It's a tough world out there. someone could get hurt. This is a dance for you and I and you for me, everyone can come and see, watch us spin and writhe and twirl, watch as we absently flick a twisted curl...'Dave: wham. you just killed a cyclist.' the side view mirror's out of sync, and logic's a lifestyle on the blink. Twice the banker through and through while every lawyer's someone new. Shariah, sharbat, shylock, shunned there's a wiry shh for everyone. Three years watching a blind man's best while the shimmying shysters best every test - the chicken soup has gone to pot whilst bushy haired faces still seem hot, who will explain what's right and what's not...? 'Dave: what would've happened if there'd been a cyclist? Me: he'd've been smashed.' And hammered and zonked and pissed, the avante guard ways of finding bliss. Forsooth. It seemeth to me that something hath died, when ye monster logic ceas't to hide. This place be twisted. Like a raven curl.

At some point in his life, a man must realize the need to see.

Let there be crap.

This is my poem. I shall call thee, 'Deep Shit.' Full stop is important.

Bloodied wings flapping through the air - 'Albatross! Albatross!'
screwed up migrant workers ambiguously lewd on the bus.
Further down the road a pakistani's running around, shouting
'look at us! look at us!' not too far away a dim eyed
englishman looks up 'who gave the lad a crossbow? bad show!
bad show!' Banana bunches of us, sniffing glue sticks for
the heat, wait in our melted iron pot for a tabloid to tell us
wot's wot. Johnny Depp has a new original. But it's the same as
his last original. Bono Hood's stealing from the Irish govt. to
give to the African poor. This poem is shit but so are yours.

Tonight as a night is a night to feel. To sing, to laugh, to walk, and walking, sigh. Tonight is a night to know what it is to fear.

The greatest story ever told! A challenge, heathen!

The cat was going to be pissed. This was not the drunken pissed that makes men say 'oi oi lor lummee', which was a kind of pissed this cat had only been once. That once it had shuffled around helplessly on the bannister before tumbling down to rest in a small heap of itself, carressing pain and new sensation into sleep. But this was not a day for revelry, and the cat was gong to be pissed. It was not any cat. It was a cat in a hat. It was a cat in a hat and a puss in my boots all in one, but primarily it was identified as a cat in a bag. It was in a bag because like most cats, its nails and teeth were sharp. Sharp nails and teeth were of little consequence, but, being a cat in a hat and a puss in my boots it was a very pissed off cat, and therefore at best, it was a cat safely stashed in a bag. But once let out, the cat was going to be pissed.

There would have been no problem if Mariam had not aggravated the cat. Mariam aggravated the cat by sitting in its spot on the sofa. And Mariam was in its spot by the sofa because instead of the cat I wanted to cuddle Mariam. When drawing distinctions between itself and Mariam, the cat rarely favoured the weaker sex. Mariam was over because I was bored, and had sat in the place of the cat because she hadn't been told. Mariam had arrived with an intention nothing like that of aggravating the cat. She was here to read my latest. She didn't know that, either.

'Mellow candlelight slipping painstakingly away into the silvery softness of the incandescent moon. Heartwrenching twilight that arises, now the only witness to my pinings. Oh, Mariam, how I adore thee. There is no redder rose for my eyes to see than your scarlet lips, no darker black can night proffer than the raven of your hair, no brown of nature to compare with the hazel of your eyes. Oh Mariam...'

At which point she screamed. My seduction near completion, it frustrated me to have my cat leap forth, claws drawn, teeth bared, karma flailing rampantly to assail my prospective belle. Mariam had already screamed once upon sight, and she screamed again upon impact (a little unnecessarily, I thought). Within seconds her lips were matched for redness by a gash along the shoulder I had so surreptitiously bared. It took her a few minutes to leave, and an hour for her to call and cancel our arrangement for the next day (her uncle had died, it was very tragic).

Before her arrival I had in fact considered doing something about Kitty. Kitty's sex had never been determined because it would have been rude to attempt a discovery which, amongst other things, would probably offer a great deal of pain. Kitty only revealed its sex to prospective mates, and guarded any inspection of the mates' genitalia with its life. Since Kitty had been frolicsome but childless, one could only assume that it was either female or impotent. I would not put either past such a worthless specimen.

