Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Kafka on Wheels: A Sudden Walk

When it seems we have finally decided to stay home of an evening, have slipped into our smoking jackets, are sitting at a lit table after supper, and have taken out some piece of work or game at the conclusion of which we customarily go to bed, when the weather outside is inclement, which makes it perfectly understandable that we are staying at home, when we have been sitting quietly at our table for so long that our going out would provoke general astonishment, when the stairwell is dark and the front gate is bolted, and when, in spite of all, in a sudden access of restlessness, we get up, change into a jacket, and straightaway look ready to go out, explain that we are compelled to go out, and after a brief round of goodbyes actually do so, leaving behind a greater or lesser amount of irritation depending on the noise we make closing the front door behind us, when we find ourselves down on the street, with limbs that respond to the unexpected freedom they have come into with a particular suppleness, when by this one decision we feel all the decisiveness in us mobilized, when we recognize with uncommon clarity that we have more energy than we need to accomplish and to withstand the most abrupt changes, and when in this mood we walk down the longest streets -- then for the duration of that evening we have escaped our family once and for all, so it drifts into vaporousness, whereas we ourselves, as indisputable and sharp and black as a silhouette, smacking the backs of our thighs, come into our true nature.

And all this may even be accentuated if, at this late hour, we go to seek out some friend, to see how he is doing.

Imperatives of celerity

After all that was said and done, nothing seemed to stall. The duo rushed to the structure cradling only affable expectations. One of them, carrying only his trusted weapon of choice, of captured memories and biased stillness, while the other carries a light bag of tricks, of secrets only the two of them know, for they trust each other enough to share each other’s sins and tragedies beneath the awful scent of mischief and prescribed suppositories. They run as fast as they could, even though the path they were running at was without reassurance of correctness. The trouble of losing his cellular gadget was stirring his guilt for his apparent carelessness. It was his fault all along, dragging his merry man with him to ease the headfirst crash without any restraint or support. His friend was not at all stupid either, he was well aware of the situation but left with little choice than to choose despair, but even so failing to argue his guilt by association. His rushed temperament was hardly infinitesimal, but the suppression for every oppressive gesture was never even once forgotten. He was pudgy in both stature and character, but his spirit was enormously gargantuan. At times even the companion questions his quality comparing and contrasting the both of them, and for every action it was all the more increasingly tense, because the greatest threat one could face was one who imbibed a part of the other into his own, and taking it one step farther for what it is and what it is not.

So it was with the imperatives of celerity that they struggled against. Not minding the faults they leapt forward still with rapturous thoughts. It was customary for the situation as it was mirroring the harbored energy of flight. Both of them rush to the loo with the will to dominate but the confidence of a mouse. There at first existed the urge to urinate but faded as soon as the urge to jump in with the sharks finally murmured and chimed into his thoughts. He pulled napkin from one stall without caring about the roll that came with it, wiped his face and fixed his form, while the other calmed his inner thoughts with an unexpected penile erection which he kept in secret all throughout the night. The graceful theme of formality was getting into both of them, which was rare in part of their situation, that when told at first be met with ridicule and piercing laughter, but alas there they were now, ready and willing to be provoked and be taken advantage of.

The first step is always the easiest one to take, only because anything was hardly familiar, and that with each step one grows accustomed to adaptation.  The blissful ignorance will then be slowly ignited taking the form of a generic trickster, and if given the chance will evolve into something vile and nasty. What was the point of it all if not for the overall consensus of notoriety? For each step partaken wisdom slowly overbears the emotion, the regret of past transgressions kept quiet up until the moment of demise, and when part of what was shown is accentuated as being malignant to the point of woebegone idealisms, nothing will clear the pathway for the trickster, only the cuirassier will be left in regard, and it is he who will be rightfully reclaimed as a healer to the chronic disease of the play, and the cuirassier would reflect the one who stepped last. In this case it was the outsider, his companion, the pudge.

Monday, 28 March 2011

Mathematics of illusion

The foolishness resounded an uneasy blow when the two realised they were on a highway to uncharted nowhere. The silence of the transport as it snails itself towards the destination proved to be excruciatingly fatal, their hands tied warmly behind their backs and ropes tightly knit around their necks. A cigarette to calm the senses would not suffice if at all. What was necessary to one was to find the intended location and get the responsibility over with the sooner the better, and that find a way to cure this numb folly into oblivion with a faint echo of whisper circling in between the ears and back, like happiness in the spring on a warm day's night on one of London's faithful boroughs. His attire that night was the only thing genuine about everything, and even the hardest button to button was seraphic in terms of symbols hidden between the lines as the burning flow of wine traversed through his throat an hour from then, with all the world to see his lunacy already intertwined with the fate of the faceless voids in the horizon. A charcoal heresy to protrude at the lowest of lows to one's depravity.

