As he stepped on the rickety stage, he frowned, displeased. The other band-members were waiting for him, in a semi-crouch, like lions ready to spring. He touched the microphone with his long fingers, and by uttering a single greeting to the teetering crowd, he had us all enraptured. Then, the harsh notes started playing, and we started yelling, biting, hitting, jumping and singing along with his words. As our melted souls grew into a unitary orb of pulsating energy, I could see him marvelling at our force. He coiled, bowing to us, and then sprung up again, holding a blood-red guitar like it was a sword. A weapon, to charm and kill, to empty and fill. I sat in front, in a trance like the rest, and saw every motion his Adam's apple made. I heard the magnified sounds of electricity roaring in his nerves as his fingers bent on the strings. The halls of my barren soul echoed with his mellow voice, and ruptured with his purr. A growl he then let slip, caught by the general chaos, with no consideration for the arcade of my heart; I now have none, for it was demolished by the demonic fluctuations of his voice. He was like the God of Wind should look like - the pitch-black hair, the uncannily breathtaking piercings, the discreet goatee, and the arms that could all weather bear. As inconstant as his name, his voice grew and settled down like a storm, leaving us open-mouthed and him drenched in the cold water of his toils. His beads of sweat rolled like boulders down his face, wetting the ground and guitar below. I imagine the blood-red instrument must have hissed like one possessed by the devils of music when the holy, icy water of his weaver struck him. It must have pierced a hole in the undulating body of the guitar, forever giving a scratched quality to the music - that's originality for you mortal souls.
A cascade of forked, black-nailed fingers poked his forehead as he leaned in to hear the growling of the crowd. He grinned, flashing white teeth - we covered our eyes and yelled, but not with distraught.
In the end, the music died, and we were left cold in our hides. With him gone, the sense of unity was once again free to fly away from the hoardes of restless teenagers. We backed away from the stage, still looking past the instruments and curtains, hoping to catch a glimpse of that torrent of electricity that had just sung to us. He was, apparently, gone, yet in our hearts the memory of his magic shone.
He is, after all, only human, and his tumultuous upsurges of tempestuous energy do not last for long...
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Hangover
I used to be sober. But then, you hung me over.
I had stepped onto the stage in a different era, it seemed. Fearful, frightful, an array of feelings bashing against the walls of my heart. The sickening, empowering music rang through the hall, and the crowd engulfed me in its wet, violently thrashing womb. I was surrounded by darkness and forgot that I was supposed to keep on holding your hand. We did enter the scene together, did we not? Yet the growing roar of the monster I found myself inside of deafened me. I know you cried my name; I suppose you felt just the same when you realized I'd forgotten our game.
You must give me your praise, though. I did succeed in remembering your face, and in that moment of epiphany, claws sprung from my fingers and I heroically slashed open the bars of my fleshy cage, jumping freely onto the blood-spattered floor. A distant riff reverberated in my eardrums.
My friend, I then searched endlessly for you and the warmth of your hand, tasting a hundred types of bland till I saw your face. I gave you a small embrace, and felt love exploding in my chest; that hung me above all the rest.
I let the sweating, swearing hoardes bang their heads to tuneless music, as we - the two companions of dignity - strode into the night, throwing our heads back with laughter and remembering that awful sight. Behind us, the walls began to fall - the monster had captured it all. Yet we ran to freedom, on a wise gust of wind, poised gracefully, dividing good and evil.
There came an awful time for you to depart, so we said goodbye and waved with heavy hearts.
In the morning, my head ached with the night's sounds. I woke up smelling of rainbow rum and feeling sweet smoke and crisp ash on my tongue, and remembered my previous michievousness. I used to be sober, refraining from the sweet pleasures of life. You, with your sweet, stinging dew made me once more hung over the world, in a state of grace. I thank you for honouring me with your companionship; I would not have spent that awful night with another.
And thank you for making me see that there's really no point in sobriety.
