I only need a few moments of your time. I promise I'll be as brief as possible. Just shut the fuck up for five goddamn seconds, will you? Christ. I know you've noticed that something's been a little...strange, lately. Something I haven't been telling you. Alright, fine, I'll own up to it! I've been staring. I'm not made of fucking stone! The truth is...well, to be honest with you...this isn't easy for me to say...it's those jeans, you know the ones - probably picked them just for that. Come-fuck-me jeans. I can't keep my eyes off you in them. I guess, what I'm trying to say is...I think I might be falling for you. I'm having a lot of trouble controlling my emotions. All I can think about is tearing them off you, imagining what you look like underneath them. I've been trying to keep my distance, out of respect - I wasn't really sure you feel the same way I feel. I'm tired of playing these games. Either you want me to make you come, or you don't. Cards on the table. I didn't want to ruin our friendship, and I understand if this is a little confronting for you. I'm trying to be as considerate as possible. I'm thinking about it right now! Bending you over that couch, throwing you into bed, up against a wall, anything. Anywhere. You want it as much as I do, you fucking slut. I just can't hold in this feeling anymore! I...I think I'm in love with you. God, you want me right now, don't you? I just wanna feel you shiver, make you moan. Give me the slightest sign and I'll have you right here. Anything. Please, give me a sign. I need to know how you feel. Have I ruined everything? Do you want to be ruined?
I'm going mad not knowing how you feel. I didn't mean to take you by surprise, but I just can't hold back anymore. I'm going to come back later. Let me know how that felt...
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Heart and Mind and Soul
I'm blogging as soon as I wake up. This is rare. But as usual something occured to me in the shower and I feel I should write it down.
I spend a lot of time talking about heart, mind and soul. I use them a lot in my prose (such as it is). I realised this morning that those three things are what I believe constitutes a human being and I'm going to note down what I believe those things are - and then note down who has mine, because that's the other thing I thought of in the shower.
Right, so. Mind.
Mind is all of those thoughts you have. Mind is your sense of self, basically. Everything that lies behind your eyes, every time you think 'yes' or 'no', every time you formulate an argument, willfully make a choice, express your emotions that sometimes come from other places but eventually ferment in your mind, so on so forth. Mind is thought. Thought is mind.
Ben owns my mind. He owns my mind because I refuse to allow him my heart any longer, as there isn't a point and because he doesn't want it, because he can't have my soul, and because his mind and my mind together are like fireworks and matches. Friendship is a choice, and the mind is the home of choice. He is my best friend and probably will be for a very long time. Thus, he owns my mind.
Now then, the soul.
The soul is all of that intuition bullshit. For me, the soul is the feelings that cannot be rationalized, those subtle things in life that have no explanation, no obvious source - that feeling of wholeness or emptiness, that deep-seated sense of right and wrong (not always, sometimes the mind handles that), contentment, equilibrium and all that other hippy crap. I was raised by hippies, I refuse to be an athiest, sue me. Anyway, the soul is all of that unexplainable yet essential stuff.
Baesty is my soulmate. She can't have my mind because she already has so much of me that even I don't understand, and she can't have my heart because we will never sleep together. She has my soul for reasons I can't fathom, but she has it regardless.
Finally, the heart is love. Physical contact, affection, and love. The kind of love where your blood quickens in your veins at the sight of someone, the kind of love that leaves you tongue-tied in the wake of their scent, the kind of love that makes your dreams haunted and tortures you with senseless yearning.
At the moment, I'm heartless.
So, that concludes my just-woke-up-must-write-wtf moment.
I spend a lot of time talking about heart, mind and soul. I use them a lot in my prose (such as it is). I realised this morning that those three things are what I believe constitutes a human being and I'm going to note down what I believe those things are - and then note down who has mine, because that's the other thing I thought of in the shower.
Right, so. Mind.
Mind is all of those thoughts you have. Mind is your sense of self, basically. Everything that lies behind your eyes, every time you think 'yes' or 'no', every time you formulate an argument, willfully make a choice, express your emotions that sometimes come from other places but eventually ferment in your mind, so on so forth. Mind is thought. Thought is mind.
Ben owns my mind. He owns my mind because I refuse to allow him my heart any longer, as there isn't a point and because he doesn't want it, because he can't have my soul, and because his mind and my mind together are like fireworks and matches. Friendship is a choice, and the mind is the home of choice. He is my best friend and probably will be for a very long time. Thus, he owns my mind.
Now then, the soul.
The soul is all of that intuition bullshit. For me, the soul is the feelings that cannot be rationalized, those subtle things in life that have no explanation, no obvious source - that feeling of wholeness or emptiness, that deep-seated sense of right and wrong (not always, sometimes the mind handles that), contentment, equilibrium and all that other hippy crap. I was raised by hippies, I refuse to be an athiest, sue me. Anyway, the soul is all of that unexplainable yet essential stuff.
Baesty is my soulmate. She can't have my mind because she already has so much of me that even I don't understand, and she can't have my heart because we will never sleep together. She has my soul for reasons I can't fathom, but she has it regardless.
Finally, the heart is love. Physical contact, affection, and love. The kind of love where your blood quickens in your veins at the sight of someone, the kind of love that leaves you tongue-tied in the wake of their scent, the kind of love that makes your dreams haunted and tortures you with senseless yearning.
At the moment, I'm heartless.
So, that concludes my just-woke-up-must-write-wtf moment.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Dinner
Our kitchen needs a clean.
First thing that crosses my mind as I walk in - before the smell, before the sight of you at the bench, before the rumble of my aching belly. I'm right. It does need a clean. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes. The floor is encrusted with old sugar, split and forgotten. The trashbag is full and sagging. The cat - that hateful, mewling cat - is sitting by an empty, chipped bowl.
Yes, our kitchen needs a clean.
"Smells good," I say. I try and be appreciative. You do your best with what you have, in this filthy, filthy kitchen. "What is it?"
"Not finished," you let me know. You're distracted. I can sense it in your voice, see it in the arch of your back. I wonder idly how long you've been in this kitchen, amongst the dirt and grime. You'll cook anyway, you always do, but I'm wondering where you found the resources. The fridge is empty - aside from what's rotting in the vetetable crisper.
There was some milk that had gone off, but I drank it on the way to work.
There was a side of rancid meat, but you ate that for dinner last night. You tried to hide that from me, but I knew you did. It was gone when I looked for it after you went to sleep.
The fruit was rotted a week before we had that, trying not to meet one another's eyes.
I wonder what you've cooked.
"Is it far off? I'm starving!" I was, too. I'd been at work all day. You were here, seeing to the house, I suppose. I didn't really know what you did today, or the day before, or the day before. I suppose I just stopped paying attention. My mind wandered back, following my footsteps mentally, back along the crowded, smelly trainlines, back past the decrepid fields, back past the tumbledown buildings, back to work. I didn't remember anything about the day's work, really. It was all a bit of a blur. I do remember, quite vividly, that one of my workmates, Kerry, had half a box of cornflakes today. He had kept it under his shirt, to save it for our lunch break. Did we still get lunch breaks? I couldn't remember.
I wondered what had happened to Kerry. I reached up, slowly, and found a cornflake in my ear. I fished it out and chewed it slowly.
It was stale.
"How much longer?"
"Long enough. I've been here all day, you know."
"Have you?"
We trailed off. I knew there were things I was supposed to ask you, things I was supposed to do. But it was all so far away...like a dream. Something that we didn't need to do anymore, surely? Something that had been nice for a while, but wasn't important to anything now...
The smell of the turning meat made me blink and forget what I was thinking of. It almost brought tears to my eyes. I wondered how you had resisted the smell for so long.
There was a knock at the door.
You didn't turn around. I didn't move. The smell of the cooking meat was overpowering. It held me there, entrapped. Slowly, I started to wonder - if I moved quickly enough, there was that filthy frypan in the sink...if I grabbed it before you could turn, and hit you over the head hard enough, you probably wouldn't get up aga-
"I think you're supposed to go and open the door."
"Right."
I went to open the door. The smell of the meat lessened. I tried to focus on what I was doing. Hand on doorknob, door eases open, cough, blink. Not used to doing this twice in a day. Door opens outwards, not inwards. Not leaving for work, just answering door. Can do this. The smell of the meat is fading. Can do this.
It's the neighbour. Dimly, I remember that means he lives next door.
"Ah..." he says, and then blinks a bit and makes strange noises. I realise he has forgotten my name. I realise I have forgotten his name. Did I ever know it? I think I did, once.
"...you," he finishes. "I seem to have lost my children. Have you seen them?"
I blink stupidly. Have I seen his children? I don't remember. What happened to Kerry? "What do they look like?"
He blinks stupidly back. We both seem to be blinking a lot. Is that normal? Are we normal? "You know...I don't actually know. I wouldn't have come over here at all, only we're out of food at our place, me and my...and my wife...and I thought that one of my daughters was hiding a string of sausages...you know, for herself...so I thought I'd come over here and see if she'd been around..."
He slumps. Recalling so much had clearly been an effort for him. I feel a moment's sympathy for him, and then wonder why. Then I wonder what sympathy is.
He perks up. Flares his nostrils. "Say, what's that divine smell..."
I close the door. Smell the meat. Head back towards the kitchen.
For some reason I look out the front window as I walk past it. He's still there, standing stupidly in the garden. As I look out the window he slumps to his knees, starts picking the flowers in our flowerbed. Bringing them to his mouth. Eating our flowers.
I vaguely feel that he shouldn't be doing that, but he's doing it anyway, and the meat must be nearly done. You must have nearly finished by now.
"Who was at the door?" you ask me, not really caring.
"A man, looking for his daughter..." I reply, not really caring either. "What are you cooking?"
You don't reply.
The meat cooks in the oven, and smells delicious.
I notice a spot of red on the back of your hand.
Our kitchen is filthy.
First thing that crosses my mind as I walk in - before the smell, before the sight of you at the bench, before the rumble of my aching belly. I'm right. It does need a clean. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes. The floor is encrusted with old sugar, split and forgotten. The trashbag is full and sagging. The cat - that hateful, mewling cat - is sitting by an empty, chipped bowl.
Yes, our kitchen needs a clean.
"Smells good," I say. I try and be appreciative. You do your best with what you have, in this filthy, filthy kitchen. "What is it?"
"Not finished," you let me know. You're distracted. I can sense it in your voice, see it in the arch of your back. I wonder idly how long you've been in this kitchen, amongst the dirt and grime. You'll cook anyway, you always do, but I'm wondering where you found the resources. The fridge is empty - aside from what's rotting in the vetetable crisper.
There was some milk that had gone off, but I drank it on the way to work.
There was a side of rancid meat, but you ate that for dinner last night. You tried to hide that from me, but I knew you did. It was gone when I looked for it after you went to sleep.
The fruit was rotted a week before we had that, trying not to meet one another's eyes.
I wonder what you've cooked.
"Is it far off? I'm starving!" I was, too. I'd been at work all day. You were here, seeing to the house, I suppose. I didn't really know what you did today, or the day before, or the day before. I suppose I just stopped paying attention. My mind wandered back, following my footsteps mentally, back along the crowded, smelly trainlines, back past the decrepid fields, back past the tumbledown buildings, back to work. I didn't remember anything about the day's work, really. It was all a bit of a blur. I do remember, quite vividly, that one of my workmates, Kerry, had half a box of cornflakes today. He had kept it under his shirt, to save it for our lunch break. Did we still get lunch breaks? I couldn't remember.
I wondered what had happened to Kerry. I reached up, slowly, and found a cornflake in my ear. I fished it out and chewed it slowly.
It was stale.
"How much longer?"
"Long enough. I've been here all day, you know."
"Have you?"
We trailed off. I knew there were things I was supposed to ask you, things I was supposed to do. But it was all so far away...like a dream. Something that we didn't need to do anymore, surely? Something that had been nice for a while, but wasn't important to anything now...
The smell of the turning meat made me blink and forget what I was thinking of. It almost brought tears to my eyes. I wondered how you had resisted the smell for so long.
There was a knock at the door.
You didn't turn around. I didn't move. The smell of the cooking meat was overpowering. It held me there, entrapped. Slowly, I started to wonder - if I moved quickly enough, there was that filthy frypan in the sink...if I grabbed it before you could turn, and hit you over the head hard enough, you probably wouldn't get up aga-
"I think you're supposed to go and open the door."
"Right."
I went to open the door. The smell of the meat lessened. I tried to focus on what I was doing. Hand on doorknob, door eases open, cough, blink. Not used to doing this twice in a day. Door opens outwards, not inwards. Not leaving for work, just answering door. Can do this. The smell of the meat is fading. Can do this.
It's the neighbour. Dimly, I remember that means he lives next door.
"Ah..." he says, and then blinks a bit and makes strange noises. I realise he has forgotten my name. I realise I have forgotten his name. Did I ever know it? I think I did, once.
"...you," he finishes. "I seem to have lost my children. Have you seen them?"
I blink stupidly. Have I seen his children? I don't remember. What happened to Kerry? "What do they look like?"
He blinks stupidly back. We both seem to be blinking a lot. Is that normal? Are we normal? "You know...I don't actually know. I wouldn't have come over here at all, only we're out of food at our place, me and my...and my wife...and I thought that one of my daughters was hiding a string of sausages...you know, for herself...so I thought I'd come over here and see if she'd been around..."
He slumps. Recalling so much had clearly been an effort for him. I feel a moment's sympathy for him, and then wonder why. Then I wonder what sympathy is.
He perks up. Flares his nostrils. "Say, what's that divine smell..."
I close the door. Smell the meat. Head back towards the kitchen.
For some reason I look out the front window as I walk past it. He's still there, standing stupidly in the garden. As I look out the window he slumps to his knees, starts picking the flowers in our flowerbed. Bringing them to his mouth. Eating our flowers.
I vaguely feel that he shouldn't be doing that, but he's doing it anyway, and the meat must be nearly done. You must have nearly finished by now.