And there they were, glancing left and right searching for answers, waiting to be thrilled, assuming the worst has yet to come, after all they have been through and all that they endured. There was nothing left to daunt them. Except probably the image of a lady in red, hiding beneath their hypothalamic senses and prayed, that for them to succeed they must prevail at all costs, and even then she was invulnerable with her desires to burst forth and choke the lifestream off of them. Even at the hardest triumph, success is merely a step to another, and no amount of infinite success would satisfy, not even an ounce, for we are human, and that is part of  our nature to do so.

They reached an intersection crossing separating to different lands, unknown territories of places unwanted by a few many, one of which was the answer to that goal, and that a wild guess would have to be necessary if they were to find what they were looking for. A map, for one, would have been orgasmic to relief, if only this guy found a cure to his arrogance and indifference to care.

It took them quite a while to figure many things out. Searching for clues hidden behind the walls in many corners around them, strangers spitting at their utmost indecencies, ogled by mischievous eyes hurdled towards the purple madness. Ignored and hopefully silenced, in minutes past the initial rounds they succeeded, and the clue they relied on was two of his passions, and he dared not try mentioning it by mouth but by heart, because even though privacy was dumbfounded and null to him, the secrecy of having that enigmatic moment to succumb to was overwhelmingly welcoming to his rusted, ischemic heart.

There, with both of them armed to the teeth, they went and put on a show to remember. A dash of sweet scent before the night began was all that was needed to calm the nerves, another thought of smile, and the plastic poise as light as the wine glass at hand to caress the breathlessness. Friends bound to each other at the whim of the moment, they introduced the void to their shadows, and with that came more than intention. It was all about execution and either character enhancement or suicide, whichever floated his boat at that time.

For a moment he forgot the basics in interaction, but in essence of doing so probably gave mark to his presence. He shut the light on his eyes to not see between the governance of philosophy and revelry which had hitherto been all shades of red and gray.

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Barbecue with my nugs

Something peculiarly interesting was notable when I bought my favourite kiddie nuggets from McDonald's last night. Well, it wasn't the actual nuggets itself that was in question but its accompanying sauce.

The barbecue dipping. It was different now, the container was slightly bigger and more accommodating, and the taste varied as well. It was a lot more spiced than previous. Got me wanting a drink after another. It's also a lot better taste-wise. The old one was slightly disappointing. It always lacked something despite being so tasty. It stunk too!

Not minding the mole in my thumb, this photo from above clearly shows the tiny bit dramatic change of improvement. It's more or less like sauce now than it was not so long ago when it resembled clay. I love it! I want more of it, in fact. I always find myself choosing this dipping above all else. Beats me why.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011


'What kind of animal are you?' asked the fox.

'Can't you see I'm a dog?' answered Otis, annoyed.

'How can you be a dog? You don't even have a tail!' asked the silly fox, smirking and galloping everywhere.

'I do have a tail, look!' exclaimed Otis, wiggling its tiny coil.

'Ha! You call that a tail? THIS is a tail!' said the fox, swaying its vibrant tail around, laughing.

Otis looked and walked away.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

10x Misfortune

Pain, all that I know
Sane, all that was left behind
Rain, all that I yearn


Somehow it's empty;
No matter how hard I try,
It's always the same


Heard her whisper one;
It echoes throughout the void
And bounces off me

Between night and day

First week of the two-week break. I'm finding it difficult to adjust once again to non-productiveness. I can hardly tell the difference between my eating and sleeping patterns. Still have many things to be done, bank, tuxedo, piece, all of which I'm hoping to christ to cram mayhap tomorrow if willing. Bitch please.

Monday, 21 March 2011


And there it was, thick as the duly appointed snow, all wrapped up in pink and awaiting annihilation. Faint whispers from the bosom quickly crawled up to the neck where it hurts. Someone had to pay the price. And when somebody did, nobody really understood how it all came to be.

The tiny freckles marched on making waves outside tradition. It was to mark the glorious victory over steadfast domain. In all accounts it was blasphemous, none of them really counted when it matters the most. To them they were animals who get beat up. How many times do they have to gamble for their lives? They have to survive to take over the fears that they hide inside, all wild and elating. 

The harrowing brought forth cretins from all walks. These vermin pay bucket loads to make others suffer. And while the situation is on the other hand quite formidable in terms of flexibility, all the silent treatment they received were met with vicious repercussions. People saw madness stare straight right through their eyes, and it blinks, and it twitches, and it speaks. For all the positive vibes they encountered everything seemed to go forlorn and according to plan. To them victory was in defeat.

