[Poem] When to Stop? + Walls have ears as Roofs have eyes
Finally got the theme clarified: it is apartment life in general. Well, have more of these weird poems. I've long stopped trying to make a good sense out of them. Some things can be quite literal, and some can be a little off-key in being figurative. All it takes is to relate that word to another then to another to fully grasp the meaning it's trying to tell.
And oh. Have fun in figuring out if the Orange Milk really does have a significant meaning, or it's just, well, an orange milk. And yes, there's an orange milk even if you're not supposed to drink milk before orange or the whatever it's supposed to be.
Again, blockquote style; skipping cut.
When to Stop?
You always wonder 'bout the bloke next door
going around with his mad occult stuffs,
then you remember the stranger bloke downstairs
and his gang of pink girls and plush.
You always go out early in the morning,
every single one afraid of the boss
because you know he's the type who'll gladly throw
a nice cup of coffee right at your head.
You always serve your customers with a smile,
even if it always make your stomach queasy;
those boys and girls coming in packs and
drinking pretentious coffees that aren't really coffee at all.
You always leave the shop happily for your flat,
enjoying the bachelor life with just an instant noodle,
the bucket of scones and fingers long forgotten;
it's just you and your instant noodle.
You always like it this way, this quiet and lonely life
even if the bloke next door is too creepy,
even if the bloke down stairs is too freaky,
even if you've already been tempted more than once.
Walls have ears as Roofs have eyes
They spoke once of ladies in white
painting walls and haunting stairs,
Of poltergeists always in flight
throwing pots and blocking ways.
They whispered once of priests in red
staining walls and changing stairs,
Of fathers very much well-fed
throwing whips and blinding ways.
They fought once of freedom in chain
breaking walls and climbing stairs,
of Democracy painted over the pain
throwing dreams and hiding ways.
They disappeared once, never to be seen again;
Hush, hush, what now are they?
The Boring Life of an Orange Milk
There was once a carton of milk,
its orange liquid as smooth as silk.
It lived alone by the cheap ref door,
its plastic cap somewhere 'round the floor.
It's miserable but fulfilling,
living every day, always giving,
never once gratitude returned,
like that poor corned beef losing its turn.
Every day is a dark countdown,
alone in the dark, scared of The Frown.
The last thing it really wanted:
to the cruel cat it shall be fed.
My favorite is, obviously, the Orange Milk even if I don't have quite the pleasant experience with it. But anyway, short story coming up next.
And oh. Have fun in figuring out if the Orange Milk really does have a significant meaning, or it's just, well, an orange milk. And yes, there's an orange milk even if you're not supposed to drink milk before orange or the whatever it's supposed to be.
Again, blockquote style; skipping cut.
When to Stop?
You always wonder 'bout the bloke next door
going around with his mad occult stuffs,
then you remember the stranger bloke downstairs
and his gang of pink girls and plush.
You always go out early in the morning,
every single one afraid of the boss
because you know he's the type who'll gladly throw
a nice cup of coffee right at your head.
You always serve your customers with a smile,
even if it always make your stomach queasy;
those boys and girls coming in packs and
drinking pretentious coffees that aren't really coffee at all.
You always leave the shop happily for your flat,
enjoying the bachelor life with just an instant noodle,
the bucket of scones and fingers long forgotten;
it's just you and your instant noodle.
You always like it this way, this quiet and lonely life
even if the bloke next door is too creepy,
even if the bloke down stairs is too freaky,
even if you've already been tempted more than once.
Walls have ears as Roofs have eyes
They spoke once of ladies in white
painting walls and haunting stairs,
Of poltergeists always in flight
throwing pots and blocking ways.
They whispered once of priests in red
staining walls and changing stairs,
Of fathers very much well-fed
throwing whips and blinding ways.
They fought once of freedom in chain
breaking walls and climbing stairs,
of Democracy painted over the pain
throwing dreams and hiding ways.
They disappeared once, never to be seen again;
Hush, hush, what now are they?
The Boring Life of an Orange Milk
There was once a carton of milk,
its orange liquid as smooth as silk.
It lived alone by the cheap ref door,
its plastic cap somewhere 'round the floor.
It's miserable but fulfilling,
living every day, always giving,
never once gratitude returned,
like that poor corned beef losing its turn.
Every day is a dark countdown,
alone in the dark, scared of The Frown.
The last thing it really wanted:
to the cruel cat it shall be fed.
My favorite is, obviously, the Orange Milk even if I don't have quite the pleasant experience with it. But anyway, short story coming up next.