Posts

Showing posts from 2012

Pacq'd Out

It was a stunning defeat as me and my father had our mouths open wide in disbelief as Manny fell face first to the canvas. My heart was undoubtedly broken and spirit crushed like a bug squashed by the palm of a gargantuan human being. Such tragedies should never have come, but things like these are to be anticipated in big bouts in sports like boxing. It had silenced us both. I still was in the middle of a sentence when the moment had come. Twice then, first when he fell on the third and at the moment of truth. I grit my teeth in both disappointment and anger, praying for it to be mere folly. No. It was over just like that. Our smiles were less and my mouth absent of breath. A sad day for the Philippines, another day at work.

Wanton

It's harder when I think that life and love is easier when the parties involved are in the same spectrum of the relationship. The truth is, I always get hurt more often than not. It's not because we are in disagreement with one another, but it's because I find out I could never really be fully me. The adjustments are difficult to endure.
I barely slept after finally catching winks while having lunch. The entire night was spent sulking over trivial sexual mis-pursuits. It was then that I wanted to make her feel that I am deeply disappointed with myself and the both of us for not trying harder and for being hard-pressed to try to understand what each of us were thinking at that particular moment. It's funny how when I look back now I always seem to think I myself am the bad guy, when in fact all I ever wanted was an extra more affection. How hard can that be in a mutual relationship between lovers? And so when I wake up four or five hours or so, there she was sitting be…

By and By

Yesterday's plan of November yet survives but is put on hold. I have lost valuable assets during my months-long travel and it doesn't feel right to just depend upon memory to retain all that I have sweated blood for to compile, and such travesty's a big shame, for the whole fault is mine. I've left behind more than half of my valuables to carelessness and unfortunate circumstances. It would take quite awhile to regain all that lost information, if I could still ever. I even have a replacement Moleskine to aid my purpose in writing, although not even that could redeem me from my faded fortune. What I need is a whole set of skill, plenty of testimonies, and an eidetic memory.
Time starts now. The world awaits.

Gradual Self-preservation

For all it's worth, December is finally here at long last, and I am five days too late. There are things -- mundane things -- that have come and gone, experienced soiled and spoiled, shared and grieved. I've brought upon myself home a full dufflebag with a live mind inside, living and breathing, poised for a lifelong disarray. One thing to remind myself that there is danger in my words and actions, even moreso when prompted by rage and desperation. There is happiness in this, I whisper to myself, and everything seems to be forgotten. And then finally I've learned how to mature.

Author's Note: Whereverabouts

A month long gone. So many things have happened. Everything has a reason as I believe. Backpacking throughout the United Kingdom, with only my dreams in tow, and my hopeful feet to tread. My most ambitious project had begun. For now, I'll just keep writing what I need to, unless I fall. And were I to perish unexpectedly due to the perils of uncertainty, then I shall be happy, because I have found cure to my own resident evil.

O: Day Six

Much has happened. Including me and my life. Left homeless for a day and all.

O: Day Two III

Never have I been so tittilated and grossed out watching women weightlifters from Poland.

O: Day Two II

Basketball. USA against France. Was Ronny Turiaf really their tallest French player? France needed more big men.

O: Day Two

Andy Murray on the move. Retribution after Wimbledon? I think not.

O: Day One IV

Good lord, Leryn Franco is so gorgeous she makes my javelin stand to the tip. Paraguay should be my next travel destination.

O: Day One III

Final minutes of day one. Team GB disappoints at cycling. The 'Dream Team' just wasn't dreamy enough. Nice golden win for Kazakhstan.
Michael Phelps, on the other hand, places no medal since a long time ago. Bad start. Maybe he should indeed retire after this while he still has that value.

O: Day One II

Women's swimming. The fluidity in their strokes is phenomenal.

Indestructible

Sometimes I want to clean my life for the hell of it, the thrill of responsibility. Sometimes I clobber myself to thinking I needed to do something for a future, a worthwhile life, a legacy to leave behind. Sometimes I groom myself emotionally and physically for a day, and for what? Six hours later, drenched wet, going home empty-handed, and another illusion of having done a socially-acceptable lifestyle. That I prove to others I have no sociopathic tendencies. That I am ordinary, that I mingle for the sake of mingling. Because life is like that, ever so clingy to worldly favours. One's self is never enough, they say.
Some say that no one man is an island. I beg to differ, some are indeed islands. Islands that form an archipelago, albeit independently, forming tight bonds of respect and honour, and they are all better off that way.
Loneliness has no factor in this. The islands are by no means exclusive but invitational.