Vigorous white knights gathered to form white circles amongst the plains of wheat and assorted herbs. They attribute only retribution as the primary source of mission, everything else was throwaway. That is to say none of them really understood their stoic ways. They walk as behemoths within the land, and it took them only several months of abstinence to gather their vivid thoughts of blind justice. The preplanned annihilation was to be returned to its rightful place, and it was those cretins who were on the receiving end of the long, arduous march.

Time told of misery and sadness and it was not between the circle that these gaps have been put to arms. Justice prevailed as do all good things, negativities have never been given moments to flourish if at all. The saddest thing was that justice bears offspring to that of a darker sort. Beneath the hypocrisy it all became clear at the point of light, that all words are as empty as the evidence of soul. Burning all the bridges and tongues are the only redeeming quality of creation. To witness a frail woman suffer while clinging to the lifeless flesh of its young, to see a rabid beggar stab a noble in the neck, to see delinquents commit arson at the whim of mind and comedy. Those are of the few things to cherish. Believe what one wants to believe. Death to the undying and merciless indeed, food for the etiquette of the rotten culture of mankind.

At that point beauty counters the madness. The spring times the summer to rest, and flowers bloom at the simplest touch. The ignored wonders recall its springing desire to be loved, a love that desires its own. When these two opposing qualities are in pursuit, it forms what we call now mediocrity, and beneath the ashes of it all lies stupidity and ignorance, which in turn fall to blissful clouds of clueless sorrow. There is no return to the unending cycle of romance. Hardened by knowing is the only possible stage exit to this theatrical fiasco, a carnival, a clown. The direction from which the eyes glance at the first opportunity will require all the necessary defensive mechanism one needs. The need is the only thing that stands between man and his ambition. When that need is suddenly at any reason torn apart, we fall into a category of multiple dilemmas, one of which deserves recognition as the general purpose of life.

The madness speaks once again in the form of billboard advertisements telling us lies, puppets to the trade and learning to abhor the basic ideas of ultimate truth. A piece of mind to a tasteless cake, made of dough that came from dried testicles of human filth. The wheels have turned to express its disdain while the knights push forward with all of its might awaiting judgement against the cretins and whores alike. Now it stands to be the moral denominator, all that oppose this cause becomes the madman, as the madman before the original author has become one with itself. It sparks a major backlash against the valour of the strong, the weak begging mercy upon its colossal opponent. It weeps gangrenous pus in its wake and thus proving its worth as the lover of none. Would the oak have forgiven the maple as its leaves drape over the branches of acacia? Nights have waited for crashes to long depart above the sky of vanilla. Constructive ideologies of the future never truly interested the masses, it is what is for them constructive in each of their pockets which is what matters. Above all that noise of retribution and clown and madness there is that concept of faith that only a chosen few have long bantered and failed to pronounce. They all go about it the wrong way, preaching the good news where it could have been the bad all the same. What is wrong with society is its failure to subtract the good and multiply the wretch, the loathing, and the despair.

Somewhere down the road lies more bosoms awaiting to expand and whisper in tongue the bad news of salvation. There the grill will open and from its brass coil it chars the substance into oblivion while wood and flesh, two of which are capable of combustion, are comprised to partake in a banquet of sorts, where honey and dew and the sweet scent of aroma suffocate the stage to counteract the spoil of psychosis. The chromosomes flourish the thought and all twenty one of them flickers the pyrotechnics on-stage while the raucous bombs of shouting echo throughout the orchestra singing songs of praise and hallelujah, while the bitch of old binges herself with wine and pork at the back of it all so as not to attract unwarranted attention while awaiting to be flirted by tall, dark, and moustached men of youth.

At the morning thereafter lies the intended mockery that represents everything that life stands for, the burning drool that flows through someone else's forehead with only one breast molested fortunately.

