The Tumultuous Mind of M.W. Shaw

Camel, I

2005-01-30T18:59:00.000-08:00

With unmanageable lading,
In the sweltering summer--
In the evenings, a winter--
I am ever listening to the
troupe sing!

Always they've cruel words
To add to my untold pains;
For whenever the Legion gains,
Its backbone is ever so
desperately hunkered.

- by M.W. Shaw

The Poor Knight

2005-01-24T20:41:00.000-08:00

Though his sword dripped crimson--
of moors and suchlike heathens--
The street-lined onlookers transfixed
Upon the hero's eyes, unclearly rent--
with guilt--
His tunic hung as peasantly rags do,
His maille rusted with sweat and tears--
borne of terrible hours--
Those watching held a respect for the--
poor knight--
Though his grief that eve would prevail,
And would a dagger pierce his breast.

- by M.W. Shaw

A Tune for the Night

2005-01-19T20:12:00.000-08:00

A trenchant luna hangs
Aloft in the bellows
Of heaven's great pipe-instrument
Also crowned, this luminary,
With hazy nocturnes;
Luminous untouchables, very
Distinct in indistinct tones

The great keys toggle,
Gathering strength in the
Machine's gaping lungs

Further indistinct, as if a
Lingering scent of crushed
Flowers, rises--carried
By brazen concertos,
Fractured thoughts of
A conductor after wine

Ever rising, a graduation
Like to the dawn's awakening
Or the life's waning

Soon, it shall attain
An unbearable volume

- by M.W. Shaw

[Footsteps in an empty hall]

2005-01-16T20:47:00.000-08:00

A hollow clamour
Marks paced steps
It is, perhaps, an echo
Or an ignored remembrance

- M.W. Shaw

Affronts

2005-01-14T04:45:00.000-08:00

While sipping brandy
In brazen hours of the eve
Two friends sit opposed
One accused (far too often) of
(Unwanted) prevarication
The other far too prone to fear
Being of diffident manner
They will continue
In such a spiteful sort of way
Until the pub empties its halls
Or the 'tender intervenes then
For a semblance of tenderness

And the candles flicker out
While old friends row

- by M.W. Shaw

As the Wisp Wills

2005-01-11T23:11:00.000-08:00

Once a match has puffed out
The smoke pours from the tip
And I caress them as
As a sculptor would clay
Coaxing out warships
And galaxies twirling
Through the vastness
Of a small, smoky room

- by M.W. Shaw

The Floor Grout

2005-01-10T18:47:00.000-08:00

O! though ye are trodden
Yea! and o'erthrown by tiles
Of both greater girth
And taking larger berths
Serve as bulwark for the din
Reverberated against
Like cacophony all fenced
But said tiles are indeed slave
To your guiles

- by M.W. Shaw

A Tableau

2005-01-08T21:57:00.000-08:00

Above, a pristine sky
Mark'd with billows
To chase away the woes

Below, a fetid remain
Feasted on by fears
Further worn by years

Within, stones all awry
Like due to disrespect
From boys who ne'er reflect

Upon, a loving refrain
Rather a reluctant mote
Or a witty anecdote

Long since inhabitants arose
For they are loath to be woke
By belov'd who'd rather leave a rose

They below are oft offended by those
With whom they oft ill-spoke

- by M.W. Shaw

Hook & Twine

2005-01-07T23:03:00.000-08:00

Once upon a littered beach
Home to the crab
And the occasional leach
But never once a sand dab
There was a fisher who,
With the whole of his mortal soul,
Sailed the seas so blue
In search of the man who stole
His only valued possession

Well, at least one of them
For the first was hook and twine
But the second was a lovely whim,
His most-beloved red mulled wine
Only the first had been purloined,
For the fisher drank his last cup
Directly before being joined
By a man who came to sup
But who desired so much more

'Hullo, good sir!' said our fisher man
Who was ever so cordial, 'Would you care
For some oyster, and not from the can?'
The visitor gave a long, ponderous stare
And said quietly, 'No, thank you,'
Then quickly added, 'But do you have any bread?'
The fisher sighed into his stew
For the loaf was hard as lead,
And hardly a palatable dish

The stranger feigned anger
At this culinary misfortune
And seized a coat hanger
With which to fashion a harpoon
Then with this makeshift implement,
He threatened the fisher's life
'Here am I without even a cent,
And you give me ever more strife!'
Then grabbed for some valuables

Now he quickly ran whitherwhere
With the fisher's gold hook
And his twine made of hair
Not to mention an old book,
Which had no real value,
Being only an essay on cinders
But it should be known that few
Were the things which would hinder
This quest to retrieve the lost trinkets

He searched on the beaches
And then in the waterholes
Where he'd have no catches
And in haunted woods full of old souls
But stayed far from the barrows,
For there he might catch his death
Then he continued in cornrows
But heard nothing when holding his breath
Save footsteps in hurried flight

The fisher almost caught him,
And might have that dark day
If not for an unsteady limb
That the stranger crossed on his way
Which, when stepped upon
Broke off and landed adrift
But the thief's days were done
And he fell off of a cliff,
Along with the fishers gold hook and twine

- by M.W. Shaw

Rhythms and flowings

2005-01-06T19:11:00.000-08:00

During certain nows and agains, I find a certain rhythm to life that waxes and wanes, much as the moon does twelve times every year, and this rhythm contains and involves various horrible and pleasant happenings ranging from one's mood to habitual occurrences. Many interpret this without considering--or, often enough, even realising--this rhythm. As in, it seems to be a latent human presumption, for many blame gods and devils for the unfortunate things which naturally merely happen. Likewise with favourable circumstances, or the natural--yet admittedly marvelous--things. For instance, I quite often hear people refer to 'the miracle of birth', or 'the miracle of the human hand', with no thought to the sheer commonness of them. I've no idea about the roughly estimated number of births per day, but I am told that it is quite high; and however many births there are per day, twice as many hands arrive with these infants! I should have no need to define the word 'miracle', but I shall:

1 : an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs
2 : an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

And now, let us define 'extraordinary', shall we?

1 a : going beyond what is usual, regular, or customary

So now that the Right Noble Mr Richard Shunery has defined that for us, I shall continue by saying this: life has a natural rhythm, whether devised by a god or devised by chance, it has been devised and one would be a fool to dispute that, given the indefatigable evidence presented quite often by none other than nature itself. Given this, it would be wise to suppose that this rhythm would carry both positive and negative aspects; and while I am not the finest adherent to the policy which I am shortly about to propose, I must make it quite clear that I do make a fine effort to adhere to it. The policy of which I have just spoken is this: take life as you would a slice of ham in a frying pan; sometimes one burns the ham, and sometimes one cooks the most delicious piece of fried ham that one could think of making. Or rather, consider life to be a handful of eggs; sometimes one drops some, sometimes one doesn't. Or a flying bird with loose bowels; sometimes one walks away clean, and sometimes the bird shits while happening to fly over one's head. I could list several hundred--possibly thousands, if I exerted myself--such illustrations, but I'm quite sure that you, the reader, can do the same.