I had stepped onto the stage in a different era, it seemed. Fearful, frightful, an array of feelings bashing against the walls of my heart. The sickening, empowering music rang through the hall, and the crowd engulfed me in its wet, violently thrashing womb. I was surrounded by darkness and forgot that I was supposed to keep on holding your hand. We did enter the scene together, did we not? Yet the growing roar of the monster I found myself inside of deafened me. I know you cried my name; I suppose you felt just the same when you realized I'd forgotten our game.
You must give me your praise, though. I did succeed in remembering your face, and in that moment of epiphany, claws sprung from my fingers and I heroically slashed open the bars of my fleshy cage, jumping freely onto the blood-spattered floor. A distant riff reverberated in my eardrums.
My friend, I then searched endlessly for you and the warmth of your hand, tasting a hundred types of bland till I saw your face. I gave you a small embrace, and felt love exploding in my chest; that hung me above all the rest.
I let the sweating, swearing hoardes bang their heads to tuneless music, as we - the two companions of dignity - strode into the night, throwing our heads back with laughter and remembering that awful sight. Behind us, the walls began to fall - the monster had captured it all. Yet we ran to freedom, on a wise gust of wind, poised gracefully, dividing good and evil.
There came an awful time for you to depart, so we said goodbye and waved with heavy hearts.
In the morning, my head ached with the night's sounds. I woke up smelling of rainbow rum and feeling sweet smoke and crisp ash on my tongue, and remembered my previous michievousness. I used to be sober, refraining from the sweet pleasures of life. You, with your sweet, stinging dew made me once more hung over the world, in a state of grace. I thank you for honouring me with your companionship; I would not have spent that awful night with another.
And thank you for making me see that there's really no point in sobriety.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
I Am My Own
You once asked of me, dearest Elder, to make you proud. I have tried my best, I have borne your crest and gave your withering old crown throughout the world renown. But as the years go by, the sharper grew my eye, and it spotted, through glasses dotted, a total surrender - typical for your gender. I saw deep in your soul, in that putrid, lurid hole, how Pride and Integrity, former models of Solemnity, bowed dutifully to the laughing deceit. I had thought in my earliest youth how such a pillar of truth as you I shall never meet. Now I see that the true model I have lies in me, where my Honesty and my rightful Vanity still act the bridges to my cells, so I do not squeak, as you, at the hinges. You have grown old, teacher, I understand, but 'tis no excuse for your backbone to turn to sand. I remember still, while stealing a glance, I saw the fox of corruption prance upon your greying skin.
What I recalled to be of marble, I found had started to crumble, and saw the thorned tentacles engulf what the crude iron manacles could not. In shackles were you, awaiting your sentence, when I virtuously came to denounce your false repentance.
It may seem odd, how I spotted the marsh; I had spoken to a God, who told me it stuck so harsh to your bones and your veins, your fibres and brains. Intellect-deep in mud, with muck instead of blood, you are condemned to a barren eternity.
The true believers will now sing: "What, no redemption for the Christian thing?" Seeking an answer in the old, 'tis the new that will his judgement unfold: "None, for his web of lie is like a ring."
You are now too old, too poor, to rotten to be saved; your tongue ought to be shaved - it bears white, thick hairs of ugly song. Your brain ought to be filtered, smashed into a pulp, then poured back into your skull, though I doubt it there belonged. The fragile clay of your frame should be melted and scuplted anew, for only rebirth could give your heart another hue. Yet to all these changes - monstruous, I'll admit - we cannot an old, learned bodice submit. Your spirit - the wreck that's left, I mean - will crack and break, never remembered, never seen.
So, you see, 'tis best to leave thee in thy rude, ungraceful form, for if we dissolve your trace upon this land, you will have not existed. And, after all, 'tis better to exist in infamy than to surrender to anonimity.
What I recalled to be of marble, I found had started to crumble, and saw the thorned tentacles engulf what the crude iron manacles could not. In shackles were you, awaiting your sentence, when I virtuously came to denounce your false repentance.