Friday, 18 March 2011

Fickle open-endedness

No puritanical bullshit for the days to pass, the shame slowly subsides. Pieces of plastic dragged to the edge paving way to the lights. The sound of relief echoing from the shadowy background of the morgue intensifies, dropping a louder beat with every forceful thump. All the white horses and knights panic and frolic as the days come into light bearing nothing more than just regrets and mistakes, vendetta against the oppressors. The human menagerie has finally come to an abrupt conclusion if only for a very short while. And while the meeting in question bounces off into ideas of self-inflicting stabs to the groin, none of which held ground into the proving. It only dissolved into something perverse and worse and worse, adversely affecting the outcome of what was to come, of what will become, of what had been done. No justification held more meaning other than the own, the individual, swiftly switching into something more of an ego. Trapped in a maddening rage of witnessing altruism burned to a crisp, the slow build came forth like water from a spring igniting the tree to fall into grace and suffer as we have suffered. The endless cycle proved too much and the infiniteness fell into an agonising antagonism of human nature. What was left of the situation proved to be fatal as it crumbled like dust and withered into the vast space of homogeneous slime and sorrow. The message was delivered as soon as death came to the guilty. It was a powerful sight to behold. The grotesque, inhumane lifeforms became somewhat transparent all of a sudden and with it came the energy of the sun shining through a tiny gap in the midst of all that slime. Herewith lies the scapegoat, therein went the asshole. And as the moon shined on both the wicked and the beastly came forth hope. A hope that some day everything will turn out for the best, that the struggle for now represents only a tinge of what was to happen, what was to come. In turn the radiance was darkness as was dim into light. Beauty spat out madness calling forth the peace of mind that wandered. And there it was, undaunted.

The laughter came from behind, the enigma of having to bear nothing at all. What was the reason for reconciliation? Neither form nor timber. The pacifist spoke in tongue while the all-absurd listened, and to learn the most important aspect of respect and honour was ill forgotten. The bitches have none, the elderly has one. When it was a moment to recall all the basic manoeuvre the fault was always by the side watching. Below all the negativity and false accusation none of which stood to matter, kill and be killed, taken by the fool from the horn and the thorax. The pelvis twitches serenely and whispered to all ears the love that fell on bruit. The actions of the suspect soon turned to ash; that which followed reminded us of how we can recreate something better from scratch. The majesty begged to be forgiven from a knave to commoner to royal crown, endlessly shuffling the deck of cards that represented everything that they stood against. When the time comes no one will remember who it was that engaged the first inhalation. Then it smelled of manly scent of expensive fragrance. Hallowed to the bone of dissuasion and boredom and frenetic. It all ended with the pencil that the lipstick wore, not the whore to submitted herself to the cure. A bounty of thoughts formed lines of perdition as if it were but an image of thought itself. Reality knew no disclosure blaming the medium again for the same amount of sensationalistic propaganda. They waited for the moment, and for weeks, without mentioning anything significant, spoke out with melodrama and disdain, cut from the abdominal wall of the tiny boar.

It was a sure win amongst the irrational losses. The stars left a hole in the ground, a moment of silence and offering to those who yielded into great affection. The asshole lingers hidden within the brooch. They climbed the highest bid and fell wounded on the blue mats down below, and there they saw red. 


Finally on the verge of having to create something valuable, a worthy cause to an already wasted pursuit. This hopefully will bear mark worthy of recognition not for fame but vindication. Perhaps soon.

Whenever possible I try hard not to offend anyone via political correctness. Perhaps I can find a theme in that. Dozens of possibilities, none of which sturdy enough to pass the mark.

Heart of glass

The spirits came to me wicked. At the moment of the first sign of release it went to show how broken the spirits' spirits were, and it's only a matter of time before they put the blame on me, shove the blade up my throat, and pretend everything had been unduly compromised by me from the get-go.

It never got going.

I picked up where I left off as always, picking scraps of crap from those who do wrong and feign ignorance to the situation in order to avoid conflict. I ate one fecal thought of a spirit who released her piece of mind, and in doing so automatically made me the villain, only proven by the fact that I played by with her scheming, seemingly supportive ways. This selfishness she saw in me was a direct compliment if not for the hostile nature of the claim. If said in a rhetorical compliment then maybe perhaps I may reconsider, reconvene with the entire pretentious barrio. The embarrassment was thankfully blunt, so as not to harm whatever it is that remained of my lingering wit. They apprehended my shame, and in doing so battered my sanity to the point where I almost feel the urge to bash some fool's head in, left behind the empty walls for the crowd to cheer upon, bespectacled, looking more than a fool and be more of a mockery.

These spirits freely roam the lands spreading their contagions seeking refuge from interminable cycles and loops. Their intention to dominate is clear coupled with their pedantic reasoning and indomitable bigotry. Far from actual belief, their wisdom is only but limited despite its savoury gift of gab. To be swayed by this arrogance and live to tell the tale is not a worthy cause but nevertheless a good parable to lull a crack addict to sleep. Herewith lies the attention of the so-called free masses. Armed to the teeth with chock full of air and empty fine words bearing like old wine wasted.