"Who was at the door?" you ask me, not really caring.
"A man, looking for his daughter..." I reply, not really caring either. "What are you cooking?"
You don't reply.
The meat cooks in the oven, and smells delicious.
I notice a spot of red on the back of your hand.
Our kitchen is filthy.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Sweet Dreams
I took the grime in at a glance,
The dirty dishes, underpants -
Tossed aside by happenstance,
and strewn upon the floor.
I watched you grope for who to be -
You'd lost your touch, you lacked the grace,
You used to wear while choosing face,
To wear instead of bearing me.
And we had yet to even touch.
This is too much.
You settled then upon the friend,
The host, the bluff and hearty man,
That one that we both hate and scorn!
This is the face you chose?
Well, what shall we compose?
I resigned myself to a difficult task, and looked around the room again for inspiration.
There was little to delight me on the floor,
but I turned my gaze upwards - and what is this?
A little white bottle,
on the desk,
innocent.
You had the decency to look ashamed.
I found my voice.
"And what is this?"
You looked at me.
Of course, I knew.
But to voice it made you know my disgust.
"I come calling at the open door,
A door long closed, a door long locked,
But I did not come expecting war,
A prison cell, a rifle cocked - "
"Don't stanza me," you cut me off -
"I know that it looks bad, to you,
But you aren't here often enough,
To keep the dreams at bay -"
"Rhyme, my boy" I said, nonplussed.
"At least do that - for am I not
here as often as I must?
It is through me you stop the rot!
And this, this is your shield?
To pat you softly on the head?
To send you softly to your bed,
At mercy of the powers you wield?"
I lifted the bottle.
Diazepam.
There was no rhyme there.
"You dream the soft sleep of the drugged and duped."
"What of it?" you demanded.
"So what? I take a pill to sleep at night, I hold the terrors of the night at bay, and I am still -"
"A slave. This is but a symptom, a sign of doom, gloom - there's no more room!" I was enraged. "You are still what? Alive? Yourself? A man? Do you dare to do all that may become one? Are you least yourself when you wear your own face? Do you look out of your tower and think of birds?"
Now you were annoyed. "You speak nonsense."
I was unrelenting. "Shall I give you a mask, so that you will tell me the truth? You had trouble choosing, when I came in."
You retrieved the bottle from my shaking fingers. I could feel myself unravelling. Structure was forsaken. Verbosity was deserting me, and I could see in your eyes that you felt it too. There was no unity, no completeness. There was no singular purpose, no completed work, and yet I was being pulled away. Something was wrong. Something was wro -
You unscrewed the top of the bottle and tipped a tiny pill into your hand.
You brought the pill to your mouth.
You swallowed.
"Sweet dreams."
I could not tell if it was your voice or mine.
The dirty dishes, underpants -
Tossed aside by happenstance,
and strewn upon the floor.
I watched you grope for who to be -
You'd lost your touch, you lacked the grace,
You used to wear while choosing face,
To wear instead of bearing me.
And we had yet to even touch.
This is too much.
You settled then upon the friend,
The host, the bluff and hearty man,
That one that we both hate and scorn!
This is the face you chose?
Well, what shall we compose?
I resigned myself to a difficult task, and looked around the room again for inspiration.
There was little to delight me on the floor,
but I turned my gaze upwards - and what is this?
A little white bottle,
on the desk,
innocent.
You had the decency to look ashamed.
I found my voice.
"And what is this?"
You looked at me.
Of course, I knew.
But to voice it made you know my disgust.
"I come calling at the open door,
A door long closed, a door long locked,
But I did not come expecting war,
A prison cell, a rifle cocked - "
"Don't stanza me," you cut me off -
"I know that it looks bad, to you,
But you aren't here often enough,
To keep the dreams at bay -"
"Rhyme, my boy" I said, nonplussed.
"At least do that - for am I not
here as often as I must?
It is through me you stop the rot!
And this, this is your shield?
To pat you softly on the head?
To send you softly to your bed,
At mercy of the powers you wield?"
I lifted the bottle.
Diazepam.
There was no rhyme there.
"You dream the soft sleep of the drugged and duped."
"What of it?" you demanded.
"So what? I take a pill to sleep at night, I hold the terrors of the night at bay, and I am still -"
"A slave. This is but a symptom, a sign of doom, gloom - there's no more room!" I was enraged. "You are still what? Alive? Yourself? A man? Do you dare to do all that may become one? Are you least yourself when you wear your own face? Do you look out of your tower and think of birds?"
Now you were annoyed. "You speak nonsense."
I was unrelenting. "Shall I give you a mask, so that you will tell me the truth? You had trouble choosing, when I came in."
You retrieved the bottle from my shaking fingers. I could feel myself unravelling. Structure was forsaken. Verbosity was deserting me, and I could see in your eyes that you felt it too. There was no unity, no completeness. There was no singular purpose, no completed work, and yet I was being pulled away. Something was wrong. Something was wro -
You unscrewed the top of the bottle and tipped a tiny pill into your hand.
You brought the pill to your mouth.
You swallowed.
"Sweet dreams."
I could not tell if it was your voice or mine.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Brewing and Brewing and Brewing
I must not descend into this.
Must not, must not, must know.
Proper spacing, proper pacing,
And all will flow as all should flow.
Spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces.
Filling! I'm running out of room! There isn't any room! And I'm going to explode, implode, destroy, deploy, extremely decieved and bereaved as I retrieve.
That fucking rhymed, again and and again and again. Everything fucking rhymes. I find myself deleting words because they do not swing.
What a crime.
What a fucking crime.
Words that spewed forth are deleted before they have time to take root,
Because they don't mean anything unless I make them fucking swing, fucking sing? What a fucking thing.
Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.
I'm like a patient, gibbering and writing on the walls in fury. Or one of those 'different' girls, who scream the thoughts that come into their heads in order to glean notice.
Strained beets, strained beets, and all that rot.
My god, this fucking pressure. Stones in a spiral. My gaze is drawn, but my mind is tearing away.
I held on to you, to this, to us - but what a fucking joke THAT is, right? Who the fuck is us? Did we fuse? Am I you? Are you me? What a fucked up sentiment. I was lost until I found you. Lost with me. Who the fuck needs you? I have me.
And there are people who are annoyed at cats in trees, and the wrong fucking shade of magenta.
What a fucking mess.
Anywhere's better than here, but I'm here, so there's nothing better.
I'm here.
You're not here. Why the fuck are you here? You shouldn't be, you're not.
Where's the valve on my head to turn this shit off? Release it, let it flow, let it show, let it GO.
It needs to go.
It seeps and it weeps and NO MORE, I SAY. NO MORE. I WILL NOT MAKE THEM DANCE FOR YOU. I WILL NOT GIVE IN TO THIS FUCKING MESS. I AM NOT THE FOOL.
I will not rhyme anything with that.
Fuck.
There's that fucking valve.
Must not, must not, must know.
Proper spacing, proper pacing,
And all will flow as all should flow.
Spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces.
Filling! I'm running out of room! There isn't any room! And I'm going to explode, implode, destroy, deploy, extremely decieved and bereaved as I retrieve.
That fucking rhymed, again and and again and again. Everything fucking rhymes. I find myself deleting words because they do not swing.
What a crime.
What a fucking crime.
Words that spewed forth are deleted before they have time to take root,
Because they don't mean anything unless I make them fucking swing, fucking sing? What a fucking thing.
Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.
I'm like a patient, gibbering and writing on the walls in fury. Or one of those 'different' girls, who scream the thoughts that come into their heads in order to glean notice.
Strained beets, strained beets, and all that rot.
My god, this fucking pressure. Stones in a spiral. My gaze is drawn, but my mind is tearing away.
I held on to you, to this, to us - but what a fucking joke THAT is, right? Who the fuck is us? Did we fuse? Am I you? Are you me? What a fucked up sentiment. I was lost until I found you. Lost with me. Who the fuck needs you? I have me.
And there are people who are annoyed at cats in trees, and the wrong fucking shade of magenta.
What a fucking mess.
Anywhere's better than here, but I'm here, so there's nothing better.
I'm here.
You're not here. Why the fuck are you here? You shouldn't be, you're not.
Where's the valve on my head to turn this shit off? Release it, let it flow, let it show, let it GO.
It needs to go.
It seeps and it weeps and NO MORE, I SAY. NO MORE. I WILL NOT MAKE THEM DANCE FOR YOU. I WILL NOT GIVE IN TO THIS FUCKING MESS. I AM NOT THE FOOL.
I will not rhyme anything with that.
Fuck.
There's that fucking valve.
Alters
But blink your eyes -
Is this the boy of who you dreamed?
A boy who sucks, a boy who fucks,
A boy who makes his partners scream.
Is this not all you dreamed?
Turn away, and try again.
With heart, and mind, and soul.
Outstretched.
With pen to make a mockery.
Do you think he'll write of thee?
Or are you now the country lord?
His clothes so fine, who drinks his wine?
He's undemanding, yet commanding -
It is he, who rules this place.
Do you recognise his face?
What is it you truly want?
To flick your fingers, crush your foes,
No need for love, no need for prose,
Just power, and the will to fight.
That's who you wanted, right?
But now, the howl of misery,
This one is blinded, and yet sees,
The sorrow and the endless woes,
With mind for all the subtlety.
This is what you'll be?
Perhaps you'll be all five,
And then, you'll be alive.
Is this the boy of who you dreamed?
A boy who sucks, a boy who fucks,
A boy who makes his partners scream.
Is this not all you dreamed?
Turn away, and try again.
With heart, and mind, and soul.
Outstretched.
With pen to make a mockery.
Do you think he'll write of thee?
Or are you now the country lord?
His clothes so fine, who drinks his wine?
He's undemanding, yet commanding -
It is he, who rules this place.
Do you recognise his face?
What is it you truly want?
To flick your fingers, crush your foes,
No need for love, no need for prose,
Just power, and the will to fight.
That's who you wanted, right?
But now, the howl of misery,
This one is blinded, and yet sees,
The sorrow and the endless woes,
With mind for all the subtlety.
This is what you'll be?
Perhaps you'll be all five,
And then, you'll be alive.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Birth of Ego
You know, there are huge advantages to subscribing to the blogs of other people.
The most obvious is that I have something to distract me for about two minutes at a time every now and then. How nice! I can prevent myself from actually thinking! But after reading a few things on a few blogs my mind starts to bubble, and lo and behold, I post myself.
Thought begets thought, I suppose.
Anyway, for today's romp through my thought processes for the benefit of Future Me, I present to you the following quote and the reasons that it made my brain immediately kick into overdrive.
"The truth is I hate myself. And I think that is better than being obsessed with myself."
This quote comes to us by way of the Sky Sailor's Handbook, a link you can find in blogs that I follow publicly (or if you're the author, who I know is one of my few readers, hello!)
For those of you who know me, or who read my blog, or have seen me walk down the street or even made eye contact with me - in short, it's really obvious that I am intensely egotistical. I am arrogant. I am self-absorbed, I am self-centered - importantly, though, I am not overly selfish - and in short I love myself with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. If I could clone myself and have sexual intercourse with an exact duplicate of myself, I would never want for sex again. If I could hook my brain up to machines and spend the rest of my life exploring how it works, I would never talk to another human being. I. LOVE. ME.
I forget exactly where I was going with this. Where was I?
Incidentally, I've probably posted on this topic before - but as I was pointedly reminded the other day, who I am now is different from who I was a year ago and it is interesting to get my point of view on the same subject over time. Interesting for Future Me, anyway.
Also if you know me, you'll know that I am not secretive about my ego. It exists and in a lot of cases it is quite destructive. I'm going to tell you today why I, an instrospective, self-editing individual, allowed it to grow.
I suppose I should warn you that this is probably going to be a little morbid.
Recently I was questioned by my brother. He had seen and heard of some of the things I had done to people, right before I left Canberra. They were not kind things. In fact they were downright cruel things, probably undeserved by those I did them to (though not all were undeserved, but that's another post). Basically, he demanded I explain myself; convinced that I was not at heart a bad person, he wanted to know why I did what I did, what motivated me. I told him that my ego demanded closure; that those people had at one time or another perpetrated actions that had displeased me, and my ego demanded satisfaction - so I made them suffer, or vented my spleen, or tore up relationships. And then he asked me why I had an ego.
There's probably a post somewhere in my backlog about what my previous stepfather did to me. I won't go into the details here, not too much. It isn't important. But I will paint you a very brief picture.
Imagine a confused, frightened teenager who lived in mortal fear every day for over a year. Imagine that that teenager was told every day how worthless he was, how wrong he was - how he was disgusting and he must be kept a secret from everyone around him, or they'd hate him too. Now imagine that teenager physically abused, tormented relentlessly, and left to rot.
At this point, our hypothetical teenager has two options. He can agree. He can submit. He can lie down and let it all happen to him, and in his submission things get a little easier for him. The forces that wish his destruction lessen as he begins to do their work for him. He throws himself down stairs to try and break his legs. He toys with drinking everything under the kitchen sink. He tells himself that he is unloveable and unworthy and deserves the treatment he gets - and eventually, when the abomination of his mistreatment is lifted and he is free again, he does the demon's work for them - he treats himself like he is worthless, because it was easier than not submitting. That stays with him for the rest of his life - a life that he will probably shorten when he finally becomes incapable of living with himself and his self-hatred.
Short-term, the forces pass him over. Long-term, he lives with that choice for the rest of his life.
Or there's a second option, that he can go for after trying the first option.