- M.W. Shaw

[If but for every forgotten gesture]

2005-01-04T20:32:00.000-08:00

If but for every forgotten gesture
That has slipped through our fingers
We could attempt remembrance
Of that which lies ahead of us

Or instead fall short of a step
And tumble to e'en further depths
In our disconcerted thoughts
Which fit tempests like a metaphor

And what shall be said of us
If we are dazzled by our self-lust
Except that we at least can dream
Though at the cost of a dried stream

But all that is said in truth
Is that mice are no greater cowards that we

- by M.W. Shaw

A Monument of Fiery Black Sky

2005-01-03T19:59:00.000-08:00

Amid irradiated markets, and dim human vestiges,
Shattered towers piercing through the clouds,
And vehicles strewn in patchwork sets,
The smoke plumes twist and gyrate
While they escape the iron corse

Alone, they mark the barrows
Of concrete undergrounds
Advertised throughout
By grave treasures
Like to gods

Or godlike in hope
Now for skeletal masses
All preaching in utter silence
As though afraid of penetration
That might invoke more godwrath

Adorned by steel and cement framework--
The backbone of the impenetrable
And the might of freedom--
Now fulfilled in absentia
And under firmament

Where even stars are blind,
Though the earth no longer cares

- by M.W. Shaw

A couplet, among other things

2005-01-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

What tumult can be any more pleasant
Than mid-autumn's thunderous descant?

- by M.W. Shaw

As I sit listening to a storm--admittedly not mid-autumn, but the weather today feels far more like autumn than wintre--I feel altogether at peace, as if there is nothing to be concerned about. I've not much to write now, for I have done quite a lot of writing elsewhere.

So, enjoy the couplet poem that you almost didn't get due to my exhaustion and sloth.

Alsø alsø

2005-01-01T16:38:00.000-08:00

Welcome, two thousand and five, to the relentless conveyance of human ambition.

And welcome, all ye merry gentlemen and, likewise, ladies.

Candlelight

2005-01-01T16:36:00.000-08:00

Dead, or like to, are you
Atop an iron perch
Until a spark intervenes
And pulls you into life
As though a marionette on strings

Though helpless alone,
You burn with internal strength
And with such liquid brilliance
That belies so gentle a spirit
For such an untamed luminary

And with such biting fury
For such mellow strokes
And what hunger that so quickly
Devours the wax and wick
And creeps toward a perishing end

But though you wield such power
Your weakness is but one soft breath
That leads again into chill sleep
Where none can see--for but a wisp of breath--
But may wake again for another short life

- by M.W. Shaw

Dignity, or lack thereof

2004-12-30T19:17:00.000-08:00

I'll be brief in saying that the one thing that America lacks the most is dignity, in the sense of having enough respect for oneself to act in a way respectful to those people that are not oneself.

To be less brief, I shall continue. On any given day, I can go out into town and see countless people that wear the most disgusting rags imaginable, and they're all as unkempt as is humanly possible. But these people do not lack the money to tidy themselves up. No, they're purchasing sugary cereals and soda along with cigarettes, beer, and lottery tickets. Not only do they garb themselves badly, but their lack of dignity is evident--and often much more evident--in the way they speak. Not a one of them can manage a half-respectable accent, for their education must have been entirely nonexistent. These people have no dignity.

This is even more evident in children. Prepubescent girls are now dressing like whores, little boys are telling their mothers to "fuck off," and teenage boys are often slobbering, mindless wretches without thoughts in their heads. I cannot walk anywhere anymore without seeing at least two dozen boys all dressed like punks or gangsters, all sniggering about a random girl's arse. There is no hope for these, for they have never been taught anything at all.

The American people seem to have forgotten decency. They have no memory of dressing in clean clothing, or taking a shower, or reading a book. In fact, the extent of the average American man's imagination is this: sex, beer, cigarettes, sports, television, and hunting. Even among the middle class, one will find most middler-classers watching the television constantly, and their favourite conversation piece is the latest television programme.

An overpowering pressure often afflicts me when I walk in public, as if the collective apathy/ignorance/idiocy of modern Americans is trying to assault my mind. I don't mind if people are ignorant and/or stupid, but I wish they would have some dignity and appear to care about something worthwhile. Perhaps they could gain something from pretending to care, but that doesn't matter. All of this musing will do no good, I'm afraid. Humans are helplessly ignorant, and idiotically stubborn when faced with that ignorance.

That is enough for tonight. Happy new year, everyone.

A Match

2004-12-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

I'm terribly burnt-out tonight, after a terribly unhealthy Chinese supper. Egg rolls may taste good, but the MSG is going to kill me. Damn my tastebuds.

And as the blog trend these days tends to be commentary on recent events and/or tragedies, I'm not going to comment on the recent tsunami massacre, especially since I think people may glaze over my blog just because I'm not commenting on current events. Well, if commenting on a disaster is going to gain me readers, then I'll have none of it. I don't resort to mild exploitation. If I'm going to exploit, I'll do it on a larger scale and with a great deal more panache.

Here is something irrelevant to irreverence:

A match, when struck
Ignites in sudden brilliance
Its head afire burns in fury,
And pierces deep shadows
To lay bare the truth

But a chill draught
Or drowning water
May oft extinguish the flame
Which once lent splendid light
And the match lays a smouldering corpse.

- by M.W. Shaw

The Egg in the Brown House

2004-12-28T17:12:00.000-08:00

Once, some time ago
There was an egg that lived
in a brown house
And it was quite alone
For most of its life
Until the dairyman brought
Another egg each day
For several days in a row

And as each egg
Had a story of its own
And told this story
To the little egg
Who was all alone until recently
When the dairyman began
Bringing eggs every day
To the brown house, that is

And the first egg told its story:
--I was laid by a hen
That lived in grand old Britain
In fact, in Wales
Which is in Britain, of course
So, you see, I'm sure
That I am a very special egg
Being imported, that is--

And directly at that moment
The owner of the brown house
Placed that egg
On the ground and
Stomped on it very, very furiously
Making a terrible mess
Of yolk and whites
And this horrified the little egg

The second egg arrived
And told its story:
--I am a very special egg,
For I have fashioned
Designs inside my shell
Of ships and cockleshells
And when I grow up
I'll be a--but it was fried with onions

And the third egg told its story:
--You see, I am not special
For I am brown
But this is common for eggs
We are merely not sold
In most grocery stores--
And the disgusted owner
Threw it in the garbage

Then the fourth egg told its story:
--Little egg, (it said so because the egg was little)
I have lived for ever so long
And have seen countless eggs
Butchered in heartless manners
My greatest hope is to save one egg
From this horrid fate!--
Five minutes later, he was served in an omelet

Then the little egg
Braced itself and prepared
And plotted ways to escape
This awful brown house
Which has become a dreadful prison
And so it planned and readied itself
So that the owner would not
Find some way to destroy it

And on one sunny day
When the owner was outdoors
The little egg knew it was time
To finally escape the clutches
Of its merciless foe and prison
And with one desperate leap
It jumped out of the carton
And shattered on a vegetarian diet book

The end.