O: Day One

Day after the opening. First day. The flies are still making rounds, making ruckuses, although invisible. The skies are bright blue, wonderful, with scattered clouds looming over.

O: Opening XVIII

The cauldron looks wicked. Might I get myself one of those from IKEA or somewhere.

Now it's moving steadily vertically into a huge row of incense candles.

O: Opening XVII

Welcome to London, he says. 
Round of my applause goes to Danny Boyle, who helped develop this staggering production.

Time to sleep.

O: Opening XVI

I could sleep now, and wake up early. Do a long run or something. But the blaring noises from the distance still resonate within my walls. There's that urge to switch the channel, but who knows what's going to happen. It might be monumental, might not be.
Or maybe I should just rest then. Fuck it.

O: Opening XV

The ground is shaking and the fireworks banging.... at the comforts of my home.

O: Opening XIV

Bikers with wings, Come Together... not bad.

O: Opening XIII

Thank you, Sir Chris Hoy, for taking screen time off the 10-second walk of my Philippines.

O: Opening XII

The celebration in Hyde Park is a bit out of place, but whatever floats their boat.

O: Opening XI

Finally, athletes.

O: Olympics X

Butoh?
Nice touch on the Emeli Sandé background.

O: Opening IX

The inventor of the worldwide web, huh? I've always figured it was Al Gore, but I'm not sure if there's a clear distinction in definition between the worldwide web and the Internet.

I suck at history. Off to Wikipedia then!

O: Opening VIII

The general direction the opening ceremony is going confuses the hell out of me now.

O: Opening VII

I need to get me one of those bright duvets.

O: Opening VI

JK Rowling could write a horror saga, just thought it.

O: Opening V

The Exorcist score is giving me goosebumps. What the fuck gives?

O: Opening IV

The Queen jumping out of a chopper but looking all frail as she walked down the steps. There goes my suspension of disbelief defenestrated.

O: Opening III

And they call it the Pandemonium. What a fitting name for a metaphor so strong.

O: Opening II

Old Bankers looking at a tree. The leader of the band gives a speech.

O: Opening

A choir of children singing, while the background people doing faux-British things. Bit laughable, mocking, but whatever.

O: Countdown IV

Boom! The party's started. The ship has landed.

O: Countdown III

The Old Man called, feeling the athletic hype dripping out of his sportless skin.

Outside feels like a ghost town, and I feel so elated.

O: Countdown II

The telly says twenty minutes to go, but the flies are already here.

O: Countdown

Woke up to the sound of the heavens roaring. What's cooking?

At Olympus, the gods cheered and wept

My lady, I feel so alive...
Tonight marks the day of rings, of gold, of silver, of bronze. Here we stand at the moment of triumph, of defeat, and of class disparities. Tonight, we bow down to the birth, destruction, death, retribution of human will.
This will not take forever. My mind is already broken. I can see something's missing.

Razbliuto, a haiku

Going in circles
Chasing farfetched dreams in droves
Like a pine marten

Cecil III: Everybody's messed up, I know, but there's no reason not to make life better

Cecil has had too much laziness for a single lifetime. Laziness of the utmost insignificance. To endure such a gruelling fate is laughably pathetic, and Cecil is all of it and more.
His green and soiled toothbrush loiters beside the LED monitor unattended. His used blue kitchenwares have been  left there and forgotten while a bottle of sparkling drink stares at the fork with utter dismay. There are two bottles of urine beside that bottle that are indistinguishable from each other, and may easily distract and fool bystanders into drinking it.
His mobile phone lies not far, jittery and shaken by the constant stream of messages and updates. Cena had been trying to contact him all day now for a favour. Cecil has always been aware of it, and yet he tries hard to avoid being condescending, so as not to bear her rude indecisiveness and unappreciative demeanour. Cena had been begging Cecil to stay, if only the idea was as easy as it seemed.
Cecil had been hiding from the world for the past c…