And now reckoning is upon me. Not us. It was never about us although we pretended to be so. A sigh of fresh relief overcomes the shadow of doubt only to be crushed by the idea that this short-term breath is but short term. It befell upon me like lightning as wicked as the spirits were, conniving and disappointing.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Can't sleep

Addicted to the shindig.

Not really. Too nervous for tomorrow's individual performance presentation at LISPA. Fuck me now.

Monday, 14 March 2011

Foreword: By Steel and Blood

Amongst all the guilds in Corriven, only one stood apart from the rest. It was Peacehaven.

Often imitated, never duplicated, Peacehaven now serves as one of the most well-respected guardian guilds in all the lands. It is an academy and a sanctuary of sorts from travellers to thrillseekers to venture forth and find their life's calling. Despite having a renowned alumni of heroes already making mark on their legacies, the guild has a notorious reputation of their capricious will to admit people. There are no known requirements for admission and they have recently proposed a highly covert invite-only passage into their community. Although the place in itself is knowingly protective of their vast resources of knowledge, they are still widely accepted to be rational and that the necessity of the guild in itself is highly favourable and outweighs even the faults associated with it. Founded by Duke Leicentinn six hundred years ago when the lands were occupied by Jecian rule, now it stands independent from the state, forging a nation under one roof ruled today by Armammoth of House Yullyn.

Their main competition, an assassins guild located in the middle of Jecius, ruled by Dale VI of House Wynnihue, commanded by his begotten son Durant, and begins to show signs of progress, a signal that Peacehaven has not taken very kindly by especially when looking back at past transgressions. Soon, the re-emergence signals a new era to a whole new age. An age already etched with black mark in time.

S2: Discord

The assassins have reportedly gone mad of hearing about the rumours, Jervith. What is it that you will have me do?

None as of this moment, Lerin. I would rather savour it for the time being. Let us all take refuge at the fact that we are all witnessing a change in history so grand and mighty in scale that not even the prophet has the audacity to accomplish.

Your heresy knows no bounds, Jervith.

Hah! Let them know and feel what it is like to walk amongst truest nobles. I hold no grudges whatsoever of my past, Lerin, and neither should you.

I have always seen my past as an excuse to cultivate my ambition, as a matter of fact. It fuels me as much as gold fuels Armammoth’s.

Bah! That fucking dwarf knows nothing about ambition.

And yet he has it all. Money, women, power, fame, you name it.

Tell me you are not jealous of the dwarf, Lerin.

If only it was that easy to explain.

Let us go back to the topic at hand, shall we?

Yes. About the assassins, Lothus came up to me earlier to mention Delanna does not fully approve of your involvement in this entire mission.

The cunt has not changed at all. Mark my words, Lerin, this woman will soon have hers. As will Armammoth or Shadis or Perrin or any of the unsung heroes of Corriven.

Delanna also requests that you not be in tonight’s feast at the banquet.

I would have it no other way.

S1: Feast

Pollus from House Griggor has just arrived, milady.

Bring him to the reception hall with all the other guests. Inform him that I shall not engage with him as long as he does not apply any sort of fragrant soap that would mask away his putrid body odour.


Now go, and leave me be.

[DALE comes in]

What seems to be troubling you, my dear, sweet Delanna?

It’s you, father. Tonight’s feast commemorating your honour seems to be going well.

I suppose so. But I can’t fail to notice that you do not seem to be enjoying it as much as I and your mother do.

I have responsibilities with the guild, father. The council would have me executed if they knew I wasn’t fit to the task at hand.

You exert yourself too much, dear child.

Not as much as I desire. By the way, father, what news comes from Durant?

He... well, it’s a touchy subject you may or may not want to hear. I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening with unnecessary tales of your brother’s departure.

I still wish to know.

I don’t know how to tell you this without stressing you but Durant has already left the family, his life and the guild, everything. All because of a commoner woman, of all things.

And have you sent men to search for him?

For what? For him to run again and find more reason to loathe us more? The kid is too smart for his own good. Defying him would only give traction to his already furious heart. We made an error in defying him his heart’s desire and my only regret is that I was alive when that moment arrived.

You speak as if you were the one who committed treason, father. Durant may still be this guild’s commanding patrol but if he finds it reasonable to leave everything for the sake of his own selfish desires then he’s no bigger fool than her lover.

He’s still of my blood, Delanna.

As am I. I am confident we will manage even without him, father. I promise you I will do everything to provide this guild the respect it deserves.

What makes you think this was not your intention in the first place?

Ho-- how could you even think of such an insulting thing?

I know you well enough, Delanna. What you lack in strength and constitution you make up with your cunningness. You may not gain the council’s favour as much as Durant but you certainly have the potential to lead, no doubt about that.