- by M.W. Shaw

A limerick

2004-12-28T11:08:00.000-08:00

I think it is time for an ode to one of the basest levels of poetry: the limerick. Below is my own take on an old rhyme, and it is entitled The Spider.

"Spider, spider in my hair
Aren't you going anywhere?
Stay much longer, I'll have an itch,
So get out of there, you silly arachnid!"

Thank you. I rather think there shall be more tonight.

On a secondary note, there is a link to the right entitled "The Penswick Herald," which is a small periodical written by me, and it's sole purpose is the review of films. So, if you go for that sort of thing, I might recommend it. Otherwise, you people will be bored out of your skull. It's just a lot of narcissistic nonsense involving me posing as a film critic. But it's there, nonetheless.

The Empty Decanter

2004-12-27T15:38:00.000-08:00

Aside the coffee-table sits my friend,
Alone and quite hollow,
For naught but thin air.

Oft I can tap him, and he's willing to tend,
But not today, or even tomorrow,
For my strain is too much to bear.

Alone on his perch, he's transparent to me,
Once his spirit was bright amber
And last, 'twas pure crimson.

Beside him lays a glass of sherry,
Tipped over after a bender.
Methinks its days are done.

In days past, peace would flow from his mouth
But now he's nothing to provide
Save warm memories of old.

Outside his shell, the night pours from the south
And I sit alone in regret's tide,
For I alone have made him cold.

- by M.W. Shaw

Pecan Pie

2004-12-26T12:51:00.000-08:00

In light of (very) recent Christmas festivities, I feel that it is my duty to present a most beloved holiday staple with a sonnet, and here it is:

Divine delicacy that warms my soul
And soothes my tongue's desperate hungering
Which ne'er ceases to empty my sup' bowl
And is e'er longing for sweeter dining

O! and what better to fill this hollow
Than this hearty dish adorned with simple,
Humble nuts and O! the glaze that follows
And leaves the right stoniest cheeks dimpled

Alas, but one pie should suffice for all
For who can have two heavens for one's price
Then for seventeen more such make a call
And e'en ask for something just half this nice?

But alas, when plates are filled and emptied
There will for pecan pie be such a great need

Shaw takes on poltical correction!

2004-12-25T19:38:00.000-08:00

As evidenced in this article, political correctness is a very rampant thing these days. More dangerous, however--although it does stem from poltical correctness--is political correction.

The linked article above indicates that "Merry/Happy Christmas" is being replaced by "Happy Holidays," so that certain overly sensitive parties are not offended. Now, it's not horrible to be considerate of someone's feelings, but this is only a small example of a growing canker in our society that is gradually silencing free speech. If you are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, kindly go here, or here for examples.

Why, even the long-lived television programme Politically Incorrect was cancelled for a politically incorrect comment. "Well, Bog damn my pale, white arse! I never thought a show called 'Politically Incorrect' would make a politically incorrect comment! Holy shit!" Oh, wait; 'holy shit' might be offencive to adherents of some obscure religion who glorify feces. I just can't wait for the day when my prophecy comes true!

People these days take no responsibility for what they do. They blame McDonalds for making them fat--not 'obese', mind you; I mean fat--then concerned mothers have fits over Janet Jackson's tit on the television. "Oh, dear Lord! I've never seen a breast before! God knows no one else should! Especially my children, since they never, ever breast fed from me before." They don't bother all of the other times when Justin is humping the hell out of Janet during the middle of the song, but if they show a tit, it's all over, folks! And yes, excuse me, but tit. Tit, tit, tit. What a lot nonsense.

There's my protest, and now here's my personal note:

I am incredibly disturbed by this political correctness trend, and let it be known that I will not tolerate such horrendous, moronic bollocks. It is to be publically noted that if anyone ever suggests to me that I be more 'politically correct,' I will extend to them a most humble and warm "fuck you." And let that be extended to everyone that futhers this destructive, idiotic trend. Futhermore, let every poltically incorrect word in this article ring out above my usual habit of refraining from vulgarities, so as to properly illustrate my seriousness. Now, to conclude, a list of blatant, gratuitous, poltically incorrect words and phrases:

Retard, fat, blind, crippled, stupid, Merry Christmas, fuck, tit, cunt, piss, shit, bitch, feminazi, responsibility, commie, enough talk of 9/11, move onwards, oriental, black, yank, redneck, limey, wasp, cracker, nigger, mick, wetback, raghead, wop, spic, whitey, chink, Jap, and faggot (and I don't mean 'cigarette').

No, that wasn't a conclusion. Really, I can't wait for people to miss the entire point and get angry about all of those politically incorrect words. I'll bet there will even be people that get especially angry about 'nigger,' and completely ignore the fact that I listed racial slurs for several 'races.' Including 'mick,' which I am. I'm a bloody drunken, rioting mick, for the record. Feel free to send hate mail to "earlofgrey@earthlink.net". I'm just waiting for people to hate mail me. Now, I'll really conclude with this illustration of words:

Once, there was a small building that had on its front numerous pamphlets explaining to everyone who stopped to read them that the building was simply there to separate the foolish from the wise. People would start to enter the building, but a loudspeaker cried out, "Stop! If you enter, you will be branded a fool! To enter will make you a fool, it is as simple as that! Do not enter and you will not be branded a fool!" But some people listened, and then ignored this message and entered the building. When they exited, they found that the word "FOOL" had been branded on their foreheads.

"What!" they would cry, "how dare they brand me a fool! They have no right! I demand satisfaction!" While others in the crowd--who did not enter--stared crossly at the building, saying to themselves, "Those bastards aren't going to get me to go in that building. It's wrong of them to brand those people; they have no right!"

And often, buildings of that sort were torn down by the authorities, who strangely favoured the fools who failed to heed the warnings.

The end. And Happy Christmas to all, including the Jews, Muslims, atheists, and the Kwanzaa adherents.

'Tis the season

2004-12-24T06:57:00.000-08:00

Aye, it is. To be quite blunt, the Christmas season is the last pillar of hope in this world. It is the only time left in which humans can manage to find a glimmer of kindness in their souls. It is the one time that defies all nihilism and reason.

"Peace on Earth, and good will towards man!"

A lost concept, this. Buried under centuries of bloody wars, greedy kings, filthy priests, and ignorant and/or apathetic commoners. Even some artists are lost in the blight of humanity, but that is how it goes.

Christian, non-Christian, anti-Christian, pagan, atheist, Muslim, Taoist, or Buddhist, they can all understand kindness, though I'm quite saddened to know that even adherents to "loving" religions can fail to grasp this concept.