Rise of the Antediluvians

There is a mark in the palm of my right hand that I almost couldn't remember procuring. Why I couldn't almost remember was because today was a monumental joykiller. The Antediluvians are at it again as they normally would, crashing and burning and salivating at the thought of me in very precarious situations. Something tells me to tidy up and destroy the evidence of joy that is left from last night's escapade. But why should I? If it's the only thing that caresses my soft spot for hope. I can't even help but be sentimental to a one-hour tattoo because it's the only thing that reminds me of what it means to be happy with people. Because as it normally turns out, the people always concoct different ways of disappointment, and therein lies in the middle a sore misanthrope: none other than me, silently whispering solitude in the blanched, moist sky, with nothing but promises of gold buried deep by the Antediluvians who wish to inflict me pain. Pain of the utmost t…

Eventually, not

My hands feel older now, the other parts pale in comparison to this funny sensation. Stimulating, perhaps not, would the least be the last thing on my mind. There's no time to spare, not even my very own sexual desires. Perhaps it's best I please myself when all of these are made undone, makes it much more easier indeed, or perhaps it's only time for change to step up and rise above the hate. What goes around comes around, what goes up must go down.
When I take my fingers off this keyboard, I best be on my way. Back to a stoic state of discontent.

Cecil II: The biological tree, Cena; the ubiquitous poverty and the monotonous mediocrity, status the discontent

It has been three days now for Cecil. Three days of waiting for something to come out from nothing. A miracle he's been hoping to breathe out from thin air. Cena left him for an hour now; probably due to the fact that therein lies no odorous communication between the two, no chemistry, in fact, to smother the awkward elephant inside the suffocating room. She left him for coffee, she says. I'll be gone not long, she says. We're still poor, she says. Well, no. But we are still poor. So fuck the coffee and fuck this lousy attempt at being civil. Cecil strives in despair, he lives for it. It's probably best for him to spit the keys to the confines of his introversion. Ha, intro-fucking-version. Since laughably when? Since puverty, hah hah. Get it? Puberty and poverty live together in perfect harmony.
So Cecil drowns himself at the irony of the thought, thinking if life was that easy for him to decipher, then why is he less intellectual than he intends to be? Is it part of…

Silencing the critical voices

Now, a week, it's over. None of it matters, well, almost. Next step is breaking boundaries, ask myself how. New things discover, easy and free. Nonchalant, maybe. Nice week, still heartaches. Neither good nor bad, one wonders. Numbers game, arms race, changing horses midstream, no. Not at all. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin. No. Narcotic, maybe, but not intrusive, or is it. Nursing the neurotypical senses. Nerves, perhaps even emotions. Nubile little girl, tsk it or task it, or tit for tat that. Narcissistic, not me, okay, maybe a little. Nostalgic, yes! Night whispers in my mind, knocking on the doors of death. Naive, I am, in search for a niche. Not as man but as an artist. Not only even that.

A Priori

Hey. [Squats facing the audience. Clocks at someone.] But I miss you. [Pause.] [Pause.] I love you. You should know. [Pause.] We should act now. Before it's made illegal. [Pause.] You should know. [Gingerly collapses to the ground.] There is no other way. [Pause. Head loose like jelly.] It's everybody's mission, not my own. [Pause.] You should know. [Pause.] Because one day... [Pause.] You will miss me. [Pause.] For the same reason I do now. [Pause.] For nothing at all. [Undulate to sitting position. Head last. Pause. Clocks at the same person earlier, for five seconds. Quickly look away after. Pause. Stay for five seconds. Bring the lights down. Fade out.]

Beauty and Madness

It is rightfully said, by an insufferable genius like me at that, that a man devoid of madness is a man devoid of life.

Magkaliwanagan nga tayo

Kumakain sa aking isipan ang mga malabalahibong salita na gumapo sa dila ng kausap kong kay ganda. Hindi ko lubos maisip kung ako ba ay tunay ninanais o ginagamit lamang upang makamtan niya ang intensyon ng kanyang mga matatamis na pangarap. Habang malalim kong iniisip ito, lalo kong pinapatibay ang pagkumbinsi sa aking sarili na sa kabila ng lahat ng hirap at pagdurusa, masasabi ko sa aking puso na ako'y ganap na masaya.
Tumalikod ang kausap kong dilag at nagpaalam, ang gintong buhok nito'y umuuntol na parang buntot ng kabayo sa dilaw na sikat na araw, kanyang damit ay inaalon ng ginhawa ng mga espiritu. Siya'y ngumiti sa aking direksyon, kanyang bughaw na mga mata tumutusok sa aking pananaw, at ilong na napakatangos at masarap pisilin, at ang matambok nitong bibig na ubod ng senswalidad at karakter. 'Kita kits 'maya,' bulong niya sa akin na may kasamang ngiting nakakabighani.
Hindi ko maintindihan. Hindi. Bakit? Bakit hindi ko maintindihan? Minsan panalo, mi…

