her hitler hairdo.

her hitler hairdo.

I am Ave, an overworked underappreciated Law undergrad from Singapore. My blog is linked at the top of this main page. You must excuse the bareness of the layout - function over form, as the Bauhaus men put it. (Disregarding the fact that form itself is one such function.) And yes, the pink has been changed to something asexual.

I write poetry when I feel - many people do, actually - and I feel most when emotions are extreme. For censorship purposes, I shall withhold my list of such extreme emotions. This collection of my poetry dates back two years since I started writing properly. You will frequently come across lists upon lists of random yet related words. They are an everpresent reminder that I must one day know what they are to be properly called, in a focal literary sense.

But until then, I present to you Her Hitler Hairdo, and pray that you will be as destabilized reading my work as I was writing it.

Name: ave

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The most recent being:

The Vine

Secret 0002

I am a receptacle -
Useless when full
Of pale jaundiced china
Cracks borne like medallions
My cyan euphoria

A tunnel,
Accessible therefore attractive.
White feet, black hands
Warm, inviting,
Taking full and ample
Advantage of your earnest
Intrusion.

I can smell the chase
In the night
With eyes stabbed dry
By my nervous claws

And the cracks
They widen
Another chiselled blow
(However gentle
However forgiving)
Is still a strike

So the prey surrounds me
Some hang from trees, some from dark clouds,
The cracks they trap
My claws they snap
Into a crimson
Stream
Into a warm
Tunnel
A receptacle.

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