I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)

The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)

Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)

I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)

The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)

If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****.
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)

I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)

We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.

That night you told me we were the same kind of crazy.

I take a peek at you through my Wells goggles. I've had a sip too much of my grapefruit ***** and we are the only two people in the bar.

I'm light as a feather and with gin nipping at our noses, we let Jack Frost drive the car that night.

That's the thing though, sober or not it's all the same game. The wells is just gasoline to ignite our volatile roulette.

Drink number two still as pink but this time I'm ******* faster. I'm trying to imagine that the lime at the bottom taste like your lips and I am inching towards your soul.

That night you told me we were the same kind of crazy.

Chemical malfunctions in our past, led us to that moment. Infinite understanding of misunderstanding.

I'm light as a feather and I let you drive home, but I never asked if I could stay.

I cannot do simple math to save myself from blushing. As people start trickling in I count my breath and catch the eye of a familiar stranger.

He was wearing the most arousing scarf.

I wish that was your scarf.

With Jack Frost waiting in the car and grapefruit in my veins I count the steps synchronising the strides with my heartbeat.

**** it's cold. Please let me hold your hand.

Pack the bowl, pack the ****, pack the one-y

Isn't it funny that rhymes with honey.

Glossy eyes and records. Your White as fresh snow sheets.

I digress.

Why do you always make me leave?

I could just lie with you, I'd just like to listen to you.

We talk, but vaguely. I wish you'd open up to me.

I'm sorry.

Comfort keeps us swollen, but what we have is frail.

Maybe I don't love you, but I don't feel cold to you either.

Give me something to think about when you aren't around.

You're my friend.

Platonic, no depth, just silence.

My vocal absence attempts to create space for your stories.

What are you about? How did you get here? What happened to make you untrusting of my company?

These are these things you think I cannot see.

Somewhere in our cloud of smoke is the door to your heart.

I don't want it to be mine, I just want it to tell me stories.

EDNA: Hello there, Dan my dear, please take a seat, but before you sit down, just let me put a plastic sheet over the chair.

DAN: Thank you so much, Mrs Sweetlove.

EDNA: Now, Dan, please tell me why you are known far and wide as Dan, Dan, the ***** Old Man. How did you come to acquire such a salubrious soubriquet? Don't spare us any of the more sordid details. My readers are all agog.

DAN: Well, there are three aspects to my dirtiness. Firstly, my sanitary arrangements and personal hygiene. How can I put this delicately? [scratches head in puzzlement and several lice are dislodged, much to Edna's distaste. She squirts them with super-strength LICEOKILL.] To be blunt, Edna, I don't wash much and I very seldom change my clothes. This means I smell quite strongly. And, as you will observe, my skin is quite grimy and unpleasant to behold; the boils and sores are not attractive to many people.

EDNA: Fortunately I am afflicted with a rather bad head cold at the moment, so I can't really whiff you too strongly. However, I can see your skin is disgusting and your clothes are a total disgrace. Tell me, is there any particular reason why you are so careless of your hygienic duties?

DAN: Well, I see it as a vicious circle. If I were to take a bath or a shower, I would only get ***** again quite soon. And anyway, getting dressed again in my old clothes means any olfactory benefit would be negated. Again, if I were to put on some clean clothes, they would only be rendered odorous by my unwashed body. And defecation and urination tend to get your lower parts ***** two or three times a day anyway, even if you wipe thoroughly which I don't. So what's the point, unless you want to waste all your life on synchronising cleansing activities? Also, between you and me, I quite enjoy the stench of my own unclean body. And it has several benefits: I always get a row of seats to myself at the cinema and I normally have no problem with queues when I go shopping: people tend to give way to me as a mark of respect.

EDNA: And the second aspect of your dirtiness?

DAN: May I talk to you freely about ***, Mrs Sweetlove?

EDNA: Oh yes, be frank! [nods eagerly] Be frank!

DAN: Well, let's put it like this: I am not very particular when it comes to ***. I can honestly say I have never ever turned down a ****** approach of any sort. I am, of course, bisexual and when I feel like a bit of impersonal *******, I nip down to the public lavatory in the park and have some there. What I normally do is wait by the ****** and whip out my grimy, stinking **** and flash it whenever someone comes in. I don't care who it is. What does it matter? Most people run away in horror, a few attack me and shove my face down a pan, but one or two let me **** them.

EDNA: What sort of people would that be, dear?

DAN: Usually tramps, the short-sighted, people with no sense of smell, degenerates, psychos, masochists, you know. A reasonably varied selection. Buggers can't be choosers. Who cares anyway? I've been arrested by the cops a few times, but they don't like to put me in their nice clean police car, so they usually let me go with a bit of a thumping. Which I quite like anyway, although it's cost me several teeth [shows hideous maw of rotting stumps].