It may seem odd, how I spotted the marsh; I had spoken to a God, who told me it stuck so harsh to your bones and your veins, your fibres and brains. Intellect-deep in mud, with muck instead of blood, you are condemned to a barren eternity.
The true believers will now sing: "What, no redemption for the Christian thing?" Seeking an answer in the old, 'tis the new that will his judgement unfold: "None, for his web of lie is like a ring."
You are now too old, too poor, to rotten to be saved; your tongue ought to be shaved - it bears white, thick hairs of ugly song. Your brain ought to be filtered, smashed into a pulp, then poured back into your skull, though I doubt it there belonged. The fragile clay of your frame should be melted and scuplted anew, for only rebirth could give your heart another hue. Yet to all these changes - monstruous, I'll admit - we cannot an old, learned bodice submit. Your spirit - the wreck that's left, I mean - will crack and break, never remembered, never seen.
So, you see, 'tis best to leave thee in thy rude, ungraceful form, for if we dissolve your trace upon this land, you will have not existed. And, after all, 'tis better to exist in infamy than to surrender to anonimity.
Forgive me, thus, for not taking you at your word. Your false pride shall end up a broken sword - I remember naught but my own ideals, what I go through are my own ordeals. Your name shan't be written under any knitted mitten I have touched. I fear, you see, that your long, green finger will prick even me. Forgiveness for my weakness I do beg of thee.
My teacher, you should know I hate you not, I only hate that you have not fought. The devils of your possession, who rule your being in progression, were not hard to repel - you had to know Morality's simple spell. Yet, the past is in the past, though the repecrussions of your actions hurt and last. For the future, the empty forever, I'll try your wounds to suture with something clever. But, as wit seemingly escapes me, I can only resort to what you next see: rudimentary words for you, from me. Though I know what follows will be night, do pray that the Gods by some miracle grant you true sight. May your reckless, shameful sins be light, and may you never forget my right to say "nay" when you try to model my clay.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
What Say You To The Night?
If I have ever met someone so grand, it must be the one with the cigarette in his hand. The mysterious stranger, giving us an inkling of danger, charming us with our fear, making us draw near. As he lifts the collar of his dark overcoat, a chill thrills my spine, clogging my throat. The tip of lit ash lights his brow in a flash. With the slithering smoke rising from his mouth, a cold sharp wind comes from the south. My silly, wild eyes, naught recognize. My bare, white chest bears innocence and fear as its crest. As I approach the dark body timidly, I see the sparkle of his eyes but dimly. And in the strange, unnerving blackness I see that familiar human harness. I think to myself the night has embodied an elf and sends him forth to me, for my unsettled imagination to see. He has leaned against the wall, his body curving withall, his long, lean hands serving as iron-brands. Grasping the vibration of my curious damnation, he springs forth, ducking his chin, as I ready myself to bear the horror within. I expect a monster, a beastly behaviour my approach hath fostered. A wry smile touches his lips, as he traces my shoulder with his fingertips. I would never understand how that moment could fly out of my hand. Nothing was left in my head, just the concept of feelings long dead. I stood stock still as his membres abruptly sent a chill, turning to stone on my collarbone. I tasted the bile, it felt futile. A gratuitous passing of long caged feelings, a mercifully releasing explosion of forgotten dealings. It passed, and then he gasped.
Taken by surprise by the plan his mind was to devise, he took a sharp breath of air, sliding his hand in my electrified hair. Sanity was a distant echo, to me.
"What say you to love tonight?"
"What say you to a stranger and his plight?"
"What one feels."
"...Assuming one is head over heels?"
"Ah, Romantic ordeals..."
And as he crushed the tobacco under his foot, my heart in his caught root. With fear I came closer, with my spirit next to its original composer. Such a feeling of delight gripped my head and held it tight, as I wandered with my Stranger in the dark, never knowing if he will depart. I dared not speak a sound, for he seemed pleased with us silent-bound. And in fear for myself I then dwelled, having my spirit callously impelled, to act as a protective glove for my Stranger's withering love. I took the blows and scratches of the cold to keep alive the fire of old. Knowing it would too soon die, I gave myself no time to cry. So there I went, from one cage to another and if it was of fear or love I ceased to wonder.