The teenager can withdraw into himself again - not out of submission, but in strength. He can convince himself, utterly and completely, that he is the only thing that matters in the world. He is the most important thing, everything he is is the only reality - the forces outside that are trying to destroy him are nothing, mere illusion. If he is the most amazing person in the world, the forces that are conspiring his demise, that degrade and defeat him, well, they are merely setbacks! Through conditioning, the teenager convinces himself overwhelmingly that he is amazing, incredible, and above all better than those around him. In doing so, he becomes untouchable. And when eventually the danger is past, the pressures on him are lifted and he is free again, that sense of invincibility will stay with him for the rest of his life - for a small price. Every now and then he has to crush someone, be cruel, do something that reminds him of everything he convinced himself of - his power, his strength, his ability. It isn't always a bad thing - sometimes he can satisfy this ego with good things. Sometimes, though, he has to hurt people. A bad thing, now and then, for a good feeling. There are worse things in the world.
He stood proud while he was almost destroyed. Now, he occasionally hurts others, and is happy.
I made my choice.
The most obvious is that I have something to distract me for about two minutes at a time every now and then. How nice! I can prevent myself from actually thinking! But after reading a few things on a few blogs my mind starts to bubble, and lo and behold, I post myself.
Thought begets thought, I suppose.
Anyway, for today's romp through my thought processes for the benefit of Future Me, I present to you the following quote and the reasons that it made my brain immediately kick into overdrive.
"The truth is I hate myself. And I think that is better than being obsessed with myself."
This quote comes to us by way of the Sky Sailor's Handbook, a link you can find in blogs that I follow publicly (or if you're the author, who I know is one of my few readers, hello!)
For those of you who know me, or who read my blog, or have seen me walk down the street or even made eye contact with me - in short, it's really obvious that I am intensely egotistical. I am arrogant. I am self-absorbed, I am self-centered - importantly, though, I am not overly selfish - and in short I love myself with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. If I could clone myself and have sexual intercourse with an exact duplicate of myself, I would never want for sex again. If I could hook my brain up to machines and spend the rest of my life exploring how it works, I would never talk to another human being. I. LOVE. ME.
I forget exactly where I was going with this. Where was I?
Incidentally, I've probably posted on this topic before - but as I was pointedly reminded the other day, who I am now is different from who I was a year ago and it is interesting to get my point of view on the same subject over time. Interesting for Future Me, anyway.
Also if you know me, you'll know that I am not secretive about my ego. It exists and in a lot of cases it is quite destructive. I'm going to tell you today why I, an instrospective, self-editing individual, allowed it to grow.
I suppose I should warn you that this is probably going to be a little morbid.
Recently I was questioned by my brother. He had seen and heard of some of the things I had done to people, right before I left Canberra. They were not kind things. In fact they were downright cruel things, probably undeserved by those I did them to (though not all were undeserved, but that's another post). Basically, he demanded I explain myself; convinced that I was not at heart a bad person, he wanted to know why I did what I did, what motivated me. I told him that my ego demanded closure; that those people had at one time or another perpetrated actions that had displeased me, and my ego demanded satisfaction - so I made them suffer, or vented my spleen, or tore up relationships. And then he asked me why I had an ego.
There's probably a post somewhere in my backlog about what my previous stepfather did to me. I won't go into the details here, not too much. It isn't important. But I will paint you a very brief picture.
Imagine a confused, frightened teenager who lived in mortal fear every day for over a year. Imagine that that teenager was told every day how worthless he was, how wrong he was - how he was disgusting and he must be kept a secret from everyone around him, or they'd hate him too. Now imagine that teenager physically abused, tormented relentlessly, and left to rot.
At this point, our hypothetical teenager has two options. He can agree. He can submit. He can lie down and let it all happen to him, and in his submission things get a little easier for him. The forces that wish his destruction lessen as he begins to do their work for him. He throws himself down stairs to try and break his legs. He toys with drinking everything under the kitchen sink. He tells himself that he is unloveable and unworthy and deserves the treatment he gets - and eventually, when the abomination of his mistreatment is lifted and he is free again, he does the demon's work for them - he treats himself like he is worthless, because it was easier than not submitting. That stays with him for the rest of his life - a life that he will probably shorten when he finally becomes incapable of living with himself and his self-hatred.
Short-term, the forces pass him over. Long-term, he lives with that choice for the rest of his life.
Or there's a second option, that he can go for after trying the first option.
The teenager can withdraw into himself again - not out of submission, but in strength. He can convince himself, utterly and completely, that he is the only thing that matters in the world. He is the most important thing, everything he is is the only reality - the forces outside that are trying to destroy him are nothing, mere illusion. If he is the most amazing person in the world, the forces that are conspiring his demise, that degrade and defeat him, well, they are merely setbacks! Through conditioning, the teenager convinces himself overwhelmingly that he is amazing, incredible, and above all better than those around him. In doing so, he becomes untouchable. And when eventually the danger is past, the pressures on him are lifted and he is free again, that sense of invincibility will stay with him for the rest of his life - for a small price. Every now and then he has to crush someone, be cruel, do something that reminds him of everything he convinced himself of - his power, his strength, his ability. It isn't always a bad thing - sometimes he can satisfy this ego with good things. Sometimes, though, he has to hurt people. A bad thing, now and then, for a good feeling. There are worse things in the world.
He stood proud while he was almost destroyed. Now, he occasionally hurts others, and is happy.
I made my choice.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Why this world isn't illusion.
This is my 151st post. How very interesting.
"Illusions can kill if used with skill, but fake healing is only a feeling."
- something from somewhere that's stuck with me most of my life.
"This world is just illusion, trying to change you."
- a song.
"What if everything you lived for, was an elaborate dream?"
- another song.
I'm going to be as raw as I possibly can be in this post. I am not going to postulate about the nature of reality, because I could produce endless, rambling posts on that topic that wouldn't prove anything. Hell, I could probably prove to logical satisfaction (my own, at any rate) that existence is a dream and all that we see is as fleeting as mist in a bucket.
But I'm not going to do that. Instead I'm going to set out what's running through my head at the moment.
There's this heavy emphasis on piercing the illusion that masks our lives and the nature of our existence these days. People on drugs and religious people are the prime offenders, but there are others who seek to pierce the fog that veils the true purpose of humanity or whatever it is they are saying they are doing. Most of them say that true understanding lies somehow outside the body, that the secrets of the universe can be unlocked by ethereal experimentation or communcation, and that all can be understood if we just open our minds to outside influences.
To put my position at this point in time quite clearly -
Fuck. That.
Everything I am is encased in my skull and operates through a very intense system, a system completely beyond my comprehension - but here's the important thing, identifiable. I'll put it in simple terms. Remove my brain, and I cease to be. Most other organs can be augmented or replaced. The brain cannot be. Ergo, I am my brain. Sure, there might be a 'soul' or something that is part of me that I am not capable of accessing or controlling while I'm alive - but I know for a fact that right now, I am my brain. Physically, I am that grey matter in my head. Looking outside my head for who I am ultimately is pointless.
As for fulfillment, that couldn't be simpler either. When I hunger, I eat (sometimes, anyway, my body being a fickle creature). When I lust, there are ways of dealing with that too. When I am cold, I clothe myself. When I am hot, I sweat. For every desire, emotion, need and want, I have the tools to meet those demands upon my brain - my shell makes demands of my self, and in turn the shell satisfies the self. A good meal and a pretty boy will cause me to be happy. Wielding power - an entirely physical insitution - makes me fulfilled. These reactions are real, as real I as I myself am. If I am not real, the nature of the world isn't important - but I do believe that I myself am real. I think, therefore I am, blah blah blah.
I'm rambling. I'll try to simplify again.
I am real. Therefore, the things that satisfy and fulfill me are real. Those things have physical groundings. Therefore, the phsyical world is real.
I have sex, I eat food, I feel happy, the world is real.
I get punched in the face, I lose a lover, I am mocked, I am sad, the world is real.
Fuck looking elsewhere for meaning.
For now, anyway.
"Illusions can kill if used with skill, but fake healing is only a feeling."
- something from somewhere that's stuck with me most of my life.
"This world is just illusion, trying to change you."
- a song.
"What if everything you lived for, was an elaborate dream?"
- another song.
I'm going to be as raw as I possibly can be in this post. I am not going to postulate about the nature of reality, because I could produce endless, rambling posts on that topic that wouldn't prove anything. Hell, I could probably prove to logical satisfaction (my own, at any rate) that existence is a dream and all that we see is as fleeting as mist in a bucket.
But I'm not going to do that. Instead I'm going to set out what's running through my head at the moment.
There's this heavy emphasis on piercing the illusion that masks our lives and the nature of our existence these days. People on drugs and religious people are the prime offenders, but there are others who seek to pierce the fog that veils the true purpose of humanity or whatever it is they are saying they are doing. Most of them say that true understanding lies somehow outside the body, that the secrets of the universe can be unlocked by ethereal experimentation or communcation, and that all can be understood if we just open our minds to outside influences.
To put my position at this point in time quite clearly -
Fuck. That.
Everything I am is encased in my skull and operates through a very intense system, a system completely beyond my comprehension - but here's the important thing, identifiable. I'll put it in simple terms. Remove my brain, and I cease to be. Most other organs can be augmented or replaced. The brain cannot be. Ergo, I am my brain. Sure, there might be a 'soul' or something that is part of me that I am not capable of accessing or controlling while I'm alive - but I know for a fact that right now, I am my brain. Physically, I am that grey matter in my head. Looking outside my head for who I am ultimately is pointless.
As for fulfillment, that couldn't be simpler either. When I hunger, I eat (sometimes, anyway, my body being a fickle creature). When I lust, there are ways of dealing with that too. When I am cold, I clothe myself. When I am hot, I sweat. For every desire, emotion, need and want, I have the tools to meet those demands upon my brain - my shell makes demands of my self, and in turn the shell satisfies the self. A good meal and a pretty boy will cause me to be happy. Wielding power - an entirely physical insitution - makes me fulfilled. These reactions are real, as real I as I myself am. If I am not real, the nature of the world isn't important - but I do believe that I myself am real. I think, therefore I am, blah blah blah.
I'm rambling. I'll try to simplify again.
I am real. Therefore, the things that satisfy and fulfill me are real. Those things have physical groundings. Therefore, the phsyical world is real.
I have sex, I eat food, I feel happy, the world is real.
I get punched in the face, I lose a lover, I am mocked, I am sad, the world is real.
Fuck looking elsewhere for meaning.
For now, anyway.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
It'll All Melt Away
The walls are white.
As though they might,
Project the light.
And in the night,
It seems they might,
Consume the light.
You're such a fright.
The sky is blue,
Crisp, clear, and new,
And just for you.
What will you do,
When nothing's new?
Nothing for you?
Bid it adieu.
You walk in day,
Breathe, come what may.
That much, I'll say.
Don't lose your way,
I will not stay,
To walk in day.
For you are prey.
As though they might,
Project the light.
And in the night,
It seems they might,
Consume the light.
You're such a fright.
The sky is blue,
Crisp, clear, and new,
And just for you.
What will you do,
When nothing's new?
Nothing for you?
Bid it adieu.
You walk in day,
Breathe, come what may.
That much, I'll say.
Don't lose your way,
I will not stay,
To walk in day.
For you are prey.
Arrival
High ceilings, shuttered windows.
Winding roads with tumbledown houses.
A terraced garden and a cat on the staircase.
The smell of sweat and a feeling of loss.
If only I could put it all together.
I know it means something.
I've been in Melbourne for almost two weeks now.
Moving away from home has proven to be paradoxically ten times easier than expected and at the same time crushingly difficult.
The people who I treated with utter disdain are now almost a thousand kilometres away. That's not to say I regret treating them with disdain, but rather I am upset because now I have nobody to treat with disdain.
Making friends is a laborious process and one that doesn't exactly have a clear beginning.
I am surviving. I am surrounded by nice things and the essentials have been made available to me. I'm a very lucky person.
I need to get out of my head a little bit.
Something is changing,
Meaning keeps escaping and now,
It proves impossible to say.
I don't have to do this,
The point is easy to miss,
And I know that there is another way.
Winding roads with tumbledown houses.
A terraced garden and a cat on the staircase.
The smell of sweat and a feeling of loss.
If only I could put it all together.
I know it means something.
I've been in Melbourne for almost two weeks now.
Moving away from home has proven to be paradoxically ten times easier than expected and at the same time crushingly difficult.
The people who I treated with utter disdain are now almost a thousand kilometres away. That's not to say I regret treating them with disdain, but rather I am upset because now I have nobody to treat with disdain.
Making friends is a laborious process and one that doesn't exactly have a clear beginning.
I am surviving. I am surrounded by nice things and the essentials have been made available to me. I'm a very lucky person.
I need to get out of my head a little bit.
Something is changing,
Meaning keeps escaping and now,
It proves impossible to say.
I don't have to do this,
The point is easy to miss,
And I know that there is another way.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Woman Who Thought She Was Ugly
Once upon a time there was a woman who thought she was ugly.
This woman lived all by herself in a shack in the middle of the woods, with nothing but a full-length mirror to keep her company. The shack was old and rickety, and the roof would blow and rattle in the wind at night. One day, the woman grew so weary of looking at her reflection in the mirror that she kicked her door in and set off into the forest in a towering rage.
“Woe is me!” she raged to herself. “I am so monumentally ugly! There is nothing on this earth that is as ugly as I am!” As you can see, this woman was prone to melodrama.
It came to pass that while walking in the woods, she was set upon by a hideous monster in the woods. She was not afraid of the ugliness of the monster, because she believed that her own ugliness was far worse – but the monster had sharp fangs, and pointed claws, and she began to fear.
“Stay away,” she warned the monster as it panted at her from the path. “I am far too ugly for you to trouble yourself with.”
“Ugly you are,” the monster growled, “but I am ugly too – and I will take what I can get!” And with that, the monster leapt upon the woman and had his way with her. After putting up with the horrible monster’s attentions for over an hour, the woman finally managed to beat the monster away. It fled into the woods, whooping with evil glee, and the woman felt disgusted. “I must be ugly,” she said to herself, “for a beast such as that to trouble with me.” And so it was that she continued on her way, shaking her head in sadness.