Nevertheless, the glimmer remains. And this is the season of glimmering. Look past the tinsel and Santa stories, and you might be able to see Christmas. For your own good, do try.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

The Cunning Exploits of Sir Portario

2004-12-21T16:29:00.000-08:00

“Terrible day for swimming, of any amount, what with such a chill draught alike we've had these fortnights, wot?”

The question struck Jack with a sudden case of surprise, and his eyes departed from the book that lay open in his hands, and landed upon the curious sight of a short, red-nosed man in a hideously misbuttoned vest and shirtsleeves. Jack's feet dangled over the side of the miniscule wharf, and in the cool lake water. Draught? Fortnights?

“I say, terrible draughts these days. Hm, hm,” the stranger rocked on his heels and was, rather absently, smoothing the wrinkles out of his hideously misbuttoned vest. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles peeked out of his breast pocket and gleamed quite brightly in the dawn light.

“Hideous, indeed,” replied Jack, with an edge to his voice that he, in retrospect, hoped did not belie the fact that he was more than a touch anxious to return to his reading. The man with the ghastly buttoning skills apparently did not detect such a tone, for he continued on in his casual conversation.

“Hideous? Per'aps a bit harsh, but I'm, of course, not a particular adherent to chilled weather.” He absently (one might note) brushed back his sparse, dark locks of hair, and seemed altogether too absent about the matter for Jack's liking. “Not to say, mind you, a speckle of snow now and then would be entirely unpleasant, no, no, I'm rather fond of sledding. Sledding! Ah, me--what a sport! Do you much care for sledding, friend?”

At this, Jack's patience (one might note) took a sharp drop, and was in immediate danger of being forgotten all but entirely. He slammed the book shut and glared in frustration at the uneven buttons on the intruder's vest.

“Yes, my good man, I do care for sledding, but not on a day such as today, and such a day is today when one might care for reading a book by a peaceful body of water, and such a man that might do so is perhaps taking a short holiday, and would love nothing more than to relax for a good duration, if not the entire time of such a holiday.” At this point, any observant person would most certainly note the frustration in Jack's voice, and surely this absent man with such eyesore of a vest is such an observant man, for one must exercise a certain amount of observation in order to observe that there was, indeed, a cool draught in the air. But this observant man apparently did not observe the quite apparent indignation that he was just now faced with.

“Reading, yes! What a splendid hobby! I do often find myself with my nose buried in some book of poetry or another, or perhaps some history of a particular royal family's intrigues and whatnot,” said he, “And what might you be perusing, ol' chap?” He bent his head sideways and peeked the cover of the book that now lay closed. “Ah! 'The Exploits of Sir Portario!' An excellent choice, I must say! It has long been a favourite of mine. I used to read it often. Let me see...

'And busy, withal!
Be ye of fair mind
And spirit kind
To think a friend befall
To smite with such gall!

And prithee, beloved
Be ye clear of thought
As by thy nurse were brought
Not to be lightly said
Or spoke without thy head!'

“Aha! Truly, Bannigan was--and is!--unmatched by way of eloquence! Such brilliance!” He nodded his head in a very approving manner, and smiled in pleasant retrospect. This was altogether too much for Jack, who, at this very moment, was preparing to really tell this mannerless cad off, once and for all! Of all the nerve!

“Oh, but I am nearly late for afternoon tea, and I promised the lads I would meet them directly on the hour,” he remarked, and cordially tipped his hat, “It was splendid discoursing with you, old chap! If you're ever passing through Lowsburrough, do stop in for a scone or two!” And at that, he cheerfully skipped over the wharf, presumably off to follow the Auld Willingsway road.

With a decidedly minute shake of his head, and perhaps the slightest shrug of his shoulders, Jack reopened “Portario” and skimmed the pages for where he left off. Ahh, yes, here it is...

"And hefted he off
Unto a trodden soil
To search a fool of foil
Again, and again, they scoff!
But ne'er from Portario a cough."

- by M.W. Shaw

The above picture was drawn by a friend of mine, who wishes to be known only as "MW."

What just flew out of the window?

2004-12-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

Oh, that's right; it was sensibility. The legendary SuprNova.org has been suppressed, see here.

Now, I don't like downloading movies. I'd rather buy them. I am all for downloading music, but not movies. However, I am a proponent of free downloading. The death of SuprNova is incredible. I've long seen it as a modern living legend, this magnificent download hub. The modern world is so terrible, but that's not news.

In conclusion, damn the MPAA. People will still purchase movies. People have been even with the existence of SuprNova! And the RIAA, they are entirely skewed. I won't get started on that subject.

Regarding the (a) Stairway (spir(al/e)) to (the) Heaven(s)

2004-12-20T19:37:00.000-08:00

During one of my more recent conveyances--that is to say, whilst I was traveling home from a house that was not my own--I glimpsed the night sky--within, a demimoon alighting the clouds and setting upon the whole of the firmament a spectral aire--and through a certain billow of clouds--this one had actually engulfed the night watchman--I saw a stretched line, or rather a straight path of clouds. No, not only clouds, I should come to find, but blackness. For this line of cloud penetrated the moon's captor and gave way to a mirroring line of blackness, as though it had entirely, and of its own will, altered its disposition. Upon closer examination, this sable spire reaching up through the heavens was black even against the unclouded sky--I tell you this in all honesty! Furthermore, with assurance that I was under no influence of any drug, save, perhaps, a cup of black tea. This spirale--as I find it fit to be called, for it was a sort of spire and the cloud gave the impression of spiraling--reached from the horizon to near the zenith; it is true! I took a throwaway photograph which has yet to be developed, and the flash of the aforeimplied camera might have spoilt the photograph, anyway.

Now, I'm not an unreasonable man, you must understand; but am rather a man inclined to believe that which I see, and often that which I gather. That which is under the surface is often more apparent than that which is over. I do not think there to be a great deal of significance to what I saw, since nothing would change our existence even if my spirale does exist. If it does exist, it stands to reason that it has existed, since I am not in the habit of creating out of nothing. But, truly, it's an incredibly interesting thought, and I should like to entertain myself with it, until I discover the facts of the matter.

I am inclined to believe that belief and somewhat fantastic thought are much more incredible than scientific reason and a dull existence. After all, we cannot--and should never attempt to--analyse music like a laboratory rat. I shouldn't fear, but I do fear that most people will write this off as either a fabrication or the fanatically sensationalist rant of a "naive" manchild.

I've not much skill with the visual arts, but I shall try my hand at drawing as faithful as possible an interpretation of the spirale. Until then, good night, my friends.

Fear and Trembling

2004-12-15T19:22:00.000-08:00

Suppose I were to ask several average pedestrians who Kierkegaard was, how many do you suppose would know anything about him? Yes, your estimate is probably true, unless you said, "Most of them." Such is the state of the world, though. How quickly the world is getting more ignorant!