With a knot I was tied to the ground, having a dry, sandy soil found. I felt jarred, my knuckles swelled, for having all those threats repelled. My purpose was gone, my phantasmagorical battles were won. The earth I had found for my rooting love was shrunken like a dying dove. The mystery of the Stranger was gone, being now replaced by a want of none. I despised his obscureness, my heart convulsed at the sight of his dark dress; hopelessly I wished to brighten his tress.
Though on first sight, the warm, flowing night was all alight, digging further into his heart one found naught but a playing card, bending as the wind, an opaque glass shard. His skin was so terribly hard.
That, my friends, brings us to the day; yes, I'm still trying to get away. Do not judge me for giving my consent for the love that came and went.
If he, for a moment, had noticed your graceful flight, what would you have said to the alluring night?
Taken by surprise by the plan his mind was to devise, he took a sharp breath of air, sliding his hand in my electrified hair. Sanity was a distant echo, to me.
"What say you to love tonight?"
"What say you to a stranger and his plight?"
"What one feels."
"...Assuming one is head over heels?"
"Ah, Romantic ordeals..."
And as he crushed the tobacco under his foot, my heart in his caught root. With fear I came closer, with my spirit next to its original composer. Such a feeling of delight gripped my head and held it tight, as I wandered with my Stranger in the dark, never knowing if he will depart. I dared not speak a sound, for he seemed pleased with us silent-bound. And in fear for myself I then dwelled, having my spirit callously impelled, to act as a protective glove for my Stranger's withering love. I took the blows and scratches of the cold to keep alive the fire of old. Knowing it would too soon die, I gave myself no time to cry. So there I went, from one cage to another and if it was of fear or love I ceased to wonder.
With a knot I was tied to the ground, having a dry, sandy soil found. I felt jarred, my knuckles swelled, for having all those threats repelled. My purpose was gone, my phantasmagorical battles were won. The earth I had found for my rooting love was shrunken like a dying dove. The mystery of the Stranger was gone, being now replaced by a want of none. I despised his obscureness, my heart convulsed at the sight of his dark dress; hopelessly I wished to brighten his tress.
Though on first sight, the warm, flowing night was all alight, digging further into his heart one found naught but a playing card, bending as the wind, an opaque glass shard. His skin was so terribly hard.
That, my friends, brings us to the day; yes, I'm still trying to get away. Do not judge me for giving my consent for the love that came and went.
If he, for a moment, had noticed your graceful flight, what would you have said to the alluring night?
Monday, 17 November 2008
Luminously Youthful Chaos
Of many teachings I remember one simple thing, in my mind like an ember. A dying flame of knowledge sparkled my awareness; I remember now that we see things because of the light which falls upon them. If that light falls not, does our conscience also keep our brothers in the dark? If naught shines, does it not exist? If all is dark, there sings no lark? No trees to swoon, no leaves to rustle, not one creature moving a muscle, if that shines not.
So those who truly are and can be seen, must have acquired some sort of sheen. Their skin must glow, their hearts pureness show. A mystery, still, this treachery of Gods, who have given us quality by the odds. A tilted wheel with a rusted reel is what they spin, spreading sparkle across my kin.
But here comes a happy thought - they exist, the ones that shine not. Only our human, lowly eyes, are not worthy of the plan the Fates devise. You say I jest when I affirm that the ones to shine will squirm, and darkness will flow into them. There will come a time for the mighty to fall, to arm shall we, the dark, hear call. For it is in us that the real light dwells, and nothing is to you what your perception tells. All reality is like the wind, and that they do not see, for their eyes are too filled with normality for them to spot you and me.