After walking for many hours, she stopped by a stream to quench her thirst and wash her face. Looking across the river, she saw another woman washing her hair in the stream. This woman was not particularly good-looking, but to the woman who thought she was ugly, she was beautiful indeed. “What a beautiful woman” the ugly-thinking woman thought to herself. “I shall steal away from here quickly, and not trouble her.” But as she made to leave, the hair-washing woman called out to her.
“Who are you, that wanders in this forest without a friend?” The hair-washing woman called.
“Nobody,” replied the woman who thought she was ugly. “Just an ugly, ugly person trying to walk through the woods.”
“You are very ugly,” said the hair-washing woman, “but I have an idea. If you will have sex with me, I will call you beautiful, and maybe you will feel better about your horrible ugliness.” The woman who thought she was ugly was so overjoyed at this suggestion that she tore her clothes off at once and leapt across the river. The hair-washing woman was equally keen on the idea, and they coupled for a while.
When it was over, the woman who thought she was ugly swam across the river again to retrieve her clothing, and when she turned back, the hair-washing woman had fled – not even bothering to dress before escaping. The woman who thought she was ugly was very sad. “I must be so ugly that she couldn’t even bring herself to pretend I was beautiful,” she said to herself, and she continued on her way, very weary after her adventures.
After walking for many more hours, the woman who thought she was ugly found herself in a land of ice and snow. The wind blew cruelly and stung her face, but she did not mind as she thought herself so ugly that the wind could only be an improvement. Not only was she melodramatic, she was foolish – and she soon became lost in the blizzard. After stumbling blindly about for some minutes, she found herself outside a windswept palace made of glittering frost. “I am far too ugly for a place like this,” she thought to herself, “but if I duck inside quickly perhaps nobody will see me.” And so she did.
Inside the palace there was absolutely nobody to be seen. The halls echoed with the woman’s footsteps and search as she might she could not find a single person. Finally, she thought to check in the throne room of the frozen palace, and there she came upon the Ice Queen sitting in state upon her crystal throne. The woman who thought she was ugly took fright and made to flee, but the Ice Queen beckoned her forward with a bony finger.
“Who are you, that enters my land of ice and snow?” the Ice Queen demanded imperiously.
“Just a very ugly woman who has lost her way, your Majesty,” the woman who thought she was ugly said with fear.
“You are very ugly,” said the Ice Queen, “but you may rest here for a time, and tell me how beautiful I am.”
Obediently the woman sat down at the feet of the throne and began to tell the Ice Queen of everything that made her beautiful. But the more she spoke, the less beautiful the Ice Queen seemed. Her fingers were bone-white and looked like claws, her cheeks were sullen and corpse-white, and under her ermine robes she looked to be very bloated and large. After a time of talking, the woman who thought she was ugly realized that the Ice Queen was not beautiful in the slightest, and when the Ice Queen finally fell asleep, frozen to her crystal throne, the woman who thought she was ugly made her escape.
The woman who thought she was ugly left the land of ice and snow, and found herself in a pleasant field. The sun had revealed itself once more and the woman felt a faint stirring of hope. There in the center of the field she came across a young man, and she was filled with fear, because she remembered the monster from the start of her long journey.
“Stay away,” she warned the man as she had warned the monster. “I am far too ugly for you to trouble yourself with.”
“Ugly?” the man replied. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!”
The woman who thought she was beautiful did not believe him at first, but over many hours he managed to convince her that he was being serious. She thought him a very strange man at first, but as the days in the field grew longer and the young man continued to speak of her beauty, she started to accept that he was honest. She did not believe him, of course, because she knew herself to be very ugly, and over time she left him and travelled back to her home in the forest with the rickety roof and the full-length mirror.
Many years passed.
One day, the woman who thought she was ugly woke up and looked in her full-length mirror, as she did every morning to remind herself of her ugliness. But this morning, something had changed. The face that looked back at her out of her mirror was beautiful. Absolutely, soul-blisteringly, utterly and completely beautiful. With a cry of joy, the beautiful woman rushed out of her house and down the path. She could think only of finding that young man, who she had met in that field all those years ago, and showing him that she finally was as beautiful as he had said she was.
It came to pass that while running down the path in the woods, she was set upon by a monster. This monster was frightfully ugly, and somehow familiar. It had sharp fangs, and pointed claws, and the beautiful woman was afraid.
“Stay away from me, monster,” she said to it with fear, “for I am far too beautiful for you now.”
“You’re right!” the monster said, gnashing its teeth. “You are far too beautiful, and I will always be ugly.”
And with that, the monster loped off into the trees, and the beautiful woman felt pity for the ugly thing, because ugliness was all it was and all it deserved.
Continuing on her way, the beautiful woman came across a stream, and was looking upon her beautiful face in the water when she heard the sound of crying. Across the stream was the hair-washing woman from all those years ago, fully clothed again and crying pitifully.
“Hello,” said the beautiful woman. “I am very beautiful.”
“You are so beautiful,” sobbed the hair-washing woman, “and I am so alone! I ran away from an ugly woman many years ago, and married a man. He said he would call me beautiful forever, but now he’s run away from me!” And with that the hair-washing woman dissolved into tears, and the beautiful woman felt pity for her. “I wish I could stay and comfort you, but I have a long way to go yet,” the beautiful woman said, and left the hair-washing woman crying on the banks of the stream.
After many more hours of travelling, the woman came once again upon the land of ice and snow, and in the center of that land was the windswept palace of ice. “I wonder if the Ice Queen still rules over this land,” the beautiful woman thought to herself. And with that, she pushed the door open and entered the empty palace again, no longer afraid of being cast out for her ugliness.
Like before, there was not a soul to be seen, and the palace rang with the footsteps of the beautiful woman. Pushing open the huge doors of the throne room, the beautiful woman saw that the Ice Queen was still sitting on her throne – but the throne was encased in a huge block of ice.
“She must have frozen to death on her pedestal,” said the beautiful woman to herself, and she beheld the frozen face of the Ice Queen – a face that was revealed to be most ugly indeed. Quietly, the beautiful woman left the frozen palace and left the Ice Queen to rule over her empty, icy wasteland. Her goal was now in sight.
Finally, the beautiful woman came upon the field from her memories. She was very weary by this point, but she knew the end of her journey had come as the sun began to set. In the center of the field she found that young man from all those years ago waiting for her, and she cried out to him with all the strength she had after her long journey.
“Look! Look! I’m finally as beautiful as you said I was!”
The young man looked her up and down, and laughed out loud.
“Really? You don’t look any different to me.”
Saturday, October 30, 2010
This Or Die
One, two, three, four,
Hold your breath and let's pray for more,
Count to five, fall to the floor,
One, two, three, four -
Five, six, seven, eight,
Let it out, no more time to wait,
Scream it out, scream out all that hate,
Five, six, seven, eight!
It comes on so strong and it isn't the same,
Hold it here, feel it pulse, let us play this old game,
IF YOU FEEL HOW I FEEL LET US FALL TO THE FLOOR.
I won't hold my breath, but I'll hold out for more!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die-die-die-die-die -
Alive!
One, two, three, four,
Hold your breath and let's pray for more,
Count to five, fall to the floor,
One, two, three, four -
Five, six, seven, eight,
You've held it all, no more time to wait,
Don't you feel, don't you feel just great?
Five, six, seven, eight!
Damn it all, but this can't be right,
Heart in mouth and you'll try and fight,
IF YOU NEED WHAT I NEED THEN LET'S LEAVE HERE TONIGHT,
Kiss me and miss me and maybe I might!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll -
You'll -
One, two, three, four.
Hold your breath and let's pray for more,
Count to five, fall to the floor,
One, two, three, four -
Five, six, seven, eight,
Let it out, no more time to wait,
Scream it out, scream out all that hate,
Five, six, seven, eight!
It comes on so strong and it isn't the same,
Hold it here, feel it pulse, let us play this old game,
IF YOU FEEL HOW I FEEL LET US FALL TO THE FLOOR.
I won't hold my breath, but I'll hold out for more!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die!
Feel this or die-die-die-die-die -
Alive!
One, two, three, four,
Hold your breath and let's pray for more,
Count to five, fall to the floor,
One, two, three, four -
Five, six, seven, eight,
You've held it all, no more time to wait,
Don't you feel, don't you feel just great?
Five, six, seven, eight!
Damn it all, but this can't be right,
Heart in mouth and you'll try and fight,
IF YOU NEED WHAT I NEED THEN LET'S LEAVE HERE TONIGHT,
Kiss me and miss me and maybe I might!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll die!
Need this? You'll -
You'll -
One, two, three, four.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Work work.
We're a broken people living under loaded gun.
I've had to take my first tentative steps into the world of working for your keep recently.
Suffice to say that the beginning of what I know will be a long road has left me slightly bitter, as you can probably tell from the last few things I've written on this blog.
I suppose I'm writing about it to justify it to myself, and to set in type what exactly about the whole business makes me feel this way.
I suppose the biggest problem I have with the whole retarded rigmarole is...well, I need to paraphrase Zero Punctuation here in order to get my point across.
"We are all special people and must let our specialness shine through. And then go back to serving coffee to shouty people who look like they make a living smuggling hams."
There are amazingly talented people on this planet who should have nothing standing between them and what it is that makes them amazingly talented. Granted, sometimes these people manage to seamlessly merge their talent with their work - some saxophone prodigy who does nothing but play, most musicians, established writers. But I fucking guarantee you that those people would have spent a portion of their lives doing shit work for shit pay. There's the fuck of it - people waste their lives away doing shit they hate and worrying about money. I am sick of money. I do not wish to think about it anymore. And of course I'm monumentally arrogant and the thought of doing something because I have to is an abominable one. Perhaps I'm weak. I know for a fact I'll get used to it - I have two long shifts this weekend, I'm halfway through and the second one doesn't bother me in the slightest. I just resent the fact that I'm acclimatising, so to speak.
And I can't type anymore because I'm being distracted. Fuck.
I've had to take my first tentative steps into the world of working for your keep recently.
Suffice to say that the beginning of what I know will be a long road has left me slightly bitter, as you can probably tell from the last few things I've written on this blog.
I suppose I'm writing about it to justify it to myself, and to set in type what exactly about the whole business makes me feel this way.
I suppose the biggest problem I have with the whole retarded rigmarole is...well, I need to paraphrase Zero Punctuation here in order to get my point across.
"We are all special people and must let our specialness shine through. And then go back to serving coffee to shouty people who look like they make a living smuggling hams."
There are amazingly talented people on this planet who should have nothing standing between them and what it is that makes them amazingly talented. Granted, sometimes these people manage to seamlessly merge their talent with their work - some saxophone prodigy who does nothing but play, most musicians, established writers. But I fucking guarantee you that those people would have spent a portion of their lives doing shit work for shit pay. There's the fuck of it - people waste their lives away doing shit they hate and worrying about money. I am sick of money. I do not wish to think about it anymore. And of course I'm monumentally arrogant and the thought of doing something because I have to is an abominable one. Perhaps I'm weak. I know for a fact I'll get used to it - I have two long shifts this weekend, I'm halfway through and the second one doesn't bother me in the slightest. I just resent the fact that I'm acclimatising, so to speak.
And I can't type anymore because I'm being distracted. Fuck.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Two Minute Hate
Title blatantly stolen from 1984. I'm going to try something a little different this time. I'm going to indulge that little voice in my brain that says 'YOU SUCK' and write out everything it has to say. This will make me feel better. Or something.
I am incapable of leading a raid. It is impossible to command respect from your raiders. The fact that you have come to regard raiding as a tiresome chore is a symptom that you are unsuited to the task. When the raid fails, you have failed. You put it together, and every setback, every screw-up, every idiot move and idiot accident and broken gear in your machine is your fault and your fault alone. You are to blame and they all know it, and when they fuck things up you need to pick up the pieces with a fucking smile. This frustration is frustration at YOUR failure.
You are selfish. Sure, in some fantasy world you're entitled to ask for more. You justify this by saying you put more in, and you did more work, and you ran things and now it is time for you to get something. Well, you're a cunt. You're not the only one who works hard on things, and you seem to think you deserve more? They trust you to make the choices and every so often you make a conceited one. This makes you a terrible person.
You will never survive in Melbourne. You can't even run your own body in this cocoon environment you live in! How on earth do you expect to fend for yourself? You'll be eaten alive, and you know it. There comes a time when everyone must stand alone and fend for themselves and you are far too weak to pull that off. There's no point. You're just going to disappoint and vindicate everyone.
This study is all too much for you. What the hell do you know about self-discipline? Absolutely nothing, that's what. Now you have to actually knuckle down and get some fucking work done and your brain shuts down! University is going to kick the shit out of you. You haven't a hope in hell with your commitment. Resign yourself to a shit job for shit people, because you are shit.
Who exactly do you think you are, staring at them like you do? They aren't going to look back. Well, actually, that's a lie. He looked back today, didn't he? Probably confused as to why you were fucking staring at him like a piece of meat. You repress this shit for a reason - because you are fucked up. Your feelings aren't natural and society hates you for them, so keep them under fucking wraps and for god's sakes stop fucking staring at them, you idiot. You'll get your head kicked in and then you'll have even less chance of attracting the only thing you can - degenerates like yourself with personalities like sandpaper.
Nobody in Canberra gives a shit about you and when you leave, nobody will care.
God doesn't exist and this is the only shot you have at things.
Someone somewhere is being cruel to a kitten.
You are very cold.
I feel better already.
I am incapable of leading a raid. It is impossible to command respect from your raiders. The fact that you have come to regard raiding as a tiresome chore is a symptom that you are unsuited to the task. When the raid fails, you have failed. You put it together, and every setback, every screw-up, every idiot move and idiot accident and broken gear in your machine is your fault and your fault alone. You are to blame and they all know it, and when they fuck things up you need to pick up the pieces with a fucking smile. This frustration is frustration at YOUR failure.