Then give me that honour, father. For our sake. For Durant’s sake.

Friday, 11 March 2011

Dire calamity

People from all walks have been talking about the wake of destruction left by another unfortunate tragedy, a tsunami, that swept Japan and some neighbouring places like a big broom of liquid. Shocking, to be honest, when I stopped to watch midway after buying a drink from the cafeteria earlier today seeing on BBC what it was like to be gobbled upon by nature's fury. I have Japanese friends that are extremely saddened by this and I dearly pray for their safety and well-being, including all the other people who are traumatised by the incident.

Prithee lull nature back to slumber.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011


She had no idea what she had done, what she had unleashed, what she suffocated in him at that very moment. All the humanity vested upon him by his creator all drifted away by the sheer force of her blabbering, the slightest provocation of her gentle nature dissipated in thin air as was his. To her he was orange, to him she was apple. When the clock struck ten the sudden hostility became apparently clear, that he was to be what the deities intended him to be. His purposelessness now clear of suspicion, his mind forlorn. What audacity. It this was charisma reeking out of her bosom, I'd like to see her spread the legs for a more vile alternative. Devastated by the results of the conversations, he began thinking of a harsher consequence, mocking and offending him at a position of his vulnerability, clawing her thin nails into a cemented hole of absurdity. He grows ultimately sick of the constant depravity, the inoperable conflicts, and blame games, get right on to the ultraviolence.

He plotted and plotted, and as far as he knows, his limitations are quite high. He was well aware that he could never pursue any sort of unholy vengeance upon those that wronged him the most. His involvement of the things that surrounded him grew thinner and his hate kindled into a ball of many things wrong. His aim was certain, crush the infidel as she crushed his spirit. An eye for eye, one would put it. To the test nothing made absolute sense. It paid to see the arrogance suffer, so as they could witness their own destruction right before the moment they clinch their last breath. Those who wielded iron will would perhaps handle a more delicate situation in a different light. His will was of silk, featherweight and poetic.

There he had not a single word to utter, left defended by an odorous being with a foul stench of another being, downplaying the negativity aimed towards her by the crowd. Nothing to be pleased about or commended, they both struggle the same maltreatment on a different scale. Her frustrations were more apparent and thus widely criticised and mocked. To them she was but an accessory to their discontentment, a scapegoat to a crime she had not been subjected as of yet, an auxiliary character to a nonexistent plot and expendable as much as the next blameless creature that feigns interest to the whole situation, only trying to avoid confrontations which do not seemingly end in productive terms. Her bones were fragile, he noticed, thinking of all the potential harm he could possibly inflict to her someday. If given the chance her bones would be made soup in a big pot of human bulalo. The wide-eyed disgust stared down into him, pulling away his strength and his reasoning, left him speechless and bored to tears, undermining his authority over the space and hers. She fought back passively by besieging his every suggestion retorting to equally passive-aggressive personal attacks. She was to him devil incarnate.

He cursed her for the rest of the days to come, he wished her spawn to be as dark as her human essence, her belly speaking for itself as does her heart and brain and by that it wishes to be shortened of its life as it does when it catches ulcer. His eyes continually bored him ultimately until blood gushed forth from the pupils. They coloured the table red exhibiting all the pent-up rage held inside him for so long. This was not the moment to fall victim to deaf ears, ranges of her inactivity reaching an all-time low, her flexibility waning.

He was gung ho, she was gung whore.

And so the whole point of the debacle was to see which one gives in to which. Rhetorically none would give in even at the cost of life. The preplanned method was to resemble the other using a technology dating farther back than one would imagine. It clouded both their judgment and senses. To see them in such manner would make an old general's country blush out red vomit in embarrassment.  Her whole dilemma between him and her lovely play would no longer be contested. Good for her. She got what she set out to do, alienate the aliens and prove her mettle. She had everything, he was struggling, she had the charisma, all he had was pen and paper.

Of all the faux intellectual, she seemed the least likely to improve. Her diplomatic skills were deplorable and offensive, fits perfectly right in with the Opinionated Whores' Club. Population: One.

All the gastric passers-by did little to intervene. He was to fend for himself as she denounces that none shall hold title of babysitter within the community.

Sitting babies are quite easy in all honesty. Position the baby in a vertical position, form a ninety-degree angle from the point of pelvis and lay the baby's buttocks on a solid plane and there you go.