'Tis not our skin that glows, but our soul, be it filled with woes. Our eggshell - what you call a skin - merely gives a constant shape to the spirit within. In that is the true light reflected, warmth is deflected, love is connected, malice intercepted.
Fear not, for we exist, in our invisible, intangible universe, wrapped in our quantum of darkness. But when the drums shall ring, our birth will burst so sweetly in the day that the false light from before shall fall into dismay.
We, the dreamers, bring disarray.
So those who truly are and can be seen, must have acquired some sort of sheen. Their skin must glow, their hearts pureness show. A mystery, still, this treachery of Gods, who have given us quality by the odds. A tilted wheel with a rusted reel is what they spin, spreading sparkle across my kin.
But here comes a happy thought - they exist, the ones that shine not. Only our human, lowly eyes, are not worthy of the plan the Fates devise. You say I jest when I affirm that the ones to shine will squirm, and darkness will flow into them. There will come a time for the mighty to fall, to arm shall we, the dark, hear call. For it is in us that the real light dwells, and nothing is to you what your perception tells. All reality is like the wind, and that they do not see, for their eyes are too filled with normality for them to spot you and me.
'Tis not our skin that glows, but our soul, be it filled with woes. Our eggshell - what you call a skin - merely gives a constant shape to the spirit within. In that is the true light reflected, warmth is deflected, love is connected, malice intercepted.
Fear not, for we exist, in our invisible, intangible universe, wrapped in our quantum of darkness. But when the drums shall ring, our birth will burst so sweetly in the day that the false light from before shall fall into dismay.
We, the dreamers, bring disarray.
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Another Monday for the Downtrodden
Long gone are the days of solitude of the droplets of rain. They all come in armies now, fighting the rigid poise of our windows like there was no tomorrow. Ever since she went to bed, meaning ever since she was born, it has not stopped raining.
She wakes up, pulling a paper-thin sheet of fragile glass from her feet. Glass keeps no warmth, yet it gives her what people seek: transparency. That sheet she could so easily break represents the crush of her human spirit, with all its mysteries and shady charms. No living thing, no matter how pure, will ever be translucent.
In getting to her feet, she cracks open her own skull, inserting the cotton brains that she had put on her night-stand when going to sleep. A smiling mouth is tattooed on her face, her muscles all wired up in the mechanical effort to smile. But she feels nothing.
Behind her, there is a two-way mirror. Behind that, is a middle-aged lady who has been monitoring the cotton-brained girl for nineteen years. She pushes a lonely button, opening a door, then commands the girl to go out. The beast is thus released into the harmless wilderness, sent to go about her daily routine.
With a wry smile, the middle-aged lady takes out a file from a cabinet. It holds the records of the last traces of cerebral activity in the girl: a dream. She had dreamt that her body had crushed the glass sheet and, without using the given brains, she had set the cotton ones on fire before starting to dance around the room, finally falling dead from the exhilarating exhaustion.
The scientist snapped the file shut in anger and frustration. She took a deep breath and decided that nineteen years were nineteen too many: she would not partake in this tomfoolery anymore.
She took her badge and let it drop to the floor, walking out of the room-behind-the-mirror, leaving behind a white coat and a shard of metal inscribed: TH. SOCIETY, CHIEF BRAINWASHER.
She wakes up, pulling a paper-thin sheet of fragile glass from her feet. Glass keeps no warmth, yet it gives her what people seek: transparency. That sheet she could so easily break represents the crush of her human spirit, with all its mysteries and shady charms. No living thing, no matter how pure, will ever be translucent.
In getting to her feet, she cracks open her own skull, inserting the cotton brains that she had put on her night-stand when going to sleep. A smiling mouth is tattooed on her face, her muscles all wired up in the mechanical effort to smile. But she feels nothing.
Behind her, there is a two-way mirror. Behind that, is a middle-aged lady who has been monitoring the cotton-brained girl for nineteen years. She pushes a lonely button, opening a door, then commands the girl to go out. The beast is thus released into the harmless wilderness, sent to go about her daily routine.