EDNA: And how about when you feel like a little bit of the old hetero rumpy-pumpy action, Dan, my love?

DAN: To be honest, I don't get much rumpy-pumpy, even though that's probably what I'm most famous for. Speaking candidly, not many women fancy anyone as filthy as I am, even lady tramps have to draw the line somewhere. So I tend to have to be a bit pushy when I feel like a bit of female company. What I usually do is lurk around girls' schools, ladies' gyms, ballet dancing classes, hockey grounds, netball pitches, the park where the young mums push their babies' buggies, anywhere really where you get women and girls in reasonable numbers. When I see someone I fancy, which is anything female between sixteen and the grave, I just drop my pants and show them what I've got down there. They scream a bit but I can usually get a quick one off the wrist before they've run too far. I've been arrested a few times for that too, but it's a hazard of the game of love, I feel.

EDNA: [gulps excitedly] I think you mentioned three reasons why you are known as a ***** Old Man par excellence......

DAN: Yes, well the third one is a bit more personal. You see, I have a very sensitive stomach and I often get very bad indigestion, which means I **** and burp a lot. And I frequently ***** too, as you can see from the state of my trousers - this is probably a reflection of the fact that my kitchen is crawling with rodents and insects large and small. And did I mention this last bit? I really like eating my own snot in public [voids nostrils onto grimy paw and gobbles product thereof].

EDNA: I'd like to thank you, Dan, for sharing your opinions, emotions and ambitions with me and my readers here today [switches off tape recorder]. You truly are an unusually repellent *******. Get out of my lovely house.

*[END OF INTERVIEW]

Telepathy తో తేలికపాటి signals పంపిస్తున్నానే
Love frequency తో mapping అయ్యేలా జాగ్రత్త పడతానే
మన Energy levels suit  అయ్యేలా transducer పెడతానే
Distortion కలిగిందా carrier తోనే ముడిపెడతానే
Noise Effect తగ్గేలా Frequency Modulate చేస్తానే
Love signals అన్ని digitise  చేసిపరేస్తానే
Encryption చేసి మన data నీ Secure mode లో పెడతానే
Decode చేసేలా Synchronising Bytes సృష్టిస్తానే
మంచిగా డేటా అందేలా High Speed Media నే create చేస్తానే
Buffer use చేస్తూ Data Miss అవ్వకుండా Memory లో బంధిస్తానే
Files text లతో Final Love Data నీకే అందిస్తానే

I once upset a group of RSM's when I told them that foot drill was a waste of time. At the time they were bemoaning the introduction of a new rifle, not because of its small caliber, but because of its cumbersome appearance: 'It is not good to drill with' they said. Thus:

An Opinion Expressed

I was once a soldier smart,
Learned to stamp my feet, the art
Of calling out 'The Time', the thrill
Of perfect, synchronising drill.

We did it in the Sunshine glare
On what was called parade ground square.
It's something that I'll always miss.
Those halcyon days, what perfect bliss

To march along in line abreast,
Our arms swung well up to our chest.
Rhythmic, gravelled, crunching feet,
With Pipes and Drums, and pagan beat.

When marking time we'd raise our knees,
Oh what a jape, oh what a wheeze.
We'd point the toe, dig in the heel
Stay with the marker on the wheel.

Saluting dais comes in sight
So make your dressing, by the right.
Neck to collar and chest out
This is what it's all about.

Look at us performing fleas
Shoulder, order, stand at ease.
Perfect creases, looking good
Just like all good soldiers should.

The girl never believed in science.
When asked why apples fall
She answered darling, even apples fall in love.
So she baked an apple pie to make her feel grounded, rooted;
She wanted to be consumed like the sea engulfs the mountain in a storm,
Like a core is mounted by those thirsty for the taste of something left unwholly , vulnerability caressing the bitterness left by someone else's lips, traces of time browning their soft edges.

The girl used to lie outstretched on hilltops each night to watch the moon sweep away the stars each morning so the sun could still shine.
If she shut her eyes and opened her mind
She could hear the moon waning "she'll never be mine"
for the sky is a canvas of desire, a constellation of lust that looks different to every lover.
Their wish is the same regardless of the star: that gravity will soon become the real reason their hearts begin to sink each time they see her hand in another's.
every day the girl shuts her eyes to talk to the sky as if she still believes that's where God lives, as if that is where hope is, and whilst shes on her knees her lovers kiss rises amidst the heat of another girls thighs, synchronising moans as if she has finally found one to call home.
maybe she has, but now the girl can't help but think she may drown in this ocean that is empty without its pull to the crash, that her stolen heart is now her lovers buried treasure, buried so deep that shes forgotten she even had it at all.