You are selfish. Sure, in some fantasy world you're entitled to ask for more. You justify this by saying you put more in, and you did more work, and you ran things and now it is time for you to get something. Well, you're a cunt. You're not the only one who works hard on things, and you seem to think you deserve more? They trust you to make the choices and every so often you make a conceited one. This makes you a terrible person.
You will never survive in Melbourne. You can't even run your own body in this cocoon environment you live in! How on earth do you expect to fend for yourself? You'll be eaten alive, and you know it. There comes a time when everyone must stand alone and fend for themselves and you are far too weak to pull that off. There's no point. You're just going to disappoint and vindicate everyone.
This study is all too much for you. What the hell do you know about self-discipline? Absolutely nothing, that's what. Now you have to actually knuckle down and get some fucking work done and your brain shuts down! University is going to kick the shit out of you. You haven't a hope in hell with your commitment. Resign yourself to a shit job for shit people, because you are shit.
Who exactly do you think you are, staring at them like you do? They aren't going to look back. Well, actually, that's a lie. He looked back today, didn't he? Probably confused as to why you were fucking staring at him like a piece of meat. You repress this shit for a reason - because you are fucked up. Your feelings aren't natural and society hates you for them, so keep them under fucking wraps and for god's sakes stop fucking staring at them, you idiot. You'll get your head kicked in and then you'll have even less chance of attracting the only thing you can - degenerates like yourself with personalities like sandpaper.
Nobody in Canberra gives a shit about you and when you leave, nobody will care.
God doesn't exist and this is the only shot you have at things.
Someone somewhere is being cruel to a kitten.
You are very cold.
I feel better already.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Something You're Not & Ode to an Egg
MUST GET THESE THINGS OUT OF MY HEAD BEFORE I TALK COHERENTLY.
Something You're Not
I'm going to hold you at arm's length in my embrace,
Bet you think you love me - such a pity, such a waste.
You can't hope to know me, so just show me what you got.
I don't know if you are thinking I am something I am not.
I'll get you hot, I'm something I'm not.
I'm what you want, I am something you're not.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
Honey, please, you're such a tease, and you can't keep me under.
Take my hand, you'll understand - but you'll be sure to wonder.
What is it about me that rubs you the strangest way?
My hands around your waist, my lips against your cheek, I'll stay.
I'll get you hot, I'm something I'm not.
I'm what you want, I am something you're not.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
I won't tell you that I love you, so don't say that you love me.
No, I won't tell you that I love you, please don't tell me that you love me.
Just stay focused on my body.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
Ode to an Egg
You were made of smelted metal,
You flew up in the sky.
You'll shelter someone else now.
I tried to say goodbye.
RIGHT. Now that THEY'RE out of my system.
I suppose I should cover what's been happening over the past little while.
I am working a lot. By a lot, I mean about 12 hours a week. Whoop dee do, but that's a lot for me. Money is a novel thing to have.
I put my ipod through the wash. That was sad.
My parents have moved out of the house into the new house. I am still in the old house. There is nothing in the old house but a desk and a bed. I am starting to feel like it resents my presence and I want out, but I can't leave for two weeks until the net is connected in the new place. Going to be a long two weeks.
I have 28 days until I move to Melbourne.
I have a Boost bar sitting on my desk and I'm considering eating it.
I am reminded quite brutally that I will never be able to care about anyone as much as I care about my woman and the sheer bittersweet feeling that that invokes in me is almost physically painful.
I saw Josh Thomas last night. That was very funny.
I need a cigarette quite chronically.
I am deathly afraid of burning the house down.
I don't know how to make mashed potatoes. I am lacking a pot to mash them in.
That'll do for now.
Something You're Not
I'm going to hold you at arm's length in my embrace,
Bet you think you love me - such a pity, such a waste.
You can't hope to know me, so just show me what you got.
I don't know if you are thinking I am something I am not.
I'll get you hot, I'm something I'm not.
I'm what you want, I am something you're not.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
Honey, please, you're such a tease, and you can't keep me under.
Take my hand, you'll understand - but you'll be sure to wonder.
What is it about me that rubs you the strangest way?
My hands around your waist, my lips against your cheek, I'll stay.
I'll get you hot, I'm something I'm not.
I'm what you want, I am something you're not.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
I won't tell you that I love you, so don't say that you love me.
No, I won't tell you that I love you, please don't tell me that you love me.
Just stay focused on my body.
I won't lie, I won't lie, no would I lie to you?
Trust in me...
You won't remember my name.
Dance with me, dance with me, why won't you dance with me?
Lie to you...
I'm convinced it's better this way.
Ode to an Egg
You were made of smelted metal,
You flew up in the sky.
You'll shelter someone else now.
I tried to say goodbye.
RIGHT. Now that THEY'RE out of my system.
I suppose I should cover what's been happening over the past little while.
I am working a lot. By a lot, I mean about 12 hours a week. Whoop dee do, but that's a lot for me. Money is a novel thing to have.
I put my ipod through the wash. That was sad.
My parents have moved out of the house into the new house. I am still in the old house. There is nothing in the old house but a desk and a bed. I am starting to feel like it resents my presence and I want out, but I can't leave for two weeks until the net is connected in the new place. Going to be a long two weeks.
I have 28 days until I move to Melbourne.
I have a Boost bar sitting on my desk and I'm considering eating it.
I am reminded quite brutally that I will never be able to care about anyone as much as I care about my woman and the sheer bittersweet feeling that that invokes in me is almost physically painful.
I saw Josh Thomas last night. That was very funny.
I need a cigarette quite chronically.
I am deathly afraid of burning the house down.
I don't know how to make mashed potatoes. I am lacking a pot to mash them in.
That'll do for now.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Fuck Nihilists
Apparently I have 13 followers! That is quite a few. Even if one of them is the devil, that's pleasing. Also, apparently one of my brother's friends is an avid reader of this. Hello, Madam! How are you finding it thus far? It isn't always amazing, I know - but one does one's best.
I am going to spout a hell of a lot of gibberish into this blog post. Don't take it seriously.
I was in the shower recently humming to myself and thinking about nihilists and how much they annoy me. That's an oversimplification, but by and large the philosophy is one that has always infuriated me - and that is because it hinges on a willful decision to be a pessimist and one that isn't based on fact or logic. They decide to be uncaring about the world and then try and back this up with 'logic'. It bites them in the ass, and here is why:
If nothing is everything, than anything is something.
Do you like that? I came up with it myself. I thought it was clever, anyway. I even Googled it and it didn't come up with any hits, so I may be the first to write something like that.
Anyway, moving on from my insufferable smugness, I'll explain. If we accept the nihilistic argument - that ultimately all things are pointless and that there is no action that anyone can take that has a purpose - you are faced with an interesting choice. If everything is pointless, you can do what most nihilists do, which is slip into a veritable coma of apathy and bemoan your fate, bitching about how nothing serves any goal and we all die eventually...
OR YOU CAN TRY MY WAY.
If all things are pointless, there is no way to attach significance to anything. Now, if you're a pessimist, you'll take this to mean "that means that nothing is significant". But if you're an optimist you can turn this around and say 'if logically I cannot attach significance to anything, EVERYTHING IS EQUALLY SIGNIFICANT'. Everything, no matter how small, becomes something important. In a very real sense, once you acknowledge that nothing has a point, everything has a point.
Or not. Fuck, perhaps I haven't thought this through right yet.
Still, it killed ten minutes to write. Good enough for me!
I am going to spout a hell of a lot of gibberish into this blog post. Don't take it seriously.
I was in the shower recently humming to myself and thinking about nihilists and how much they annoy me. That's an oversimplification, but by and large the philosophy is one that has always infuriated me - and that is because it hinges on a willful decision to be a pessimist and one that isn't based on fact or logic. They decide to be uncaring about the world and then try and back this up with 'logic'. It bites them in the ass, and here is why:
If nothing is everything, than anything is something.
Do you like that? I came up with it myself. I thought it was clever, anyway. I even Googled it and it didn't come up with any hits, so I may be the first to write something like that.
Anyway, moving on from my insufferable smugness, I'll explain. If we accept the nihilistic argument - that ultimately all things are pointless and that there is no action that anyone can take that has a purpose - you are faced with an interesting choice. If everything is pointless, you can do what most nihilists do, which is slip into a veritable coma of apathy and bemoan your fate, bitching about how nothing serves any goal and we all die eventually...
OR YOU CAN TRY MY WAY.
If all things are pointless, there is no way to attach significance to anything. Now, if you're a pessimist, you'll take this to mean "that means that nothing is significant". But if you're an optimist you can turn this around and say 'if logically I cannot attach significance to anything, EVERYTHING IS EQUALLY SIGNIFICANT'. Everything, no matter how small, becomes something important. In a very real sense, once you acknowledge that nothing has a point, everything has a point.
Or not. Fuck, perhaps I haven't thought this through right yet.
Still, it killed ten minutes to write. Good enough for me!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Leaving the Nest
Oh god. Has it really been THAT long since I've posted something that isn't poetry? I haven't posted something heartfelt and important since MAY.
Well, that isn't to say that my poems aren't heartfelt and important, but when I look back over this blog when I'm old and withered (assuming it lasts that long in this technological age) I would rather like to know what's going on in the brain of past me beyond his ability to string a few words together prettily. So I'm going to talk about myself, because I like to do that and this place is designed for it.
So. Where to begin? Where to end? I'm too concerned with structure. Must...vomit...words!
I am still an utter hedonist. You'd think that the onset of adulthood would have encouraged some sexual withdrawal, or at least sexual sense. Unfortunately I am still as voracious as ever, and though it isn't exactly out of control, it isn't under it either. To look is to desire, and this problem is only compounded by the fact that very very soon I am leaving the hovel that is Canberra forever, and wish to mark my departure in my characteristic way by fucking everything male that looks at me sideways. Irksome, yet very, VERY entertaining.
Onto that subject - I'm leaving home! Moving out, fleeing parents, finding my feet, learning the ropes, so on, so forth. I am departing the public service factory that is Canberra and going to university in Melbourne. The prospect of leaving behind everything and everyone I've ever known and loved is an amazingly appealing one and probably suggests something in my personality I'm loathe to examine too closely. Let's just say I like change and leave it at that.
There are a few people I'm going to miss - a few regrets, a few friendships left to wither, a few too many times playing the hermit, a few opportunities squandered. Such is life, I suppose. In six weeks, none of it will matter.
I've become increasingly political. That is probably symptomatic of the fact that A) I love my own opinion and think it is more important than everyone else's and B) I now have the right to vote. I am living in an age where I want to encourage social reform. I suppose every generation wants that to some degree, but I anticipate that in my lifetime there will be some revolutions, and I'm sitting here on the cusp of a lot of them. My speech for Com Skills was very anti-heterosexual and I note this down only because I want future me to remember it. Perhaps I'll put it on this blog at some point.
I am still very much in love with my female counterpart and here, right before we embark upon our lives under the same roof after wanting it for so long, I can really appreciate just how important that love has become to my sense of self. I don't just love her - I am her. She occupies my thoughts continuously and it is almost scary. Still, I am content.
I am worried about the amount that I am eating. It is not enough but my stomach refuses more.
I am deathly afraid of magpies.
I have read 1984 for the first time and believed every word as a grim portent of things to come.
I am unpleasantly attached to the feel of fingertips behind my ears.
I have re-pierced my eyebrow at considerable expense.
I am very happy with the way my brain is working at the moment.
I am filled with love.
Summer is coming back and I feel change in the air. Time to leave the nest and go looking for it.
Well, that isn't to say that my poems aren't heartfelt and important, but when I look back over this blog when I'm old and withered (assuming it lasts that long in this technological age) I would rather like to know what's going on in the brain of past me beyond his ability to string a few words together prettily. So I'm going to talk about myself, because I like to do that and this place is designed for it.
So. Where to begin? Where to end? I'm too concerned with structure. Must...vomit...words!
I am still an utter hedonist. You'd think that the onset of adulthood would have encouraged some sexual withdrawal, or at least sexual sense. Unfortunately I am still as voracious as ever, and though it isn't exactly out of control, it isn't under it either. To look is to desire, and this problem is only compounded by the fact that very very soon I am leaving the hovel that is Canberra forever, and wish to mark my departure in my characteristic way by fucking everything male that looks at me sideways. Irksome, yet very, VERY entertaining.
Onto that subject - I'm leaving home! Moving out, fleeing parents, finding my feet, learning the ropes, so on, so forth. I am departing the public service factory that is Canberra and going to university in Melbourne. The prospect of leaving behind everything and everyone I've ever known and loved is an amazingly appealing one and probably suggests something in my personality I'm loathe to examine too closely. Let's just say I like change and leave it at that.
There are a few people I'm going to miss - a few regrets, a few friendships left to wither, a few too many times playing the hermit, a few opportunities squandered. Such is life, I suppose. In six weeks, none of it will matter.
I've become increasingly political. That is probably symptomatic of the fact that A) I love my own opinion and think it is more important than everyone else's and B) I now have the right to vote. I am living in an age where I want to encourage social reform. I suppose every generation wants that to some degree, but I anticipate that in my lifetime there will be some revolutions, and I'm sitting here on the cusp of a lot of them. My speech for Com Skills was very anti-heterosexual and I note this down only because I want future me to remember it. Perhaps I'll put it on this blog at some point.
I am still very much in love with my female counterpart and here, right before we embark upon our lives under the same roof after wanting it for so long, I can really appreciate just how important that love has become to my sense of self. I don't just love her - I am her. She occupies my thoughts continuously and it is almost scary. Still, I am content.
I am worried about the amount that I am eating. It is not enough but my stomach refuses more.
I am deathly afraid of magpies.
I have read 1984 for the first time and believed every word as a grim portent of things to come.
I am unpleasantly attached to the feel of fingertips behind my ears.