Cecil I: The ineffable excuse to retain his sanity, although his desires go against the whole point of living and dying, an anti-proverbial rant

For a solitary soul, like Cecil's, the only way out is turn himself in, walk the path of conformity, grab a pint of testosterones, and chug it down his scrotal neck. This world is not designed to accommodate. But perhaps in someone's delusion of grandeur, hidden within their own view of the world is that longing for it to be dominated. To a growing man like Cecil, this was his rightful birthright, a promised complexity for a world that feeds not the weakness of man. He is aware of the processes of what's, but reluctantly admits his wisdom of the how's. This conundrum is universal. Every overachiever knows this is the case.
Cecil embarks on a journey that defies convention. He walks a path from nothingness to everythingness. The world is his stage and he is the one actor to play them all.
For now, his journey is afresh as it had been for quite some time now. Cecil's struggles to find the right timing and dedication is almost always his biggest misstep. He has what …

The Gorgeous Discus

Toxic morning in the aftermath of a shitshower of farewell. Too late, I thought to myself. The deed is done and the morrow is now.
Come back to me, it's always easy, that's what the earblasters rang to my head on the first light. My body barely even there, as if it was forgotten and left to rot somewhere in the rubbish of the studio in Three Mills. Even if things end up a bit too heavy, we'll all float on.
My humble abode is fucked up right now and the desire to retaliate is futile. My inner senses tell me something needs to be done. Not tomorrow, but today. Perhaps it is a dire task to pursue. There is nothing here worth noting except the brine smell of gasoline and radiation. The things behind me are now things of history. Something to ponder perhaps but not necessarily relevant. All that matters to me now is the next five years remaining.
Remaining, such a fragile choice of word.
Dreams, this and that. We speak of it and forget. Dreams, an opportunity to seize everythi…

Lorry of Glove

Tonight it's very clear, The time for us to drown is near, It breaks my heart to see you flying. I will always hate you, I will never leave you alive.

Harlots

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Time slowly passes by, clock strikes two and my eyes drown to my shoe. The game has yet begun, the girl has already gone. The one that got away. She shot to pay like gangrenous grey on peeling flesh.
Tick tock tick...
One last message, one last more, this whore in high dosage.
... tock tick tock tick...
The chickens have escaped from the orange yellow box and into the abyss. Where does it lead? Where do you piss?
Surprise, surprise. Little sunshine Mae. Aunt Helen is calling and she wants her tongue back. The only way she's going astray is if she meets the gangrenous grey, the girl of prey.
'CONGRATULATIONS!' she said, coiling her face into that vortex of awkward smile of hers. 'Now fuck off.' So I hugged everyone just wishing it all away.
... tick tick tick tick... tick.

The Chaos

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse  Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy,  Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. 
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,  Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain.  (Mind the latter, how it's written.)  Now I surely will not plague you  With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low,  Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. 
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,  Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,  Exiles, similes, and reviles;  Scholar, vicar, and cigar,  Solar, mica, war and far;  One, anemone, Balmoral,  Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind,  Scene, Melpomene, mankind. 
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,  Bouquet, wallet, mal…

It's summer and the saints are marching out (but not for long)

Another collapsing block and I feel a complete surrender incoming. My confined mind is losing its grip, letting slip the words that I not so long ago echoed to my own self.
'Not again,' I whispered. 'Never again.'
And yet this carousel karma bitches stronger and stronger every single day. Despite my best attempts to sugarcoat the prose I spit, fact is that other people are to blame. Creative differences, my ass.