Saturday, 5 March 2011

25 or 6 to 4: Prelude to date of birth

I live in a land of mothballs and fury. The stench of rotten eggs burning wake me up every single morning just to remind how ghastly the condition of willpower inside me shallowly engulfs the single-ended consequences of youth irate slightly baring the naked soul. Man 98 blasts through from the eardrums, rolling and kicking each notes making an image of mimicked career out of thin air. Eyes wide open, teeth gnashing in disgust, fists clenched armed to the bone, everything was not according to scheme. All of it, from the tiniest detail possible, was chicanery, a stratagem for fools foolish enough to fall for it. The penile erection was ignored half-empty from the yesternight exhibition, pillaging the bassinet of ejaculation and spit, rose when struck by light and pierced by pruritus. Whatever was left of the crime scene leaves much to be desired, such was my way of living, living as if dying, dying as if alone, alone as if lonely, lonely as if dead.

The mechanism of voodoo strolled around the cognitive processing, sprawling bit by bit into small gaps and exiting through marked cells burned from the sheer brainlessness of once was a proud cavity of potential. Old folk tales tell of this mighty, young bloke, a man of conviction, of suffering and obstacles, ruined only by his inability to shy away from the subjective sane, the same above all personal conflicts of which suicides are based upon, pondered only by the unfortunate and foolish alike. Ten minutes passed without realising it, no more time to dwindle, my hard-earned glory will be for naught, as it was the day before and the day before the day before and so on and so forth. It is during these moments of delusion that I am once again free to speak of my unholy success, a placebo for failure and a mask for ingratitude. Something I successfully portrayed, like Colin Firth, like madness in a stream of tranquillity, like Colin Firth, like mouth to anus, like Colin Firth.

Doors alight with each passing step, the darkness peeks out and creeps from across affronted by a coloured wasp that questions my authority to govern my footwear. Although shamed by this wasp's tenacious desire to be loved, I cannot but feel a faded warmth for this lowly creature, not only is he the most pitiful, but his manner of portraying this pathetic excuse leaves me cringing in agony knowing fully well the dire consequences of poverty and indulgence to masochism and the absence of ambition. Alas, his company is enough to hold enough ground for unwarranted sanity. Enough talk of my own bigotry, this topic does not concede on empty grievances. And so I speak in behalf of nihilism when I dare say off with laugh and life, none of it matters, none of it brings solitude, none of it even a shard of memory in the course of history itself. Set sail into the ocean of vertigo and drown in a menagerie of redundant shapes that hold no ground, as if the former were an inch away from reach, sulking in lime and vodka by the recurring thoughts of Russian espionage, deception, and, most of all, the unsuspecting smell of cunt, both literally and metaphorically.

Lifting out the desire to carry on only keeps me agitated and drab, the whole intention was to make them realise that I harness the vision, blind as it is, leaving no room for tapestry and any aesthetic or cosmetic. A freefall from grace was halfway expected, trees fall when roots are plucked out from the earth into the surface. Those dumbbells I trained for are of no use, wither to ashes at the snapping fingers from behind fucked into fornication side by side inside all orifices. Uncared by many, ignored by all. These fools are unaware of what was to come, in days, months, or years, these planned vile concepts of domination gives comfort to interlacing genitalia. What the mouth does not deliver will the body compensate, and so too shall the will of I, reminiscent of burning eggs from the first few words and then some. Maddening raucous sounds once more undulate to the extremes, by which perversity prohibits the action without satisfaction carved by grief and maleficence. The wide-eyed whore returns the favour by giving away the thorn from her bosom, plucked out for the greater good of her unnerving temperament. If only I can legally strangle her and gouge the hazel eyes out of her contaminated skull from which her demonic countenance hale. I would chew on her nipples, spit it out, and once done find consolation to the fact that her demeaning fatigue was blatant in all rights, pull her lungs out and fistfuck her lifeless cadaver as I pull her hair with all my might. Same goes for the pretentious faggot beside her and the spiky wizard in witch's clothing, which, whilst in all accounts attractive still does not equate ideal and borders on the thin line of obsessive compulsive, as she does with the grotesque  portrayals of her self-made characters. Adding to the whole list includes the hag missing a shag, filthy in many ways, putrid, slimy and downright abhorrent. Death is too good and not far away as the flesh show signs of decay. One other slut of a face slipped through my mind whose as naive as an ox with an absent brain resembling that of an echinoderm. It just infuriates me to no end whenever she gallops across the space with her belly popping out and a smile darker than the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. To engage in sexual matters with this obnoxiously chubby behemoth would be bestiality. What the eyes create to form an image the mind deceives. The opening sequences of formality is engaged, burning the sensual away from the distrust. All forms of conversation materialise without fruition from any angle. Far and wide the brainstorm roars all thunderous and gargantuan, all ambitious but, and there always is a but, lifeless.