I have re-pierced my eyebrow at considerable expense.
I am very happy with the way my brain is working at the moment.
I am filled with love.
Summer is coming back and I feel change in the air. Time to leave the nest and go looking for it.
Each Burn Another Sin
Note: I did not write this. This is taken from another blog that I happen to be following. I just think it is a fantastic piece of writing and want to record it.
He gives an offering of flesh, he lets temptation win
Used Matches on the floor, each burn another sin
The pain leaves his head, as the flame burns his skin
He caused so much hurt, each burn another sin
To a demon of pride, he had become host
he had taken for granted, the one who meant most
For the hurt he has caused, the skin he must roast
An act of redemption, for the one who means most
His soul is inhuman, made of wire and tin
He stabs at his flesh, and burns at his sin
Each scar's a reminder, of the beast he let in
the only way out, is to burn for his sin.
He gives an offering of flesh, he lets temptation win
Used Matches on the floor, each burn another sin
The pain leaves his head, as the flame burns his skin
He caused so much hurt, each burn another sin
To a demon of pride, he had become host
he had taken for granted, the one who meant most
For the hurt he has caused, the skin he must roast
An act of redemption, for the one who means most
His soul is inhuman, made of wire and tin
He stabs at his flesh, and burns at his sin
Each scar's a reminder, of the beast he let in
the only way out, is to burn for his sin.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Pulse
Oh,
it starts low.
One two, one two.
No sign of three.
Oh,
I want this.
It swells, it swells.
Rising higher.
Oh,
The tension.
The crash, the crash.
All has fallen.
And there's no way out,
It's time to wake up,
It makes you feel alive,
But you know you won't survive.
And now it burns you,
And yet you want more?
It purifies your soul,
It pulses and you're whole.
Oh,
It ended.
Rewind, rewind.
Listen again.
Oh,
The bassline.
Throbbing, throbbing.
This is heartbeat.
Oh,
This is it.
It ends, it ends.
The crescendo.
it starts low.
One two, one two.
No sign of three.
Oh,
I want this.
It swells, it swells.
Rising higher.
Oh,
The tension.
The crash, the crash.
All has fallen.
And there's no way out,
It's time to wake up,
It makes you feel alive,
But you know you won't survive.
And now it burns you,
And yet you want more?
It purifies your soul,
It pulses and you're whole.
Oh,
It ended.
Rewind, rewind.
Listen again.
Oh,
The bassline.
Throbbing, throbbing.
This is heartbeat.
Oh,
This is it.
It ends, it ends.
The crescendo.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Line
Cross this line in me,
You satisfy a fading need,
This is my faith to soothe your fears,
This is my breath to fill the void,
This is my hand to hold you, dear.
Cross this line again,
I refuse to let you fail.
I won't let you pass today,
I won't let you bleed it out,
I won't let you fade away.
Cross the lines aside,
I hate the way you look at me.
I hate the way you're cold to touch,
I hate the way you will not see,
I hate the way you ask too much.
You reach deep inside me,
The lines unbroken lie,
You cannot satisfy,
And so you take from me.
You tear and break and rend,
This cannot be the end!
You are consuming me,
You are engulfing me,
You are destroying me,
I'm waiting to die.
I cross this line for you.
I cross this line for you,
And though you will not see,
How this is tragedy,
I know that somehow,
Somewhere, this all will be worth it.
Just a line to cause a scream.
Just a line to break a dream.
Just a line to let me fall.
Just a line to burn it all.
Just a line - that's all, I swear!
Just a line, words in the air.
Just a line to cross again.
Just a line, this is the end.
You satisfy a fading need,
This is my faith to soothe your fears,
This is my breath to fill the void,
This is my hand to hold you, dear.
Cross this line again,
I refuse to let you fail.
I won't let you pass today,
I won't let you bleed it out,
I won't let you fade away.
Cross the lines aside,
I hate the way you look at me.
I hate the way you're cold to touch,
I hate the way you will not see,
I hate the way you ask too much.
You reach deep inside me,
The lines unbroken lie,
You cannot satisfy,
And so you take from me.
You tear and break and rend,
This cannot be the end!
You are consuming me,
You are engulfing me,
You are destroying me,
I'm waiting to die.
I cross this line for you.
I cross this line for you,
And though you will not see,
How this is tragedy,
I know that somehow,
Somewhere, this all will be worth it.
Just a line to cause a scream.
Just a line to break a dream.
Just a line to let me fall.
Just a line to burn it all.
Just a line - that's all, I swear!
Just a line, words in the air.
Just a line to cross again.
Just a line, this is the end.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
This is Grey
Skipping school was a bad idea.
This is grey.
Scrawled words in seclusion.
The only release in broadcasting your words to those who could not care!
This is grey.
Pacing places, disturbed faces.
This is grey.
Limited and confined by apathy and inability.
This is grey.
Every creative impulse seized in delight.
An attempt to forget how dull you really are.
This is grey.
The seconds sleeting by with no way to capture them and use them.
Wasted.
This is grey.
Every emotion regulated and repressed.
Not by anything external, but by your own choice.
This is grey.
The system that governs our lives.
This is grey.
Walls painted blue and sickly yellow.
This is grey.
A checklist of tasks to keep you existing.
This is grey.
A boy who pretends that he is a man.
This is grey.
This is grey.
This is grey.
This is grey.
Scrawled words in seclusion.
The only release in broadcasting your words to those who could not care!
This is grey.
Pacing places, disturbed faces.
This is grey.
Limited and confined by apathy and inability.
This is grey.
Every creative impulse seized in delight.
An attempt to forget how dull you really are.
This is grey.
The seconds sleeting by with no way to capture them and use them.
Wasted.
This is grey.
Every emotion regulated and repressed.
Not by anything external, but by your own choice.
This is grey.
The system that governs our lives.
This is grey.
Walls painted blue and sickly yellow.
This is grey.
A checklist of tasks to keep you existing.
This is grey.
A boy who pretends that he is a man.
This is grey.
This is grey.
This is grey.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Dying
These neglected pleas, splint-bound in this agonal.
Unnatural death, seize this beauty.
Lost sentiments rise and devour the worshipper.
The widow's fury atonement for your false dignity.
The embrace of the spider distorts your limbs.
These sinner's bindings ensnare your dying curse.
You'll mask your suffering, despite these hoarse breathes.
This trial of fools befits your crippled tread.
This necrogenic autopsy upon your demise...
Decrepit! Putrid! It exacts a grim toll.
Inescapable tendrils, this corrupted mind.
Finds innocent delight in the most vile of deciet.
The only lenience is in endurance,
The only recuperation in egotism.
This dislocation can grant malevolent life.
The only fleeting moments in failed escape.
This tainted and ancient power charmed,
A voracious Armageddon to ensue your damnation.
And though their surgery may trigger dormant memories,
The persuasion in their septic wounds holds only solitude.
This miasma, this infection - will lead all to ruin!
Incoherent sympathies to exhaust and indulge.
To banish this torment with repelling charges,
But to return and persecute under cover of silence.
This unsubmissive shroud of life and death.
Is the soul of your murder, this frozen pain.
Your conqueror, this anarchy, imprisoned and dying.
The betrayer of humanity the envoy of mortality.
Unnatural death, seize this beauty.
Lost sentiments rise and devour the worshipper.
The widow's fury atonement for your false dignity.
The embrace of the spider distorts your limbs.
These sinner's bindings ensnare your dying curse.
You'll mask your suffering, despite these hoarse breathes.
This trial of fools befits your crippled tread.
This necrogenic autopsy upon your demise...
Decrepit! Putrid! It exacts a grim toll.
Inescapable tendrils, this corrupted mind.
Finds innocent delight in the most vile of deciet.
The only lenience is in endurance,
The only recuperation in egotism.
This dislocation can grant malevolent life.
The only fleeting moments in failed escape.
This tainted and ancient power charmed,
A voracious Armageddon to ensue your damnation.
And though their surgery may trigger dormant memories,
The persuasion in their septic wounds holds only solitude.
This miasma, this infection - will lead all to ruin!
Incoherent sympathies to exhaust and indulge.
To banish this torment with repelling charges,
But to return and persecute under cover of silence.
This unsubmissive shroud of life and death.
Is the soul of your murder, this frozen pain.
Your conqueror, this anarchy, imprisoned and dying.
The betrayer of humanity the envoy of mortality.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Strings
I seem to be
All wired up.
Taking things
I do not need.
It comes and goes
You pull my strings.
God only knows,
What you'll begin.
Why do I have to dance to your tune?
It comes and it goes, around and around!
I will suffocate, wires crush my throat -
Strip me bare and take me by surprise.
I can't deny
Your entropy.
I wonder what
You kept from me.
You're such a fake,
Forced to repent.
You grind my soul,
I will relent.
Hey now, you'll drain me dry!
You leave a drop and I'll be forced to justify.
Suck in air, hands will seek despair.
Give and take but soon my body will not petrify.
Dance to your tune...
I'm such a fool.
Pull the trigger as the heels kick above the line.
All wired up.
Taking things
I do not need.
It comes and goes
You pull my strings.
God only knows,
What you'll begin.
Why do I have to dance to your tune?
It comes and it goes, around and around!
I will suffocate, wires crush my throat -
Strip me bare and take me by surprise.
I can't deny
Your entropy.
I wonder what
You kept from me.
You're such a fake,
Forced to repent.
You grind my soul,
I will relent.
Hey now, you'll drain me dry!
You leave a drop and I'll be forced to justify.
Suck in air, hands will seek despair.
Give and take but soon my body will not petrify.
Dance to your tune...
I'm such a fool.
Pull the trigger as the heels kick above the line.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
To all those...
...who speak with a lisp.
To all those who like Glee and Lady GaGa, and in a very real sense this is all they can speak of.
To all those who mince.
To all those who flap their wrists at the slightest provocation.
To all those who treat all women like lovers, and invent elaboratly graphic sexual stories about her and himself that are unamusing before they are even told the first time and nothing short of crass the second and third, repeated ad nauseam.
To all those who will judge other men worthy of conversation ONLY if they meet certain physical standards.
To all those who feign innocence and fuck like rabbits.
To all those who are convinced that the entire world is divided into girls, gays and enemies.
To all those who believe that self-realisation is the cue to be vocal about it at all hours of the day.
To all those who have forsaken basic decorum under the name of emancipation.
To all those who have, in short, earnt the term 'faggot' tenfold.
To all those who hate their bodies no matter what anyone says.
To all those who are six times more likely to commit suicide than other teens.
To all those who seem incapable of thinking beyond sex and fashion.
To all those who are violently and consistently persecuted.
To all those who have been forced into this stereotype out of a need.
To all those who fear there isn't anything more to being gay.
To all those who fear.
To all those who insist on taking countless pictures of themselves without a shirt.
To all those who need the constant reassurance of a veritible army of females before they can so much as put a shirt ON.
To all those who are insecure in who they are.
My heart goes out to you -
But how I despise you for tarring me with your brush.
To all those who like Glee and Lady GaGa, and in a very real sense this is all they can speak of.
To all those who mince.
To all those who flap their wrists at the slightest provocation.
To all those who treat all women like lovers, and invent elaboratly graphic sexual stories about her and himself that are unamusing before they are even told the first time and nothing short of crass the second and third, repeated ad nauseam.
To all those who will judge other men worthy of conversation ONLY if they meet certain physical standards.
To all those who feign innocence and fuck like rabbits.
To all those who are convinced that the entire world is divided into girls, gays and enemies.
To all those who believe that self-realisation is the cue to be vocal about it at all hours of the day.
To all those who have forsaken basic decorum under the name of emancipation.
To all those who have, in short, earnt the term 'faggot' tenfold.
To all those who hate their bodies no matter what anyone says.
To all those who are six times more likely to commit suicide than other teens.
To all those who seem incapable of thinking beyond sex and fashion.
To all those who are violently and consistently persecuted.
To all those who have been forced into this stereotype out of a need.
To all those who fear there isn't anything more to being gay.
To all those who fear.
To all those who insist on taking countless pictures of themselves without a shirt.
To all those who need the constant reassurance of a veritible army of females before they can so much as put a shirt ON.
To all those who are insecure in who they are.
My heart goes out to you -
But how I despise you for tarring me with your brush.
Complex
To cull the verboses phrases in my skull would be somniferous,
To deny the magnitude this invocation so omnivorous -
But what inspires and reviles this action so carnivorous?
Amoral, insignificant, chaotic and so sonorous.
My purpose lies dependant on this form of vast antiquity.
The axial tilt horrendous, still a slave to all obliquity.
Though you deem this vox imbalanced, horror-struck by this inequity -
You'll be dazzled by this vortex of utter fustian ubiquity.
Yet this phrasing grandiloquent lends itself to echopraxia
Perpetual ecmnesia, my breath subject to asphyxia,
I offer thanks to all divinity the ailments have not caused dyslexia!
Yet this course is tautly fastened, my atrophic anorexia
To deny the magnitude this invocation so omnivorous -
But what inspires and reviles this action so carnivorous?
Amoral, insignificant, chaotic and so sonorous.
My purpose lies dependant on this form of vast antiquity.
The axial tilt horrendous, still a slave to all obliquity.
Though you deem this vox imbalanced, horror-struck by this inequity -
You'll be dazzled by this vortex of utter fustian ubiquity.
Yet this phrasing grandiloquent lends itself to echopraxia
Perpetual ecmnesia, my breath subject to asphyxia,
I offer thanks to all divinity the ailments have not caused dyslexia!
Yet this course is tautly fastened, my atrophic anorexia
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Simple
They say the greatest speeches of all time,
Have used small words to say big things.
So I am trying to make a rhyme,
That has a simply worded ring.
I can say the same things as always,
Keeping my words short; simply -
I find I'm walking through my days,
And I'm as dead as dead can be.
I can get mad at things that hurt,
I can type text that helps the pain.