Perhaps it's all of this fast-food and television that's destroying the human mind. I must also assume that the extensive use of radioactive materials in the early 20th century did no good for us at all.

But all of this is an excuse. I've no idea what to write this evening, except my old, tired intellect rant.

So, instead, have this bit of advice:

Alsø alsø

2004-12-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

If Speed Racer were a sandwich, I would definitely eat him with a small side order of Racer X. Nowhere was there ever a better television programme.

Here is proof: (but I must warn you, it is, perhaps, too amazing to bear.)

We are experiencing technical difficulties

2004-12-14T15:37:00.000-08:00

The height of the ludicrously obvious is surely when someone says, "We are experiencing technical difficulties."

For it is to be noted that what I say is what I say, and is certainly what I mean except in certain circumstances. If I told you that I'm a pathological liar, what would you think?

The random disappearance of certain sections of this website, and/or modifications thereof are all quite possible, and should be taken with half of a grain of salt.

The answers all lie here. ...or do they?

Oh, and also, a thought to ponder: why is a raven like a writing desk?

Fate or: the milk of the gods

2004-12-13T16:40:00.000-08:00

Does fate lactate? Something for us to ponder.

A continuance

2004-12-13T14:32:00.000-08:00

As I said, "More later".

It it to be noted that I do not talk about politics. More accurately, I do not talk about current politics. It should be further noted that I despise politics to the nth degree. I can go on for hours with cheap puns and wordplays like "politics = poly-ticks = multiple parasites," or the old "progress, congress" gag, but I won't. The simple fact is that politicians are lying, cheating, thieving, greedy, megalomaniacal bastards, whether they're democrats, republicans, or greens--I will not give them the privilidge of a capital letter.

That said, I will not write a political periodical (or partiblog, I like to call it). Also, I've long had a problem with writing a "live journal" with random comments on my day. I don't give a damn if you argued with your slavedriver boss or spilled your bloody mochachino, and I should think myself pretentious if I thought that any of you give a damn about my personal life. Really, I don't care to tell you people about what goes on inside ol' Em-Doubleyou.

So, you might perhaps see my conundrum. If not, it is simply that it has recently come to my attention that I get one site-view per day, and that site view is either mine or milady's. So, you see, I am not generating traffic, which is prime in a blog. My general approach has been poetry, which is my first literary love, but that doesn't generate traffic. Every now and then, I write something that has real interaction, like this here.

Perhaps I should make random commentaries on society in general, since my wisdom far exceeds most bloggers--along with my sense of superiority. That said, I'll try this, and perhaps use some sort of advertising mechanism. Let it be known to all who read my blog: I'm selling out. An artist has to make his rounds somehow, says I. Not that I want to be rich, mind you all, I despise riches. But it's not that I have a small, cultish fanbase; I don't have a fanbase at all--unless one counts myself and milady, which one shouldn't.

Anon, fair readers!

Orange(l)

2004-12-13T13:16:00.000-08:00

Remember, an orange is never just an orange if it's served with toast.

More later.

Tears for Epimadion

2004-11-30T05:13:00.000-08:00

Alas! sweet love,
Fallen are thee from thy throne
Thy house atop the kingdoms below
Alas! my fairest one,
Thou art deposed, and falleth swiftly
Into the tumultuous seas that have long mocked thee,
Hath long declared thee their nemesis
And now set themselves to bring thee to the grave

Alas! great emperor,
The firmament was thy field
And the stars were long the fruits of thy harvest
Alas! you beautiful black emperor,
Moons were thy cattle, and stars thy handservants,
Long did the kings of men declare thy virtues
But now an eon of fair service have they denied thee
And have handed thee over to thy assailant

Alas! my lord,
Leviathan has long mocked thee
And has set to bring thy immortality to end
Alas! lord of the sky,
The waters rage for thy divine blood,
To turn red with ichor, and feed a bloodlust so foul
In hunger, the tendrils of the deep flail at thy body,
And the serpent groans without cease, until thy knell has sounded

Alas! dark king,
The seas tear at thee in their fury
And rip thy fair skin to shreds
Alas! my love,
Your children weep in tortured vain
And thus, not even the tears dilute the serpent's rage
Even in thy torment, the waters steam and turn to pitch
Sure nothing can sate the infernal ocean's violation

Alas! warrior-lord,
Thou hast still strength yet to assail
To o'erthrow the beast's foul limbs
Alas! god-emperor,
Thy own rage rises up in thy breast
And even the impregnable sea gives forth apprehension
True, the waters doth gaze into thine eyes and see thy furor
The serpent's slaves tremble and fail in their onslaught

At last! fair king,
The grasp of the abyss abates
And thy potent frame breaks of their grasp
At last! my sovereign,
Thou riseth from the arms of thy enemy
And gaze down upon him with fire in thine eyes,
Uttering portents of retribution, of a reckoning to come
In the days when light has waned and given reign to darkness

But alas! great emperor,
Thy wounds are too deep
And leviathan's blight too defiled
Alas! you beautiful black emperor,
Thy strength has failed thee
And thy foe's animus has been served.
Ever shall thy children grieve thee, king of the heavens,
And perish in time with their gaze set upon thy grave

- by M.W. Shaw

Progression

2004-11-25T21:49:00.000-08:00

In the grey days of old
When man was ever so bold
And sparrows were free in the sky
I walked 'lone on the road
And gazed into the clouds,
The moon ever streaming,
The milestones all crumbling
And I watched every man falter
As I grasped my mare's halter
In fear of tumbling to Hell
And meadowlarks cried
Whene'er a man or mouse died
Now swiftly a stranger appeared
And studied the weatherworn signs
Then asked haltingly of me,
“Where does this west road lead?”
And I answered this:
“No doubt to more modern death.”

- by M.W. Shaw

The Collapse of Reality

2004-11-20T23:21:00.000-08:00

When dreams collapse, when all nightmares come to be, and then the day closes in to engulf our spirits: then is the time when all hopes come to be, the crucible upon which choices are made, when lives are molded, when one's steel is refined past the point of pain and ecstasy, then is one's spirit unveiled. When one knows one's self, they can be sure that they have seen nothing of their true essence. When one is pushed past one's mortal limits, when strain pulls their souls to the breaking point, one finds newfound strength. When truth is found draw incredible pain from the depths of one's flesh, one can come to find undiscovered endurance. When one's nightmares finally surface, and one finds the strength to gracefully accept them, then is the breaking point. Then is the point of solace, in which all may find that veil of serenity; within one may hide and never be found by the greatest hounds, or perhaps the hounds care no longer for the uncaring. At the end, all that has passed cannot be undone, and all of the pain endured shall be forgotten, and perhaps only the simple pleasures will remain. Then, perhaps all will be laid bare, and one will find no joy in his life past, but will discover the true meaning of regret. In any case, one has the means to find empty solace, devoid of pain or pleasure; a complete peace that finds pleasure even in the absence of pleasure. Perhaps it is in yourself.

