I have totally lost it. The past few months of military service have rendered me absolutely incapable of constructing a coherent English sentence. So basically ,now i look like pre-volcanic 3rd degree burns Anakin Skywalker with the eloquence of Jar Jar Binks. In a desperate attempt to utilise the poison quilt i used to wield with suche ease,i have decided to pen a poem as a contribution to Prosaic magazine and in conjunction with its Ninja theme for the month of August.

Having been one of the founding members of an elite assasin force,the Ninja Muscle,it shouldnt have posed a problem to me and my comrades,given our perfect balance of intellect and toned abdomens (which,by the way,ridzal have lost and now he's trying to conceal his paunch by growing a goatee and donning an Ultimate Poets Shirt.)

Our Last Tango

so we brandished our swords
on the steps of the derelict supreme court
the night takes its time to breathe
as the moonlight intervenes
in the plural space between us
the freezing air gnaws away
at our skin,so when do we begin
the tango to end this dance of inertia

dance,muthafuckas,dance
groove,muthafuckas.groove

like string puppets painted black
our bodies intertwined
we rocked the casbah,exotic,erotic,the steel clashes
splashes of crimson lipstick grazed my cheek
"we'll kill each other like only lovers can,"
i sneered
"MAcHiNEs dont love"
you replied while applying the lipstick on your poison blade

dance,muthafuckas,dance
groove,muthafuckas,groove

at the bat of an eyelash,a fictional blinding flash
i stood triumphant with my right hand on my chest
i'll scavenge from her body everything i deserve
and leave the rest to the angel of death
i bathed in her venom and the midnight rain
i'll never find so much grace in love and war again.

Currently Prosaic Magazine's drawing theme is just "ninjas".. it used to be "burning unicorns" and "unusually good looking foot calluses" .. so if you feel you can submit yer version of "ninjas".. go ahead.. add me on MSN or something. .

even better, email it to prosaic.online@gmail.com or contact the voice at the end of 90470279/93833804. (for any contributions whatsoever)

ps. i modeled the ninja's body after my own... no.. honestly man...

god! this is so arty farty!

Saturday was the day that most of society are relieved of the drudgery of being stirred in the morning, granted the option of sleeping in, watching morning cartoons and generally just sloth around like happy giant molluscs. Quasimodo, the band, gathered in a stuffy, constrictive 13th-floor room at ten in the morning armed with burstful enthusiasm and a whole cranial suitcase of musical talent. There to do a recording, long delayed by the mandatory basic military training that comes with national service which singapore citizens are required to undergo, Quasimodo impressed the one band outsider dressed in striped spandex tights despatched by prosaic magazine who decided to sit in.


Adjusting my tights to fully accentuate my figure, i attached scribbled notes on arrows in my quiver and shot it at the band from the next room as an unconventional way of doing interviews. This ended when someone got hurt, or at least my feelings did when one of them said "dude! this is stupid!".

Having no regard to my sensitive heart aside, the band made my stay throughout the interview an enjoyable one, with their company and their music.

"We're like a potluck, everybody brings something they can contribute to the table at that time. There is no specific job for anyone", vocalist/guitarist Zainal explained about the band's music and member placement. "We don't have a drummer and almost everybody can play the same instrument(s) that we use for a song.", this was observed in the recording they did where at least three members out of the 5-man band took their turns playing the guitar as
they captured the tune on the computer, trying to find just the correct sound.



"I wanna be your cigarette, hanging on the tip of your lips", went Zainal, the appointed vocalist for the song they were recording at the time of the sit-in. Sweet yet morose was the mood of the written lyrics and overall emotion felt from the song. The vocals then switched to Azmi's in his brooding sort of baritone that covered several verses. The effect proved immersive and strongly hints of indonesian and british indie rock influences, it was generally quite impressive and atmospheric, probably helped by the cell-like room we were in. My only complaint is that they sounded unpolished but thats nothing a bit more practice wouldn't cure. Due to the restrictive dimensions of the room, echoes accentuated melodies and the vocals sounded brilliant in the practice run before the actual recording began.High spirits were beached when the recording-by-layers (separate recordings of each individual instrument and vocals) removed the echo-effects the room unintendedly provided. Zainal, a current NSF combat medic in the army, with the driven personality spoke for the whole band as he expressed disappointment through some varied expletives. "We do not have much time for the band and this is the first recording since our Basic Military Training(BMT) and it hasn't gone that well... so yeah it's a bit frustrating" one band member explained.



Looking at their equipment, Idzwan, the rhythm guitarist revealed with a boyish grin, "We spent only about a third of what other bands spend in equipment", which had a sort of teasing smugness about being able to do decent music with limited resources yet humbling in a subtle plea not to hold too high expectations of the amateur band. "We don't look the part, we're a sorry excuse for a band really", the band confessed, preferring to dump image for craft instead.



The band revealed the primary source of motivation for forming the 5-man outfit with French author, Victor Hugo's 1831 novel as a choice for a name. "We treat it as a form of escapism", Azmi, co-vocalist stated with much undisguised pomp, the reason made clearer by Zainal. "I have a neighbour who has an engineering degree, a well-paying job, a considerably pretty wife, a car and a 5 room flat", Zainal cut in as if on cue, possibly aware that he was describing the popular Singaporean dream much preached by well-meaning parents. He continued, "Yet he told me he wasn't happy and even encouraged me not to work too hard but to enjoy myself instead". "My neighbour said something like 'I thought i would be happy if i studied hard, i thought i would be happy if i bought a car.. yeah it brings with it travelling convenience but it isnt the happiness you get when you are having fun doing the things you want to do'" The neighbour in question even suggested a path that modern materialistic fixation would find unthinkable. "Im sure people will look down on you if u just play music and dont get a permanent job.. but at least you will be happy."



The band revealed maturity and prudence when they assured that they did not find it advisable to listen fully to what the frustrated, regretful senior engineer dispensed. Zainal rationalised that "Sure the idea of a starving artist in a rented apartment is romantic and all but its the starving part that is f*ed up and we wouldnt want to go through that". Drawing lines to making sacrifices for the sake of their art, where the prospect of spartan dwellings and an empty bowl dampens all enthusiasm and optimism that might be in naive abundance, the band promised to at least meet up every few weeks, or in the worst case, months, to make music. In that sense, they explained that they feel privileged to uplift that feeling of routine monotony afflicting most working adults through playing music, for profit or not. It is poetic that, even with the transient nature of corridor acquaintances, it made a strong enough impression to inspire certain resolutions in a group of teenagers on the threshold of adulthood.



link: http://www.purevolume.com/quasimodo