With a wry smile, the middle-aged lady takes out a file from a cabinet. It holds the records of the last traces of cerebral activity in the girl: a dream. She had dreamt that her body had crushed the glass sheet and, without using the given brains, she had set the cotton ones on fire before starting to dance around the room, finally falling dead from the exhilarating exhaustion.
The scientist snapped the file shut in anger and frustration. She took a deep breath and decided that nineteen years were nineteen too many: she would not partake in this tomfoolery anymore.
She took her badge and let it drop to the floor, walking out of the room-behind-the-mirror, leaving behind a white coat and a shard of metal inscribed: TH. SOCIETY, CHIEF BRAINWASHER.
Hymn for the Dying Poet
Bullets tearing, biting claws, the words of a preacher, a lash falls. I thrash around, screaming for help, my hair gets caught in the teeth of a kelp. A fireman rushes past me, a bird in his hand. I smell the sugar, I taste bland. And my face is painted by the fingers of the earth, and the sonnets of my infancy reverberate, as the chrinocles of my deeds are being written and the sky of my youth is lit. My mother, my father - all are away, and I unconsciously seek the road to take me astray. My words flow with the lightness of feather, dangling on my lips, smelling of heather. I could pour my soul into this cup, yet who would drink it and not throw up? I'm green inside, blue on the tips of my long lost fingers and my strange, bare lips. Unerringly so, in my place I shall stand, along with the crowd, I'll eat the sand. The water will leave me, the green will fade, my hair will settle, my teeth go gray. Your purple nose will fall off, too, leaving your orange bones to turn into goo.
Does one wonder anymore, why we fear the eyes that prejudice bore? What's coarse and small will not be given attention at all, as that which is incomplete. To be boring and accepted, a beast must find its way into the bush that hides them all.
And, yet, I wonder, when my turn will be to crawl, after the crowd has maimed my pleading call. When my song hears the approach of its death, may it hide within me and feed the red. May you be forever spirit, flowing darkly by the minute. May we be unclear, the mystery, to turn their small lives blissfully.
I release you, with my young powers, from the menacing threat of the aging hours. Fly, sing and speak, become not one of the meek. For in our destiny true tales await - the world has never seen something so great!
So take my hand, and let us jump from this cliff - watch out for that stump - and let us escape the wiff of an elderly land. For only airborne will we be free, with the groping hands of normality far behind you and me...
Does one wonder anymore, why we fear the eyes that prejudice bore? What's coarse and small will not be given attention at all, as that which is incomplete. To be boring and accepted, a beast must find its way into the bush that hides them all.
And, yet, I wonder, when my turn will be to crawl, after the crowd has maimed my pleading call. When my song hears the approach of its death, may it hide within me and feed the red. May you be forever spirit, flowing darkly by the minute. May we be unclear, the mystery, to turn their small lives blissfully.
I release you, with my young powers, from the menacing threat of the aging hours. Fly, sing and speak, become not one of the meek. For in our destiny true tales await - the world has never seen something so great!
So take my hand, and let us jump from this cliff - watch out for that stump - and let us escape the wiff of an elderly land. For only airborne will we be free, with the groping hands of normality far behind you and me...
My Trial Transcripts
I have just entered the plea for "not guilty".
Charges: becoming another dummie with a blog.
Motive for attacking the plaintiff, also known as "a Blog": i was bored, and needed a place to store my ideas other than my comp, which is already overloaded with temporary files.
Sentence: keep on writing till you die (I actually find a masochistic pleasure in that).
Date of execution: starting NOW.
Any last words: Welcome to the jungle.
Charges: becoming another dummie with a blog.
Motive for attacking the plaintiff, also known as "a Blog": i was bored, and needed a place to store my ideas other than my comp, which is already overloaded with temporary files.
Sentence: keep on writing till you die (I actually find a masochistic pleasure in that).
Date of execution: starting NOW.
Any last words: Welcome to the jungle.
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