The girl sits at the windows pane knowing why it got its name hoping she will some day navigate her way to the only star she sees, the only name she breathes.
If only leaves remembered where they fell from.
If only gravity was the reason she fell.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017 // 6:42 PM


Five One Seventeen,

First kiss, that perfect moment.
Fleeting seconds of happiness,
of pure enjoyment.

Even though you could taste the loneliness
that it all lacks commitment,
I am still willing to sell my soul for you,
Even though I need fulfilment.

But for that moment, that one enjoyment,
everything was quiet.

I saw your lips at work, it was mesmerising.
They felt so nice, so hypnotising.
They were meant to be, they were synchronising.
The rose was rising,
Everything was just so appetizing.
I did my thing, tantalizing.

Five One Seventeen,
It’s Five Nine Seventeen, & I’m still fantasizing.
But I’m only fantasizing cause you’re love is so tantalizing.
I play it over and over in my head,
When I zone out, I’m tired
Every time I lay in my bed,
Every other thought has expired.

It’s just you.
I love you.
You say it too
but do you mean it or is this some sort of deja vu ?

Pathetic.
I am pathetic.
trying to be poetic,
it’s pathetic.

Regardless, I love him
For 10 months and 5 days,
I’ve been trying to figure it out.
Why I’m so in love with him, why I’m so zoned out

Simple; It’s quicksand.
I’ve fallen, I can’t stand.
Hold my hand,
I love you.


Five One Seventeen, I’ll always love you.

The soft melody flows
through the speakers
and into our souls
Soothing our aching hearts
and worrying minds
The steady beat synchronising
with our own
Taking us away
into another world
Full of pale pastels
and soft tapestries
And fluffy clouds
and green green grass

In war you plowed
the love, synchronising the fall
and rise of rare victory.

Between us, a river
flows of marigolds. But blood spreads.
Can we find the solution of darkness?

Waiting for the next wave.
The drums are coming near. I am
asking about god, not you.

A speech written for the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors' Surrey LA Student Prize 2009*


Ultimately, appreciation of time. For time is both friend and enemy of the surveyor.

-

Time drips well-managed and steadily-growing incomes into the coffers over decades.

It inflates asset values in areas enjoying regeneration and inward investment.

Time builds closer relationships with loyal clients, stronger bridges between partner companies.

-

But time also means deadlines for a surveyor.

Negotiating between stakeholders, the public, local authorities, contractors and financiers all takes time.

Red book valuations must be completed in a timely manner.

And completing that sale within the financial period can make the difference between profit and loss for a client.

-

The surveyor that appreciates time appreciates change.

Change in supply; new sources of finance, new regulations and new technologies.

And change in demand; new locations, new desires and needs, and new markets.

-

But - time is dangerous, too.

Time feeds the elements, destroying the very fabric of buildings.

We’ve seen in recent months how quickly time can wash away years of hard work – how difficult it can be to survive one more month.

-

Thankfully though, appreciating time lets you be a smarter surveyor.

Pricing risk over holding periods, discounting for inflation.

Synchronising lease fall-ins to allow refurbishment or re-division.

Phasing developments to spread construction cashflow and prevent flooding the market.

-

So, do I have what it takes?

Well, I respect the past:

I continue to explore developments from times past in London and other cities across the world, learning what I can from those who have gone before me.

-

And I anticipate the future:

Whilst jobs are few and far between, I persevere – anticipating the time when I can begin to contribute towards healthy growth for my company, our clients, and the wider economy.

-

What makes a good surveyor? Ultimately, appreciation of time.

And it is time itself that brings my speech to a necessary end.

You're reading this post
which
I think is my post
the dog
sees a lamppost
and ***** his leg.

My eyes on stalks as
someone walks across
the sky and a star is born
in Birmingham,
Bethlehem being full.

Synchronising
pulling my eyes in
meshing the gears,
fooling the years into
thinking they're days.

The messiah got higher
and
the altimeter broke
'somebody spoke' out
we all tried to break out
but found we were bound to what
we can't make out.

The dog has the right idea
to growl
at the flea in its ear
is pointless.

Even though you cut off the finely woven words of our communication
Even though you sank the ship that once had us aboard
Even though you coldheartedly drew out the map of the miles between us
Even though  the hearts lost beats and stopped synchronising

But still, memories of you linger in my brain
Setting my soul on fire
And sending warm shivers down my spine
Maybe I'm hypnotised
Or rather beguiled
But whatever the case
You'd forever be in my happenings.
© Chaste