A random thought wrought of sleep deprivation.

The Modern Prometheus

2004-11-15T19:48:00.000-08:00

My collage of cadavres
Sewn with sinewy twine
And wrought with instruments
Of steel and by lightning's tenor
And from divine bloodlines
Was your ichor sent

O, grim machination
My gift of gods' fire
Your visage is dread
And the source of my fascination
Yet the cause of public ire
As seen through eyes of red

What those sanguine hearts
Know not is your soul
Nor likewise the beauty
Of cold death turned art
Just as a sunset or that a hole
Is not wholly empty

Now has spurn turned to hate
And has hate to savagery
Thus has wisdom abdicated
To the foolish and irate
Whose wrath is fiery
Yet their discernment tepid

All I have wrought with my hands
Is torn and in utter disarray
By the scorn of the world
Where beauty is seen in no land
Under the spell of burning day
And who shall never see night unfurled

- by M.W. Shaw

Le Bastardiser

2004-11-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

Twenteen and three stars fell upon last eve,
More like to rain than stars, or leaves
That have grown far too ripe or lost their wit,
T'were not so brilliant as a modern seamstress's weave

Hullo! I say to thee and thine,
And invite me off to drink and dine
And reminisce of long-forgotten trinkets,
Not all unlike diamonds that have lost their shine

And of kings and times and pedigrees,
But talk of portraits as a soft breeze
That one ought to just forget,
And think on the weather and daily fees

We'll have a sherry or two or five,
Then perhaps an eighth to feel alive
And onto things away from debts
For you of all know how to strive!

But do you recall, say I through a grin,
That one dire game that we didn't win
Where we and our foes had already met,
But we won all the others, hurrah for ol' Finne!

Now there's the twelfth, and it's blurry as hell,
For we spoke on a matter you'd know quite well
As I quipped of the country and its foreign pet
And at the remark was when we fell

Then old company stormed off to their land
With filthy tongues and insults at hand
And here's the lesson you ought not forget,
Never serve oysters straight out of the can

- by M.W. Shaw

The Redoubt

2004-11-11T18:18:00.000-08:00

O! tattered mast
Thy streaming cloak flails
As though beset by warlords past
And myriad stings of Neptune's hand
Though defeated, thou may not fail

For the soaring gull mourns thy plight
And thy rotten derelict within the sand
Thus its tears fall from a futile flight
And wash away encrusted blood
Of mariners from imperial lands

And skellingtons drape its deck,
The once-glorious galley
Left by cannon-strife a wreck
And crimson ever marks its sails
As the last survivors' rally

- by M.W. Shaw

Regarding a Portrait

2004-10-30T20:01:00.000-07:00

Ah! the blue!
The roaring green
Right often seen
In looking glass or through
An oily picture-painting

And a white gull,
And in its mouth a fish
Within a penny for a wish
That will carefully lull
You off to sleepy-tight

And sallow-way
A-lined with gardes of war
And fourteen pretty whores
And the king's coin's sway
And a sliver of blush in the sky

Fine rich silks
Along with port and precious dust
Up for marketing to the fuss
And not a glimpse of bread or milk
For the waiting tongues below

Smoothed auld stones
And rusty portcullis stand about
And only they against the routs
To leave its innards 'lone
'Til the crows come a-feasting

And a tower!
Pierce the clouds, O spear!
Drive back the blinding fear!
Strike against that golden flower
And loose their enchained souls!

O! fervent rock,
Upon which the waters break,
Is the sea to thee naught but a lake?
Ah, the ville's great lock,
Which shall die with time alone!

O! gaunt child
With frame such as glass,
With an ill-paddled ass,
And all they call is 'Wild!'
When all you want is a drop of water

Ah, grim city
Your own thief
And wellspring of grief
I give you no pity
For your mad kings
And vassals unfaithful
And robbers ungrateful,
For your widows sing
Your untimely death rattle

- by M.W. Shaw

In Search of the Death Knight

2004-10-28T05:43:00.000-07:00

Stand I in this wood so dark,
Clutching my armour to fend off the chill.
The trees are gaunt here,
And the shadows are deep.
These woods are old,
Ever so old, older than you or I.
The roots run deep,
And the memories deeper.
This forest is offencive,
The night even more so.
So why stand I here,
And not by a warm tier?

I search for a man or a beast,
So cruel that none can tell which.
Who stands at least two leagues,
And widthwise is half so.
His mail is black and serrated,
His pauldrons are skulls.
His helm is wrought of iron,
In likeness of Chuth-aghkta.
So like a demon is he himself,
And perhaps not just like, but in truth, is.
And now you ask me why I set my guile
To search for this monster so vile?

For his sword is stained red
With the blood of my villages.
His mare has trampled my people
Underhoof by the hundreds.
From his befouled mouth he spoke
Words of dark fire and magick evil.
My township stands still,
Burning with green flames.
How, ask you, can I fight such a devil,
If his power razes kingdoms and duchies?
I tell you this, friends, and listen true,
None can stand afore a knight and his due.

So stand I here beside my mount,
My vorpal sword sheathed at my side.
The trees around me stand gnarled,
And beaten by eons of weathering.
Little sound is there to be heard here,
Save that of our breaths, my horse's and mine.
While the wood is dense, I feel a heavy breeze,
As cold as Cocytus, and as sharp as a razor.
Breaking the silence, I hear hooves in the distance,
Very faint, and yet I already feel the ground tremble.
The air shimmers and distorts as if on fire,
And the trees begin to turn away from his ire.

I turn on my heel as the pounding increases,
And catch in my sight a dark figure approaching.
Tall is he, and his steed his mountainous,
And his tattered cloak billows in the wind.
I pull the sword from my sheath, and it feels heavy,
As if my strength has suddenly been sapped away.
Between the enemy and I is a fair half-league,
But the span seems now diminished.
The trees in front of him bend and break,
And even the ground twists and carves a path.
He draws his blade now, a thing of great size,
Enough to meet with a brigade and sever their life's ties.

As he draws near, I mount my own horse
And turn myself towards him.
He is close, now, and I can see his eyes,
Aglow with verdant fire and malice.
The air I breathe now feels like smoke,
And smells to me like sulfur and lightning.
The sound is tremendous, as a droning hum
Far beyond the innumerable devices of man.
My ears are assaulted, and the air around me
Presses in on me as if I am drowning in water.
The once cool night is now heated to inferno,
And I think I can see the surround woods aglow.

He swings his brand, and I am thrown to the ground,
My horse lies beside me, dead and minus its head.
My blade is dented, but has blunted his blow,
But I should do well to retaliate, for his next is overhead.
I turn on my back, and hear his blade strike the earth,
I swing mine towards his boot, and strike quite true.
A thunderous cry results in this attack of mine,
And red blood streams from his wounded leg.
This beast is not demon, this now I know,
But human or beast, I must kill this foe.
I rise to my feet, dodging another swing wide,
And taking my knife in hand, I cast it in his side.

