engagement itself is appropriate or not).

There are rules of engagement when it comes to war so it is natural to accept that when engaging in office sexual harassment there are lines to be drawn. Believe it.

Now, sexual harassment is such a strong word. I prefer office play.  But we’ll call a spade a spade.

It’s easy to merely say that it’s only sexual harassment if the person is unattractive but, hey, ugly people like work-play too. So we need to establish a common ground (a sort of playground where even the fat kid gets picked).

It is best not to be willy-nilly with whom you choose to work-play. Rather establish a repertoire by beginning with verbal wordplay. Light innuendos and puns that compare office stationary to hidden body parts are preferable. Don’t jump straight into sending links to YouPorn.

Ok, rule number one: don’t ever send links to YouPorn. That’s what we call a digital paper-trail. That’s not smart sexual harassment.

A very important rule to keep in mind is tit for tat (no pun intended but it reinforces the point). If he winks feel free to reciprocate. If she slaps your bum then it is only polite to return the favour. The idea is to slowly build up to whichever point you feel you need to draw the line. Yes, everybody has a limit. Some people will only be sexually harassed to a point before it’s no longer fun and games.

The industry you’re in will also determine how far you can take things. If you’re in a law firm then even eye contact is prohibited. If you’re in advertising feel to test the limits (as long as you’re within 5meters of the bar). 

In short, sexual harassment like love is a two way street. If you find that you’re the only one contributing chances are you’re a stalker. Stop. Reassess your approach. Then start a conversation with the office slut. Every office has one. She doesn’t necessarily put out but she prefes conversations where the topic ends up being about her Tuesday cleavage.

But I do warn you, this game is best left to attractive people. Ugly people usually end up in court.

The Friend Zone

I don’t care who you are or the places you have already been to. If you’re a man there’s no scarier place than the friend zone. It’s that ominous black whole – a social Limbo or sorts - where you’re sexually disorientated.

It’s keeps men up at night; thinking, judging themselves, wondering what went wrong. Basically, you don’t know how you got here or how the hell to get out.

The answer to the first question, how the hell did I end up in the friend-zone, is a tough one. It could be the result of a number of bad moves on your part. In The Game, timing is everything and somewhere along the line you took too long. Unfortunately there is no standard open window period – much like a worm whole – in which to get in (no pun intended).

Hindsight is 20/20 so when if you’re in the friend zone you’ll probably see the moments where you should have pulled in or unbuttoned her top or just asked her on a date. But now you find yourself in that awful place where she loves having you around but there’s no chance of it going further than “this is my friend, Sbani-bani”.

The friend zone is a house of torture run by a cruel, unintentional sorceress who’s derives great pleasure from being oblivious to the aching in your heart or loins.  She’s constantly calls you over for “drinks” or “just to hang” thus leading you to believe she’s interested. This illusion is soon dashed by her incessant ramblings of another love interest or sexual conquest she’s having trouble emotionally dealing with. If only she knew the cure is in your pants, you think to yourself.

Basically you’ve become her gay-straight buddy. You’re like an accessory in front of which she can get dressed. Accidental boob-rubs are giggled away but don’t think it meant anything, pervert.

So how can you get out? That’s a tough one because it’s a matter of risking everything. The only way to get out is to devalue the friendship. Remember, the friendship is the problem. There is no building on it, evolving it manipulating it. You don’t even know where you are buddy.

Don’t be scared of coming out empty handed. The fear is what keeps you in the friend zone. Screw the fear. Screw the friendship. That’s the only way you’re going to screw her.

I Hate the Sea

I really do hate the sea
that separates you from me
even brids migrate from Autum trees

and wild beasts move south, you see
and the sun sets so timeously
to give the moon a moment or three
So I have to ask, quite honestly,
does the sea have no place else it could be?