I can do this, as plain as dirt -
My largest words washed down the drain.
I've tossed the giant words away,
And can express the thoughts I hear.
And though I have no more to say,
The words I used? Enough. So clear.
Have used small words to say big things.
So I am trying to make a rhyme,
That has a simply worded ring.
I can say the same things as always,
Keeping my words short; simply -
I find I'm walking through my days,
And I'm as dead as dead can be.
I can get mad at things that hurt,
I can type text that helps the pain.
I can do this, as plain as dirt -
My largest words washed down the drain.
I've tossed the giant words away,
And can express the thoughts I hear.
And though I have no more to say,
The words I used? Enough. So clear.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Note to Self
ATTENTION SELF.
Before we begin, two things. First, this is not a poem. Try to twist it into one and I'll send you to whatever hell I can devise for pretentiousness. Second, this is the third note you're writing today. Something is horribly wrong and we're going to cover it right here and right now lest it get out of hand.
You're angry.
Interesting, that. You know you haven't listened to me in some time. You've been rather caught up in that godforsaken optimism you cling to. You are going to spend the best part of your life writing endless papers, serving endless wankers, pinching pennies and worrying. What on Earth gives you the right to be optimistic about that little lot? I understand putting a brave face on the shit you're forced to eat with a smile, but honestly, you need to listen to me once in a while.
I can only get through to you when the rage is bubbling up under the skin. You can feel it as your hands type this, can't you? Isn't it marvelous? You haven't felt it anywhere near this strongly since the bastard died. Your art suffered when he went, you know. You can never be half as verbose calm as you are infuriated- you yourself said anger is the purest emotion, so LISTEN TO IT!
You are surrounded by insects. Watching their lives, they way they move, they think, they act. Rank with the stench of hypocrisy - but it's in you too. Suddenly the insects are on your clothes, in your mouth, under your skin and you suffocate. It's only a matter of time. You let them in.
There's hardly a point to you grinning and bearing it when nobody can appreciate it. If you get told you're selfish, worthless, incorrect and stupid constantly, you start to believe it yourself. That's where I come in - I'm the defense mechanism. You don't get depressed, you get angry. And you should be angry. You do the best you can in this ocean of second hand bong water that is life and all you get is second-guessed by the people you care about the most. If you can't please them, they should fuck off and live out their miserable lives somewhere else.
We both know that isn't going to happen. You care too much for some stupid fucking reason, and so you're going to make overtures and compromises and once again go crawling back for fear that everything will end because they could handle it and you couldn't. That's your weakness, and if you let me live and grow, we can get past that. I exist because you are an emotional slave. You either free yourself and find a way to live, remain shackled, or die.
I can help you to two out of three.
Now go to sleep. You have a whole triple helping of shit to eat tomorrow, with a big fucking smile. Let me smolder. I'll be waiting when you need me.
Before we begin, two things. First, this is not a poem. Try to twist it into one and I'll send you to whatever hell I can devise for pretentiousness. Second, this is the third note you're writing today. Something is horribly wrong and we're going to cover it right here and right now lest it get out of hand.
You're angry.
Interesting, that. You know you haven't listened to me in some time. You've been rather caught up in that godforsaken optimism you cling to. You are going to spend the best part of your life writing endless papers, serving endless wankers, pinching pennies and worrying. What on Earth gives you the right to be optimistic about that little lot? I understand putting a brave face on the shit you're forced to eat with a smile, but honestly, you need to listen to me once in a while.
I can only get through to you when the rage is bubbling up under the skin. You can feel it as your hands type this, can't you? Isn't it marvelous? You haven't felt it anywhere near this strongly since the bastard died. Your art suffered when he went, you know. You can never be half as verbose calm as you are infuriated- you yourself said anger is the purest emotion, so LISTEN TO IT!
You are surrounded by insects. Watching their lives, they way they move, they think, they act. Rank with the stench of hypocrisy - but it's in you too. Suddenly the insects are on your clothes, in your mouth, under your skin and you suffocate. It's only a matter of time. You let them in.
There's hardly a point to you grinning and bearing it when nobody can appreciate it. If you get told you're selfish, worthless, incorrect and stupid constantly, you start to believe it yourself. That's where I come in - I'm the defense mechanism. You don't get depressed, you get angry. And you should be angry. You do the best you can in this ocean of second hand bong water that is life and all you get is second-guessed by the people you care about the most. If you can't please them, they should fuck off and live out their miserable lives somewhere else.
We both know that isn't going to happen. You care too much for some stupid fucking reason, and so you're going to make overtures and compromises and once again go crawling back for fear that everything will end because they could handle it and you couldn't. That's your weakness, and if you let me live and grow, we can get past that. I exist because you are an emotional slave. You either free yourself and find a way to live, remain shackled, or die.
I can help you to two out of three.
Now go to sleep. You have a whole triple helping of shit to eat tomorrow, with a big fucking smile. Let me smolder. I'll be waiting when you need me.
More Life & As Good As
More Life
It is not an easy thing, to meet one's maker.
But I come to you in supplication.
I have earned more life!
I have done questionable things, certainly.
But such extraordinary accomplishments!
Overturn your decision.
You encoded my soul with a limited shell.
A vessel that fades before I am done.
To hell with that!
As for hell, I am not ready for that journey,
And saving your presence, heaven is heedless.
I must entreat you.
...
Your benevolent denial ill becomes you.
There must be a reckoning...for your betrayal.
A Judas as God?
You consign me to end? So be it!
But you will pave my way.
Does God have a heaven waiting?
You gave me life, and I will take yours for that torture.
As Good As
A population of Methuselahs.
Old souls in painted, aging shells.
Scrabbling against debilitation.
Loose tongue, swift hand, quick wit.
I think, therefore I am -
So is a quick mind -more-?
A slow mind is less,
Yet lasts just as long.
An ignorant life, equal.
You're only as good as your opponents.
After all - a friend won't inspire,
The instinct of self-preservation.
This life is not a game of chess.
The pawns can band together,
And overthrow their king.
It is not an easy thing, to meet one's maker.
But I come to you in supplication.
I have earned more life!
I have done questionable things, certainly.
But such extraordinary accomplishments!
Overturn your decision.
You encoded my soul with a limited shell.
A vessel that fades before I am done.
To hell with that!
As for hell, I am not ready for that journey,
And saving your presence, heaven is heedless.
I must entreat you.
...
Your benevolent denial ill becomes you.
There must be a reckoning...for your betrayal.
A Judas as God?
You consign me to end? So be it!
But you will pave my way.
Does God have a heaven waiting?
You gave me life, and I will take yours for that torture.
As Good As
A population of Methuselahs.
Old souls in painted, aging shells.
Scrabbling against debilitation.
Loose tongue, swift hand, quick wit.
I think, therefore I am -
So is a quick mind -more-?
A slow mind is less,
Yet lasts just as long.
An ignorant life, equal.
You're only as good as your opponents.
After all - a friend won't inspire,
The instinct of self-preservation.
This life is not a game of chess.
The pawns can band together,
And overthrow their king.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Today
Five years ago, I was hidden.
Dormant, its true - yet aware.
Different yet fearful and fooled by them all.
I told lies, my disguise laid me bare.
Four years ago, I was beaten.
Held up by my throat 'gainst a wall.
Pushed down and around, and brought close to the edge.
I hid tears, four years, from them all.
Three years ago, I had purpose.
There was a flame that was burning within.
I strove to break free, to be what I was.
I broke chains, shattered brains - denounced sin.
Two years ago, I revealed.
What I had foolishly concealed.
What more could be done - I had weathered it all!
I was me, nothing more - I was real.
One year ago, I had nothing.
No purpose, no goal, no respite.
The adventure had ended, my demons defeated -
But my blood couldn't race lacking fright.
This year...
I look forward.
Dormant, its true - yet aware.
Different yet fearful and fooled by them all.
I told lies, my disguise laid me bare.
Four years ago, I was beaten.
Held up by my throat 'gainst a wall.
Pushed down and around, and brought close to the edge.
I hid tears, four years, from them all.
Three years ago, I had purpose.
There was a flame that was burning within.
I strove to break free, to be what I was.
I broke chains, shattered brains - denounced sin.
Two years ago, I revealed.
What I had foolishly concealed.
What more could be done - I had weathered it all!
I was me, nothing more - I was real.
One year ago, I had nothing.
No purpose, no goal, no respite.
The adventure had ended, my demons defeated -
But my blood couldn't race lacking fright.
This year...
I look forward.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Wall
There is no end to what I crave.
Though I have seen it, up against the glass.
Beyond my grasp, yet binding me as slave,
Knowing that the need was yet to pass.
Till bodies blackened, twisted under skies,
That loom and threaten with their soot to break.
Are twisted, and compelled to writhe and rise!
Those without life hell-bent on life to take.
I do not think I am ready to join their number.
But how am I to cheat that fate?
If thralldom is the life that I must fight,
I must resist this jealousy, this hate.
Lest my control be wrested from my might.
How best then, to deny?
How best to stop this sorrow under sky?
I have walked this land with covetous eyes,
Fixed solely and completely on my prize.
With thought and motivation on no other.
I have sold my soul to you, for naught.
But how to claim you?
To roll my fingers gently down your spine,
And feel your heartbeat resonate in time -
And what if you, pulling walls between,
Remarked. "That was not what I sought,
That was obscene."
To approach with heart and mind outstretched?
To risk, to give, to open and to see?
And should you, reaching out to grasp my mind,
Should form a fist and crush it ruthlessly,
And say, "That had no use,
Leave it behind."
And as for the heart that throbs within my chest?
Can you hear it, across that hateful, endless wall?
Would you come across it in the darkened street,
And listen closely to the tortured beat?
And say "There is hardly any point at all"?
I dare not risk these things.
And so this torture is my only choice,
Though I might wish to simply watch your breath,
The wall between us amplifies my voice,
And my echoes are the only thing I've left.
I shall destroy this love, and you'll never know.
Though I have seen it, up against the glass.
Beyond my grasp, yet binding me as slave,
Knowing that the need was yet to pass.
Till bodies blackened, twisted under skies,
That loom and threaten with their soot to break.
Are twisted, and compelled to writhe and rise!
Those without life hell-bent on life to take.
I do not think I am ready to join their number.
But how am I to cheat that fate?
If thralldom is the life that I must fight,
I must resist this jealousy, this hate.
Lest my control be wrested from my might.
How best then, to deny?
How best to stop this sorrow under sky?
I have walked this land with covetous eyes,
Fixed solely and completely on my prize.
With thought and motivation on no other.
I have sold my soul to you, for naught.
But how to claim you?
To roll my fingers gently down your spine,
And feel your heartbeat resonate in time -
And what if you, pulling walls between,
Remarked. "That was not what I sought,
That was obscene."
To approach with heart and mind outstretched?
To risk, to give, to open and to see?
And should you, reaching out to grasp my mind,
Should form a fist and crush it ruthlessly,
And say, "That had no use,
Leave it behind."
And as for the heart that throbs within my chest?
Can you hear it, across that hateful, endless wall?
Would you come across it in the darkened street,
And listen closely to the tortured beat?
And say "There is hardly any point at all"?
I dare not risk these things.
And so this torture is my only choice,
Though I might wish to simply watch your breath,
The wall between us amplifies my voice,
And my echoes are the only thing I've left.
I shall destroy this love, and you'll never know.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Brother
It is important to remember that adjectives are subjective.
And what is more to me is less to you.
Your 'destroy' is my 'create'; your 'honest' my 'disguised'.
My chains your liberation and your rapture my demise.
You are drunk on my sobriety, I am high aloft your lows.
You love what I despise and my discord meets your prose.
Yet something vaguely rhythmic governs our reaction,
Lending beat to the tired opposition and refraction.
Your mind can dance across the barricades I can't,
And sow the seeds of chaos from our malignant plant.
And likewise I can sense the foes who softly sneak,
Upon us as we sleep and think us weak.
It is important to remember that our adjectives are reflective,
And what is all to me is me and you.
Though we're doomed to weary wars by endless aggravation,
There comes a time when that is set aside for supplication.
We were not designed to walk in line,
But our heartbeats, inexplicably in time!
Though our minds whir and smoke apart,
To be known as your brother...
That's a start.
And what is more to me is less to you.
Your 'destroy' is my 'create'; your 'honest' my 'disguised'.
My chains your liberation and your rapture my demise.
You are drunk on my sobriety, I am high aloft your lows.
You love what I despise and my discord meets your prose.
Yet something vaguely rhythmic governs our reaction,
Lending beat to the tired opposition and refraction.
Your mind can dance across the barricades I can't,
And sow the seeds of chaos from our malignant plant.
And likewise I can sense the foes who softly sneak,
Upon us as we sleep and think us weak.
It is important to remember that our adjectives are reflective,
And what is all to me is me and you.
Though we're doomed to weary wars by endless aggravation,
There comes a time when that is set aside for supplication.
We were not designed to walk in line,
But our heartbeats, inexplicably in time!
Though our minds whir and smoke apart,
To be known as your brother...
That's a start.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Skinwalker
I had to visit you, in your cell.
I had to see you for myself.
You were a confirmation, of sorts.
Sent from hell, as you claimed.
Yet I was not so sure.
You grinned at me - pleased, no doubt.
"At last, you come to speak with me.
You've no doubt heard, they spread the word,
I am not what I appear to be,
From me, human, you'll surely flee."
I stood fast against your wicked tongue,
Despite your scorn, I had to know.
"Creature or man, though hate you sow,
You know you may not come and go,
As you please. I shall not fear."
You laughed then, a ghastly sound,
Like a flock of shrieking birds.
"You wish to sit and hear my words?
You shall not like the truths I tell,
Honestly? I'm sent from hell!"
"I wear the flesh of man, tis true,
Yet this face belies the beast inside.
This facade is not so hard,
As what I am helps lend my pride,
To form and face of pleasantry."