Blood again streams from this mighty behemoth,
But my victory is met by a stab to my gut.
My enemy is mighty, but my task is not done,
As he readies another blow, I swing for his head.
Yes, I have bested him, this man of unbound evil,
And have avenged my people, their blood is set free.
But the cost is great, as I find my wound is deep,
And his blade drips with poison, which flows in my veins.
Such a great enemy, so powerful and so cruel,
Surely cannot die without leaving a mark.
And so they are finished, my quest and my life,
And here in this forest, two stars have ended in strife.

- by M.W. Shaw

An Experiment in a Thought Train Crash or Three

2004-10-26T20:03:00.000-07:00

Descending from the clouds
Laud I thirty-seven and one
Great angled angels left to
Ostracism of our blue souls'
Loved young to the roles of crowds
Of both men and our squalor
Delusions pallor which dip in and out
And rout the skies of crows
Who throw dam-ned millstones
For us to drown ourselves in trees
In breeze so pink and darkly lit
To so fit the joyous throng,
And are we wrong to sing
And bring great stars to the floor
To bore and delude our shining
Silver lining around the salty see
As we skip through the briny waters
Tallou,
Fa-la,
Ta-ta
My love!

- by M.W. Shaw

A Final Refrain

2004-10-23T18:45:00.000-07:00

Mourn thee now, thou mortal man
For ravished faith left in your ears
For burning summer fears,
Bitter products of hope
Disillusioned by winter tears

And clinging to fate's frayed rope,
Defencible yet defended only thus,
By dream-wrought walls of dust
And whims like daggers
That stab and drip with rust

You! And only you stand in tatters,
To gaze ever on tumbling castles
Replete with wine and golden tassels
Lying deep in blood and licentia
And every sweet king betrayed by his vassal

Cry now, O lords, in callous absentia
For thy ever-lost sons about thieving and hunting
And thy daughters about feeding and cunting;
And both for a singular purpose,
For to their sire they owe something

Turn now to the dusk deep in its blush
And to the chilling warmth of the night,
What is left but the solace of candles' light?
Buried in shadows and refuse of time
You shall find your rest without longing or fright

- by M.W. Shaw

The Mare

2004-10-20T05:21:00.000-07:00

At once in the night
Sudden utterances of the wind
Stirred my soul to fright--
A rush in the wood,
The clatter of hooves--
Seemed all 'round and never to end

And the moonlight streaming
Through branches dead and weary
Did insist of foes in dire scheming
Against my mortal life
Or for perhaps my very death
These intrigues I saw quite clearly

I set a path through the trees
And make haste for safety's hold
Lest in the night air I freeze,
Or meet a fate worse,
Of which I dare not think
I only hope these fears endure to be told

Again! I hear the rush,
That faint canter so hollow
As though a gallop through the brush,
The gait of a forest elk
Or mere steps of a deer,
I can only pray my suspicion is so

Into a grassy clearing I stumble
Well-lit by the sky's fair guardian
And here I rest my frame now feeble
Perhaps this is solace
Or cover from my pursuer
If not, he'll catch me in my wan

After moments' ease I pause
And light upon the familiar noise
Close enough to give my fears cause
Nearing by every moment
Soon to dash my mortal coil
And steal away my hopes and joys

And of a sudden, it ceases
For moments--hours!--I strain for the sound
But to my agony it has abandoned its leases
O! to end the anticipation!
If only I was not left in wonder!
And my prayers were answered in a bound

There before me it stood!
A beast so pallid, yet taut of frame
And over its head a daunting hood--
In its eyes, deep and hollow
Pits of mourning I could not fathom--
That ensorcels my mind in its cruel game

I gaze into those depthless holes--
And cannot help but hold my stare--
As strength is ebbed from my weary soul
My dreams are ravished
And my loves forgotten,
For now I am a slave of the Mare.

- by M.W. Shaw

Splintered Light and Morose Winds

2004-10-12T05:19:00.000-07:00

Certain depressive elements--as in, half-litten twilights, or bitter winds tugging at your coatsleeves--epitomise the need for a warm mood, whereas the blistering summers call for coolness. What is more relaxing that a warm fire at your back when frost is clinging to the windowpane?

What tidings are more bittersweet than a kiss mingled with a wound? Or a cross word with regret? Life takes its taxes from your side, this much is true. And if this is true, why let it cast you down?

Haiku: IV

2004-10-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

Snow litten forest
Trodden by time and progress
The clouds mourn for you

- by M.W. Shaw

It's Autumn!

2004-10-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is. Brilliant, isn't it? It's my favourite season, Autumn. Something about all of the falling leaves, the grey sky, and the smell of wood fires makes me smile. The death of the leaves, the bleakness of the firmament, and the destructive beauty and caustic perfume of fire...it makes me smile, this seeming desolation that depresses others.

Also, I would like to take this time to direct all of my readers to a (somewhat) cult musician known as Captain Beefheart. I know that many have heard of him, and that even more haven't. Some detailed information (including a discography) is available here. His music is best described as an acid trip through Mozart's mind while he's listening to jazz in one ear and rock & roll in the other, and to top it off, he's reading works by Arthur Rimbaud and William S. Burroughs. And he's just had a massive amount of dope to smoke. To be more specific, Beefheart crafts experimental, jazzy rock & roll on top of absurd poetry that would put Lewis Carroll to shame. He's truly my favourite musician, though the band Queen are close behind him. But that's another issue entirely! I recommend that you take a listen to the Captain. His (widely regarded) best album is Trout Mask Replica, and some of my favourite songs (by him) are Electricity, Well, The Dust Blows Forward and the Dusk Blows Back, Bill's Corpse, Bat Chain Puller, and Alice in Blunderland. He's amazing, auld Beefheart is.

Oh, and I'd like to apologise for the...nine day (?) lull in blog updates. I had a big slump. Good thing is, I don't have many readers. Less people to kick in the bollocks, wot?

Good night.

Rushing Streams and Fettered Notions

2004-09-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

As I consider a tumult which I was briefly drowned in, I wonder why the rush and roar of water--our life water, at that--should be so soothing. Perhaps a mind is itself a tumult of thoughts, but likely only that of an artist. The fury and cacophony frighten or incense some, and it would be right to pity them. If one cannot find peace in the midst of the maelstrom, how is he ever to be at peace otherwise?

Regarding a Papercut or: A Lament for the Soul of a Man

2004-09-24T16:46:00.000-07:00

What is it about a man that makes him think that he has any purpose in this life? Consider the ease with which any such man dies. A lightning bolt can strike any one of us down, a body of water can drown us, and old age will take us in good time. Yet we think ourselves to be important to the great machine of the world. How can we be immortal if we are so easily cut?