Kitty had been pretty when it first arrived. It was small and ginger with a small face and smaller teeth. It was a nice cat. It was feline. But Kitty had become a bitch. It was not long before Kitty, after the fashion of its master, had staked out its dominion. By pissing all over the house. I mean by this of course that Kitty was laying claim to a portion of the earth, after man's way, not that it was pissing around the house, after my way. I do not piss around the house. Kitty had stayed, all things considered. It had been a gift.

Kitty was in the bag. Its act was all wrapped up. In short, this was a Kitty that had been defeated. After being summarily humiliated by being dressed in the clothes of its fairytale counterpart, Kitty's snarls and offensives had been dispensed with by sacking it. Ha ha. In short, the Kitty had gone down. Umm....who's going to let it out of the sack?

banana kebab.

I never wanted this too become a public blog. This was first a place where I could connect with hem, and after that it became somewhere I could write. Casually and freely, with no one I knew to read it, and no one to judge me. Some day I realized that it wouldn't be that way for long. Who mourns a blog? Mourning a blog is stupid. Just like mourning a lost book, or a missing acquaintance, or a wasted day.

Eventually this blog gathered a few more visitors, despite its privacy, and the intimate posts developed into pieces of prose, or poetry. Because that was something I could show, and this became a place to garner praise. But now the quality gap between writers isn't as great as it used to be, and good writing is passe. It's slipping into the real world now, meekahil's little cubby hole for words and thoughts, this small virtual canvas where I would write and feel free, where I would come with joy but increasingly with pain.

This page evaded my sister, and my best friends. It waited un discovered while the craze for blogging, and visiting, and linking came and passed it by. It watched as the pages of my new found friends disappeared. And now, after months of disuse, it's dying.

But this isn't a post to mourn the passing of this blog. This isn't a post to revive some form of regularity (hah!) in this semblance of a diary. And this isn't a post to alleviate my boredom. This is a post to commemorate a person. And because I hate reading posts to commemorate people, this post is not about the person it's for. This post is instead about this blog. It's about a blog into which I have poured feelings and treasured moments; into which have gone the most carefree, vague and bizarre thoughts. This blog has housed my secret desire to be a fanatical bush lover, my life's little details and the attraction of the little details in other peoples' lives. I have many friends but only one blog. I have had diaries before, but have torn them to shreds or burnt them. I have had confidants and deep, meaningful conversations late at night with many, many people but there have been few places where I come to pour out the little trinkets that fill my pockets, and to house in some caricatured form the intimacies of my mind or soul. No words can do any of this justice. Least of all words from someone to whom words come easily.

I read somewhere of H. L. Mencken that no one enjoyed his humour as much as himself. Perhaps it would be logical to assume that not all laughter is derisive - and if carried to an equally logical conclusion, that laughter was a form of appreciation? For me laughter is always an act of love. I only ever laugh when something makes me happy.

And so, in the way that my blog and the object of my tribute have always been, this post ends nowhere, after having said nothing about nobody.

*grins, and raises a glass of orange juice in salute*

Meekahil.

Bunking work to go to the beach

Today I stood upon the sea, and felt the beach move away from me.
Tendrils of waves flashed out to touch upon my feet, and I clutched
my story tightly. My trousers were rolled and I stood all alone
upon the sea, as the beach I saw moved away from me. A woman danced
not far away, in a string bikini on a sunny day, and thinking to go and
join her play, I let loose a paper to fly her way, trusting to the wind
to guide me. My paper flew too far, too well, and I heard a happy,
childish yell as I ran behind upon the sea, where the beach beneath
moved away from me. Two children came and ran along, while my leaf
flew well, of direction wrong, they chased and ran beside me. In pink
bikini she danced alone, and like a dog with recovered bone I came
and stood on the sea forlorn, while the beach I loved rolled away from
me. The day was young but mother had rung, so I must be departing. My
shoes I'd placed not far inland and there they stood still waiting.
Like a man they seemed to be to me (of clothes and body wanting), and
as I turned to see him gaze my way, I tried many times one tear to shed,
for the sea whose beauty, too much to bear, too fast to bed, I must
leave now and go (fo sho?). But as I stood and watched the sexy sea, the
beach she slipped away from me - no mourning for my passing. Still as
I dragged stone feet along, against the waves, I brought with me,
as a mongrel from the sea, one feral peace of hard washed bone - some
driftwood washed ashore in scorn, not worthy of my sea.

Bunking work to go to the beach

that was for you, lolita.