The Dreaming Tree

The little sparrows play in the muddy puddle,
My stupid hair is in a bloody muddle,
The pages take too long to load,
Leaving me tired and bored,
For I find more joy than getting into bed with three,
In the art of penning shitty poetry.

She found us late on Friday night,
This furry ball of black and white,
Beady eyes and a rolling head,
Someone stop her from peeing on my friggin' bed,

Her name was Whisky

We stole all her milk and buried her bones,
Taped her mouth and stopped those groans,
Tied her up and put her in a sack,
But that stupid dog kept coming back!

Her name was Whisky.

So we gave her some beer and fed her some weed,
But that little bitch was from a different breed,
She lapped'em up like never before,
And by the end of the night she wanted more!

Her name was Whisky.

In on of my recent grasslandic voyages, I was bitten by the analogy bug. Quite bad, less of a sting and more of a love bite. As my mental graphic tirade journeyed from gay parades to post, I popped another trip candy in. Then came the analogy of the millenium, you know, ones that come only once in like, many months. 

Is it just me or does sambar make everyone fart?

Finally somebody has the brains to un-ban blogspot on our college server. And we're a leading engineering institute. 

It come when least expected,
or desired,
a naive eye that dwells upon a curve for a second too many,
or the meandering wind,
that throws strands of hair on a reminiscent cheek,
or an invading scent breeding familiarity,
first they trickle, glimpses, flashing little light bulbs,
playfully instigating the memories,
first comes the heat, the sweat, the entangled limbs,
then,
then a definite breach, a crumbling dam,
gushing through with vengeance,
a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
rapid, but not violent, not oppressive,
the debt of pain,
the insult of gauche,
all victim to pleasure,
surrender to intimacy,
only to find liberation in defeat,
moist palms, beaded temples,
and a smile etched in granite,
then suddenly,
the flood recedes,
the breach goes from saviour to sinner,
the mind wanders, desperatly searching for inspiration,
the eyes dart, all efforts thwarted by the dam,
now tall and strong, cunning and elusive,
the heart broods, begging for a few moments more,
of breathless pleasure, drowning,
no more touch,
or warm breath,
only a shadow on the mist,
of a smile etched on granite.
And as the sun settles,
the shadow will die,
slowly,
unless we peek over the edge,
and realize the sun never goes away.

Do you know this man? I wont be surprised if you don't.

His name is "Dimebag Darrell" Abbott. He was one of the brothers who founded Pantera. The first time I heard Pantera, the ex-glam now thrash band seemed more trash than thrash. First it was a wannabe-Van Halen and later a wannabe-Metallica (or deth).But they were instrumental in forming the Groove Metal genre and for that they deserve full credit. Unable to completely embrace thrash but, still carrying a very heavy sound with their ex-glam rhythm really helped them.

Dimebag was shot dead on stage by an ex-US Marine in late 2004,along with three other people on the stage. This was during a concert, this bloke stepped on stage fired more than a dozen rounds and also killed a 23 year old fan who tried to deliver CPR to Dimebag. He even had the nerve to stop, reload his firearm and continue shooting. He was stopped when an officer killed him with a shotgun.

In an article by William Grim called Aesthetics of Hate:RIP Dimebag and Good Riddance, he sides with the shooter commending him for his efforts. Grim is called an orthodox culture maven. The expert. He in fact writes for magazines that have wide distribution networks. He adds that Dimebag was killed by a culture that he created.

A former (elite) serviceman killing 4 people and then having his life end in the most disgraceful fashion, shot by a member of a sub-ordinate law enforcement agency. And then an intellectual praising him. Brilliant, and the United States continues to look for elements that egg high school shooters on under pillows and chairs.

A firefox music add-on yesterday just marqueed the text "Dedicated to Dimebag" when Machine Head's Asthetics of Hate was playing on my computer. I was shocked. I did not know that the man had died, not that I was a fan. But he was good, that's true. In fact the song is supposed to be a big FU to William Grim.

This reminds me of a certain degree of grief people feel(atleast I do) when a childhood hero has lost something.
Like when Hansie Cronje died. Or more recently McGrath's wife. Or the Chris Benoit tragedy, even if he was a make-believe business' mascot.
Anyway, RIP Dimebag.