And how ironic that an average man can perform life's dull, everyday tasks that are soon forgotten, and as a result live a luxurious life, but an artist that paints a work of sheer beauty that will be remembered for centuries to come is--more often than not--cursed by the world as an idiot beggar. How lamentable that a talentless "writer" can publish dozens of books, and hence become a millionaire, but that a true genius can go unpublished for his entire life and ne'er see a penny from any of his writings.

And how terrible that the blessed should be constantly tortured while the unworthy live as kings.

On Tea: A Prelude

2004-09-24T11:21:00.000-07:00

"If you are cold, it will warm you. If you are heated, it will cool you. It you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you." - William Gladstone

No truer words were ever spoken of tea. It is a wonderous drink, nigh unto mystical. There is a Japanese proverb that says:

"A man without tea in him is incapable of understanding truth and beauty."

And that is the truth. If you do not drink tea, I highly recommend that you do. It can only improve one's health and mind.

This, by the by, is a prelude to an upcoming essay on the morals of food. I know I'm excited about it. It'll be a big ordeal.

Now go away and let me finish my soup.

Of a Nature Draken and Altogether Lost

2004-09-24T07:15:00.000-07:00

Clicky here first.

Done reading? Okay.

It's fair to tell you first that I am not an evolutionist, and I don't believe the world is some billions of years old. Utter bollocks, if you ask me. But that's a different rant, a different time.

That aside, I must also tell you that I am a fantasist. I've long believed in the existence of so-called "mythical" creatures such as dragons and sea-monsters, while most people would call me an idiot for such a belief. And once scientists find the fossils of "dinosaurs," and now this "dinocephalosaurus orientalis," they seem to forget that they once disputed claims of said sea-monsters. Truly, this "dinocephalosaurus" isn't massive, but it is exactly what mariners of auld have told stories of. Its long neck and draken form match perfectly the image of the ancient Leviathan.

What confuses me, though, is how many scientists altogether dispute mythical creatures like dragons, Yetis, and goblins, yet they discover these dinosaurs and "missing links," and declare them to be millions of years old! Do they realise how long a million years is? Just a thousand years? A human lifetime? I ask you, how is it fantastic to suppose that "mythical" creatures do indeed exist, or at the very least, once existed (but were stamped out by, say, colonial expansion), but that it is "realistic" to assume that these creatures existed millions of years ago, and yet even their bones surived. And how is it realistic (for evolutionists) to assume that creatures just evolve by themselves? Let me recap: it's "realistic" to assume that creatures evolve from primeval ooze, but it's "naive" to assume that creatures are created as-is?

Yes, I know that has nothing to do with what the BBC article said, but all of you are familiar with evolutionist and creationist theories--or should be familiar, at least--and don't need to be pampered with political correctness. I'm not politically correct in the least. Nor am I a "realist," if realism is a denial of hopes, visions, and dreams. When did people stop dreaming? When did they decide that the fantastic was worthless, and that the only things worthwhile are things that have been explained, proven, and analysed to the point where there is no danger of thinking about them. What are we if have not our dreams? What is precious if we have dissected everything that was once precious? Is a flower still beautiful if it has been torn to pieces, only so that each piece is measured and weighed? I don't care if people "believe in dragons," I'm just saddened when they refute everything fantastic out of loyalty to "science."

Where is beauty?

An Update

2004-09-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

Well, to make it short, I will say that I'm not going to post regularly on weekends, although I will occasionally post. Weekdays will be my main outlet, you see. Just wanted to give what readers I might have a heads-up on my tentative update schedule. It'll take a while to completely ease into this blog.

Good night, and enjoy the poem below!

Haiku: III

2004-09-18T16:39:00.000-07:00

Stately Kodiak
Has spotted his helpless prey
Make haste, my child!

- by M.W. Shaw

Haiku: II

2004-09-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

Ominous grey plain
Adorned with black-gilded clouds
Defying all light

- by M.W. Shaw

Haiku: I

2004-09-16T13:13:00.000-07:00

A hope for silence
Pale, flickers in the gloaming
And there is no rest

- by M.W. Shaw

A note on my writing...

2004-09-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

I will make a one-time note that, although I call the "Daily Haiku" by that very name, it is very likely that I will miss a few days here and there. Every writer has his ups and downs. However, I will try my best to churn out a haiku a day.

Also, I would like to note that every work of haiku or poetry, and every short story that I post on this blog is:

Copyright © M.W. Shaw.

As such, I will not take kindly to those who steal my writing. I don't mind, though, if anyone posts my writing elsewhere on the internet if I am clearly credited with the work. I'm only going to say this once, and I expect everyone to know this already, so I certainly expect everyone to abide by it.

Auf wiedersehen!

Wilkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

2004-09-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

Meine damen und herren, messieurs et mes dames, ladies and gentlemen, guten abend, bonsoir, good evening!

I would be very surprised if I have any readers (that are not my close friends, acquaintances, and perhaps family) any time soon. Even if not, I feel it necessary to give a few fair warnings. The first being that I am an incredibly sardonic and (quite often) pretentious poet. Forgive the repetition, for I am also a very repetitive person. I like to repeat myself for sake of emphasis. Secondly, my style of writing is somewhat eclectic at times, but I shall almost always check my posts for correct grammar. (Random note: this blogging system is quite intuitive!) As I have already checked my posts for errors in grammar, feel free to refrain from pointing out whatever you might perceive as a misstep on my part. Remember, kids: constructive criticism = good, nitpicking = bad. The third (and, I think, last) warning I shall give is that I am most often (and unapologetically) random. The random note I made above was not merely an object lesson, but a foreshadowing of randomity to come. Yes, I know that "randomity" is not in any of your dictionaries; I coined it my-own-self, you see.

"How," you might ask, "does one pronounce this new and altogether splendid word?" Well, in the event that you ask that question, I might reply, "It is simply a bit of slurred tongue, of this and that, and everything your English teachers had grotesque nightmares about." Would you like an easy answer? Well, it sounds like "sod off!" I'll applaud anyone that can pronounce it correctly. I might even present them with a fine scone. It's not likely, but there's always the offchance that I will be in a particularly good mood. Hope for the best, I always say!

Consider this the only disclaimer that will be provided you. Basically, I'm an ill-mannered auld gentleman that enjoys sarcasm all too much.

As this is my first post, I will make one final note, and then I will bid goodbye to all of thee. The final note is this: Every day--no, no, I shall say "periodically"--periodically, I shall post some of my poetry, or short stories, or whatnots on this blog. Most likely, I'll post an itty-bitty bit of haiku daily (Monday through Friday, I think). And I'll post rants whenever something shanks me up the arse*, or if I am merely inclined to write something.

Well, my thanks to all of those that read my blog! Cheerio!

*Shank up the arse, n. To anger, embitter, upset, disagree with, or otherwise act unpleasantly toward a certain poet of great stature but little to his namesake.