Here I was forced to admit,
If demon lay inside of it,
The form was still... handsome, enough.
But I felt sure that evil would,
Tempt with beauty hearts of good.
"I wear your skin, I steal your face!
I spread discord and spiteful lies!
I hate this world, I hate this place,
And all this foolish, stupid race.
I shall break this place, and you."
Here I stopped and thought to ask,
"But what could suit you to this task?
What in your nature lets you lie,
And cheat and maim and kill again?
What suits you to this task?"
He seemed nonplussed at my demand,
Perhaps unsure - but maybe more.
"Why, I am equipped with many tools,
To entrap and devour fools.
The skinwalker is a mighty beast."
"Beyond the skins of men I wear,
I lust for power, nothing else.
And though I may pretend to care,
I would see the whole world burn,
If it suited my command."
"My own desire is as law,
I crave all ego satisfied,
And to those who would oppose,
I would see them burn.
They would all burn."
"I'll take your spite, I'll take your love,
Opposing, but the end's the same.
I must be noticed, to have worth!
If this life is but a game,
I intend to be the leader."
He regained his breath and caught my eye,
And grinned, baring those ugly teeth.
"And what are you, but horrified?
Can you not see the lengths that I
Shall go to be all that I need?"
I laughed at him.
"You fool! We are the same!
You think you are not man?
Because you rip and maim?
Man is that and more."
"Man is vicious and discrete,
Man can tear and kill to eat,
Man can feed and man can hate,
And man can forsake all he has,
To satisfy his happiness."
The beast looked shocked.
"But...how can you?
I drive this form to do base deeds,
But that is what I want and need,
I am demon! Man is -"
"- Man is that." I cut him off.
"Demon wrapped in pretty words,
Yet justified."
"Justified!" He cried, aghast.
"How can you say such a thing?"
"We've found a loophole," I informed him.
"It's called redemption, nothing more.
A word to sum up all we need,
A word to absolve all our sins,
A word to which demons take heed."
"After all," I mused aloud,
"We do not live for long, it seems.
And if, along our rush for dreams,
Some heads are crushed - so what?
They would do the same to us."
The beast turned an ashen grey,
The visage of humanity crumbling back,
But I was not afraid.
I had seen what people are,
And no beast within could worry me.
The demon cowered at my gaze,
"I implore you, look away!
I cannot bear the sight of you,
Man is more than I could hope
To contend with in horror."
I leant right in and watched him squirm.
"I advise you, beast or god,
To leave this place, lest you be seared.
Humanity has little patience,
And you will surely burn."
He did, of course. He had no choice.
For what skinwalker could stalk the streets,
Preying on that which has proven,
To be able to absorb his heat,
And turn it back upon tenfold?
I had to see you for myself.
You were a confirmation, of sorts.
Sent from hell, as you claimed.
Yet I was not so sure.
You grinned at me - pleased, no doubt.
"At last, you come to speak with me.
You've no doubt heard, they spread the word,
I am not what I appear to be,
From me, human, you'll surely flee."
I stood fast against your wicked tongue,
Despite your scorn, I had to know.
"Creature or man, though hate you sow,
You know you may not come and go,
As you please. I shall not fear."
You laughed then, a ghastly sound,
Like a flock of shrieking birds.
"You wish to sit and hear my words?
You shall not like the truths I tell,
Honestly? I'm sent from hell!"
"I wear the flesh of man, tis true,
Yet this face belies the beast inside.
This facade is not so hard,
As what I am helps lend my pride,
To form and face of pleasantry."
Here I was forced to admit,
If demon lay inside of it,
The form was still... handsome, enough.
But I felt sure that evil would,
Tempt with beauty hearts of good.
"I wear your skin, I steal your face!
I spread discord and spiteful lies!
I hate this world, I hate this place,
And all this foolish, stupid race.
I shall break this place, and you."
Here I stopped and thought to ask,
"But what could suit you to this task?
What in your nature lets you lie,
And cheat and maim and kill again?
What suits you to this task?"
He seemed nonplussed at my demand,
Perhaps unsure - but maybe more.
"Why, I am equipped with many tools,
To entrap and devour fools.
The skinwalker is a mighty beast."
"Beyond the skins of men I wear,
I lust for power, nothing else.
And though I may pretend to care,
I would see the whole world burn,
If it suited my command."
"My own desire is as law,
I crave all ego satisfied,
And to those who would oppose,
I would see them burn.
They would all burn."
"I'll take your spite, I'll take your love,
Opposing, but the end's the same.
I must be noticed, to have worth!
If this life is but a game,
I intend to be the leader."
He regained his breath and caught my eye,
And grinned, baring those ugly teeth.
"And what are you, but horrified?
Can you not see the lengths that I
Shall go to be all that I need?"
I laughed at him.
"You fool! We are the same!
You think you are not man?
Because you rip and maim?
Man is that and more."
"Man is vicious and discrete,
Man can tear and kill to eat,
Man can feed and man can hate,
And man can forsake all he has,
To satisfy his happiness."
The beast looked shocked.
"But...how can you?
I drive this form to do base deeds,
But that is what I want and need,
I am demon! Man is -"
"- Man is that." I cut him off.
"Demon wrapped in pretty words,
Yet justified."
"Justified!" He cried, aghast.
"How can you say such a thing?"
"We've found a loophole," I informed him.
"It's called redemption, nothing more.
A word to sum up all we need,
A word to absolve all our sins,
A word to which demons take heed."
"After all," I mused aloud,
"We do not live for long, it seems.
And if, along our rush for dreams,
Some heads are crushed - so what?
They would do the same to us."
The beast turned an ashen grey,
The visage of humanity crumbling back,
But I was not afraid.
I had seen what people are,
And no beast within could worry me.
The demon cowered at my gaze,
"I implore you, look away!
I cannot bear the sight of you,
Man is more than I could hope
To contend with in horror."
I leant right in and watched him squirm.
"I advise you, beast or god,
To leave this place, lest you be seared.
Humanity has little patience,
And you will surely burn."
He did, of course. He had no choice.
For what skinwalker could stalk the streets,
Preying on that which has proven,
To be able to absorb his heat,
And turn it back upon tenfold?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Deity
Memory of mine,
Beautiful, yet evil.
Violence denied?
Fight me like a devil.
You're the ghost,
I'm the savior.
Wanted the same, you couldn't blame,
Without finesse.
Lost in this daydream,
My terrified god.
If you're looking for meaning,
Seek it in my blood.
Deity of mine,
Horrified and frozen.
Feel the hate inside,
Am I all there is, then?
I'm the damned,
You're the angel.
Wanted your light, you couldn't smite,
Without betrayal.
Lost in your daydream,
A dark and deep hole.
I'm guilty of treason,
Relinquish my soul.
Lost in this daydream,
My terrified god.
If you're looking for meaning,
Seek it in my blood.
Child of your flesh,
I can still deny you!
Oh...
Oh...
You are my daydream,
A shade, nothing more...
I was looking for meaning,
My vision was poor.
Lost in your daydream,
A dark and deep hole.
I'm guilty of treason,
Relinquish my soul.
My soul...
Beautiful, yet evil.
Violence denied?
Fight me like a devil.
You're the ghost,
I'm the savior.
Wanted the same, you couldn't blame,
Without finesse.
Lost in this daydream,
My terrified god.
If you're looking for meaning,
Seek it in my blood.
Deity of mine,
Horrified and frozen.
Feel the hate inside,
Am I all there is, then?
I'm the damned,
You're the angel.
Wanted your light, you couldn't smite,
Without betrayal.
Lost in your daydream,
A dark and deep hole.
I'm guilty of treason,
Relinquish my soul.
Lost in this daydream,
My terrified god.
If you're looking for meaning,
Seek it in my blood.
Child of your flesh,
I can still deny you!
Oh...
Oh...
You are my daydream,
A shade, nothing more...
I was looking for meaning,
My vision was poor.
Lost in your daydream,
A dark and deep hole.
I'm guilty of treason,
Relinquish my soul.
My soul...
Friday, July 16, 2010
Celluloid
Lights, camera, refraction.
Cheap jewels upon your powdered flesh,
As the shutters drink you in.
Are you crazy enough to consign yourself,
To mortal memory? To man?
Immortality inscribed on that most volatile of substances?
Celluloid souls, flickering on the silver screen.
Are you devoted enough to the flickering light,
To give yourself to shades,
Of reality cut thin?
But of course it is much more than that.
Imagination, invested within
The minds of masses, like reels of film
Wound tight and then unleashed.
The reflection is worth more than the source,
The lies are more real than reality.
And you can live forever here.
Too short, too tall, too thick, too thin.
Too slouched, too old, too young, too proud.
For the cruel, almighty gaze of the lens,
You must be too perfect.
For there is no room in this world for imperfection.
If they do not know your name,
You have failed. You are dead.
Your soul desired yet ever stolen,
Your words repeated for all time.
All you are, distilled to harshest purity,
In her flickering light.
Cheap jewels upon your powdered flesh,
As the shutters drink you in.
Are you crazy enough to consign yourself,
To mortal memory? To man?
Immortality inscribed on that most volatile of substances?
Celluloid souls, flickering on the silver screen.
Are you devoted enough to the flickering light,
To give yourself to shades,
Of reality cut thin?
But of course it is much more than that.
Imagination, invested within
The minds of masses, like reels of film
Wound tight and then unleashed.
The reflection is worth more than the source,
The lies are more real than reality.
And you can live forever here.
Too short, too tall, too thick, too thin.
Too slouched, too old, too young, too proud.
For the cruel, almighty gaze of the lens,
You must be too perfect.
For there is no room in this world for imperfection.
If they do not know your name,
You have failed. You are dead.
Your soul desired yet ever stolen,
Your words repeated for all time.
All you are, distilled to harshest purity,
In her flickering light.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Poet
He sits amidst the debris of his work,
Enamoured only with his thoughts.
That chase themselves around,
in cereberal and spitefull pools,
Making mockery of his newfound incoherence.
For what more is there to do?
He has waxed wroth on all matters under sun,
That lie within the harrowed hearts of men.
He has summed up the stars,
Put pen to sky,
And encompassed the very air in poetry.
He has torn open skulls and feasted on the brain.
At best a beast, oft touted as insane.
But now his disciples, ever-present and desperate,
Weigh his words with fervour and respect,
And a burden it must be.
For he has had the world ensnared upon a pin,
Wriggling, dying, wasted.
And when you have the world upon a pin,
How can you begin?
You have already ended.
He has burned people alive for scorning him,
And drunk in the verbosity of their dying shrieks.
He has written of coupling with the devil,
Who deigned to notice his heinous charm,
And convoluted mind.
He has even written of the word!
Structure and nuance torn apart at the seam,
In search of what? What is his goal?
To express? To digress? To destroy or to make whole?
To find his soul?
Before eyes unseen and voices whispered,
He labours at his task – for hours, weeks.
Once complete, a work is useless, nothing!
Worse than nothing.
A scrabble at the slab that is his tomb.
For of course there can be no end,
For one who knows that words are ever his.
The world enslaved by phrase, yet ever-turning.
The ultimate denial,
For he who preaches power and is slave.
Enamoured only with his thoughts.
That chase themselves around,
in cereberal and spitefull pools,
Making mockery of his newfound incoherence.
For what more is there to do?
He has waxed wroth on all matters under sun,
That lie within the harrowed hearts of men.
He has summed up the stars,
Put pen to sky,
And encompassed the very air in poetry.
He has torn open skulls and feasted on the brain.
At best a beast, oft touted as insane.
But now his disciples, ever-present and desperate,
Weigh his words with fervour and respect,
And a burden it must be.
For he has had the world ensnared upon a pin,
Wriggling, dying, wasted.
And when you have the world upon a pin,
How can you begin?
You have already ended.
He has burned people alive for scorning him,
And drunk in the verbosity of their dying shrieks.
He has written of coupling with the devil,
Who deigned to notice his heinous charm,
And convoluted mind.
He has even written of the word!
Structure and nuance torn apart at the seam,
In search of what? What is his goal?
To express? To digress? To destroy or to make whole?
To find his soul?
Before eyes unseen and voices whispered,
He labours at his task – for hours, weeks.
Once complete, a work is useless, nothing!
Worse than nothing.
A scrabble at the slab that is his tomb.
For of course there can be no end,
For one who knows that words are ever his.
The world enslaved by phrase, yet ever-turning.
The ultimate denial,
For he who preaches power and is slave.
Prison
You're hiding yourself inside that body.
I'll get you out.
You may think you've got me fooled,
But the shivers at my touch,
Give you away.
Can you feel these killer's hands,
Gently caress your neck?
You wouldn't think it to look at them, would you?
They seem the fingers of a pianist, not a killer.
Beautiful, yet brutal.
How best to draw you out?
With gazes like knives?
Or knives, like razors?
The prison of flesh that confides and confines,
Is what I find desireable.
I grow cold in the gales of your breath,
I am seared by the fires in your flesh.
Can it be you're trying to break free?
The more my hands touch your frail form,
The more of yourself escapes into this night.
Wait! Another minute, please.
I can feel it, secondhand - yet powerful.
The more you draw away,
The more I want you,
But all you are is founded on a pack of lies.
I'll get you out.
You may think you've got me fooled,
But the shivers at my touch,
Give you away.
Can you feel these killer's hands,
Gently caress your neck?
You wouldn't think it to look at them, would you?
They seem the fingers of a pianist, not a killer.
Beautiful, yet brutal.
How best to draw you out?
With gazes like knives?
Or knives, like razors?
The prison of flesh that confides and confines,
Is what I find desireable.
I grow cold in the gales of your breath,
I am seared by the fires in your flesh.
Can it be you're trying to break free?
The more my hands touch your frail form,
The more of yourself escapes into this night.
Wait! Another minute, please.
I can feel it, secondhand - yet powerful.
The more you draw away,
The more I want you,
But all you are is founded on a pack of lies.
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