No matter how far and wide the whispers travel, the seeking never seems to reach the point from which all good things lead to. Mockery to the disparaging root as I was and every. The couch lay still and calm, brown like fox in summer's day, sparkling scent of bougainvillea inundate across the flat. Back to the main line of plot the climax not even halfway across. Everyone is quick to surrender, as all those with fizzled brains do, jumping on to another carriage hoping to take a ride to the next town. The high horse leaps midstream landing roughly into the wet rocks below, tripping over to the current, the final bastion of egomania marches on. It ends in sour taste unsurprisingly, the proposals never seem to resonate within. Let's play the Blame Game. Depression, your turn. Pass. I choose you, malice.

In time for the beginning at the beginning of time it stands still beneath the murky waters of persecution. The lonely hearts go on separate ways forgetting for now the impact of the hallucinations. These illusions of grandeur are most sacred, I reckoned that fact.

Unbeknownst even to myself, I always find me erring at the wrong side of caution. While I scratch my scalp looking for the evasive answers, the army of wisdom slowly becomes massacred never to be revived ever again, a hard pill swallowed, this was contrary to the rules. Seek an edge, play the game, jump the ball, ride the wagon. The slight provocation of fainting was compulsory, glucose was all that was needed. Everything went back to the way it was. Back to the scheming and plotting, to the peeping and flaunting. For the first time in quite awhile success was at hand. Cheers of exuberant spirits are coy. Next to it are the construction of an internal essence, a non-existent, theoretical and subjective. Architectural, unique and subspace. Deadly, risqué and provocative. The voices were many reflecting my own and my schadenfreude comes in gear. My Caesar was his and hers, bountiful and light.

With my gear of droog and gooly, I walk towards the bitva. This chelloveck was with me again failing to bring the intention into the space provided. I muttered profanities in secret. What a cal. Nothing I do can bring her interessovat. My début will have to wait, mayhap the following week from now.

The klootch was hard to reach. If I were to impress the sick I would have to sacrifice some humanity down the drain. Off it went to no avail except a reminder for future intents and purposes. Patiently I wait, perhaps even in vain but even so.

And then the ensemble melody echoed throughout whilst I try to ignore. Countless fallacies swarm my thoughts even as I twiddle. I escaped to the outside world of ironic normality until I reached isolation. There I was all numbed and ridding myself of dandruff.

Today is my birthday and I plan to sleep all day, pararapapa. If not 80s and Moët it is for me then.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011


I would have killed myself at that time. I would have killed myself and killed them both at the same time. From that point onwards the gun I was holding heated up in my grip like meat on grill struggling to calm the offended nerves. The moaning and the betrayal became apparent that everything in life would end at that particular moment. All the hardships I endured in the past do not equate to the anguish and sorrow that I felt. There was only the intention to kill and be killed. This downfall would be my last.

Badly shook up I bent my elbow and lifted my arm up to aim the pistol at them both. Tears which for years did not show up suddenly had the audacity to surprise me at the last minute. It was time to end it all right then and there. 

I fired the gun instantly killing the perpetrator and my best friend. My aim wanders across the room dazed by the disbelief of having to bear the truth and pain brought on by the situation. Shrieking in horror, she immediately pulls away his lifeless shaft from her cunt, cowers beneath the sheets begging and weeping all bloodied up from the spray of life juice leaking from the corner of the left ear. My heart was pounding endlessly, an overbearing ecstatic emotion that engulfed my newfound nihilism. She cried for mercy, the pistol at hand still burning up with desire for violence. I fired a shot at the ceiling just to calm my senses, my lips were already tightly sealed. No words can comfort what was left of any rational choice. Her breasts dongle behind the curtains where she sticks, those which were once my own property but now wasted, expendable, and rubbish. Her face was hideous by the smeared makeup all over, sobbing, wailing and all pathetic.

I had to fire the pistol. It was mandatory and to not do it would only increase the guilt that was already abundant. But love, as terrible as any definition one could come up in relation to the word, overcompensated, and I would have her at least to be with my side through the thickest fog or the thinnest line. Sensing the will to improvise, I grabbed the scissor conveniently lying in the corner, came to her steadily as she struggles to break away. The strength discrepancy was fairly obvious. It was just meant to be.

I stabbed her in the back of the neck on the spine.

She crawls in desperation towards the door to run away but collapsed three seconds later.

Three weeks later she woke up in the same bed she fornicated with all dressed up and taken care of with me by her side. A smile was all that I could muster. She smiled in return and closed her eyes once more to rest.

We were never separate ever again until the day we died.

Search and destroy