Time to stop wondering and redirect everything instead of counting sheep in hope for far-fetched dreams

I met a brick wall today and it told me tons of things I would have never ever dreamt about.
It told me some mundane ideas of where to go, what to do, and things to accomplish. It's like a wisdom wall or something, all old and knowing, solitary and tranquil, guileless and green. It spoke to me on a harsh bass voice that vibrated throughout the space. It told me things about the spirit and how the spirits are nothing more than shallow machinations of the psyche. It told me things about archetypes and how these castings seem to attach itself to the benevolent creator. I could not respond to the complexities of its choice of words. They were much to deep for someone as fragile as my sensitivities. All I did was nod to everything it said, down to the questionable and to the stuff that sort of made sense. I squat on the floor and listened to it speak for some hours straight, moving incessantly here and there to stretch those wobbly joints. It spoke about politics, it spoke about truth…

Wimbrow, for a day, maybe tomorrow, maybe not

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn't your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgement upon you must pass.
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the guy staring back from the glass.

He's the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.

She said, 'No.' I said, 'Okay.'

She came in gunning for fishes in the sea staring at a dead watch while a crowd of salty marauders looked on. They were all cheering for her success. And this one guy stood with these people. He looked on, chewing on to his fingernails, dancing hard and deep in his own reveries. The lady drops her watch and dives deeper down into the abyss. Everyone yells her name over and over and over again even though she hears not a single word coming out of their mouths. She presses on, he sees her clearly from above; they both knew the risks involved.
He senses something unusual in the distance. A disturbance, a wave, ripples to her direction disrupting all forms of attempt to reach the destination. A hammerhead and its laser-light eyes sparkle within the dark, blue waters rushing ever faster to her location. She learns of the disruption and swims hastily downwards taking more of her breath and air than necessary.
When she could no longer seem to evade the terror that lurks behind her, she drew…

Laserlight

I've always maintained my ignorance. It is my very strength and it will serve its intended purpose as my weapon for success. Twain would have been so proud. He would have walked towards me in my victory party and left me his regards, probably a lifelong advice of more ignorance. His path is now my path. His words are now mine. Every literal translation buried deep into conscious, possibly forgotten even before utility. All I need is confidence. The will to keep my knees on its toes and let perfection slip the moment for once, que sera sera.

Dance of the centipede

Tonight is the dance of the lonely hearts’ field
Tonight the moon dances while the violent sharkskins burn
Tonight there will be no sadness only pain
For immediate purposes and hasty returns
Tonight the centipede rises and falls to the ground

Domino

The Sanctum did little to alleviate my anxieties. I woke up half-baked feeling like a nugget hanging off a frying pan. Say farewell acrobatics! Fool such as I does little to merit such clean-shaven madness. So my day goes on the usual. And when I say usual, I mean usually bad. At least it's not halfway through. But I've been here long enough to know what it is that I know.

Last night I dreamt that somebody with halitosis poked the living shit out of Billie Jean with syringes and Stanley's

To go on the record I would like to say clairvoyance has particularly been a neglected, unresolved issue that concerns me. For whatever it's worth, I fear for my gullible self, for I believe not in such things, yet I am obliged to be wary of not underestimating such a powerful, enigmatic, undefinable force.
When I was younger I hated wearing shoes due to the fear of cockroaches living inside one of them. I've never even for a second experienced such a thing let alone heard anyone experiencing this sort of absurd and paranoid idea.
One day it just happened. Just like that. I put on my shoes -- and as fast as I could flick my finger -- this tiny cunt flew out of my Nike, crashed at my carpals and oozed its way from there to the radius and almost to the clavicle before it leapt to its doom to the ground where my mighty Nike awaits. I've never been so equally grossed out and bloodthirsty at the same time in my life. But this moment proved mightily a lesson for I. 
Surely ther…

When Carl Jung visited me one evening in the sunshine

I told her nothing of relevance; only minor details, precautions, sweet impulses to show my passive aggression. This woman is as thick as a rock.
Wishing I could penetrate through her blue barriers. My reputation had been salvaged to a point of no return. The eyes of peers pierce through me even without direct contact. This is no exaggeration. The fact of the matter is that she just doesn't give two shits about me. This isn't the low self-esteem talking either. I know. You just know. You just fucking know when to stop. And I clearly should before it consumes me whole.
Now someone told me my mind is not me. I wholeheartedly agree. Even an inch of my mind's machinations, I find, are barely coherent, although manageably flexible, meticulous, and smart. The person that stares back at the mirror, on the other hand, is indecisive, immature, incompetent, bipolar, and nihilistic. Two completely separates entities both drawn together by the same neurotransmitters. Quite Jungian in…

Pandemonia

In my dream I witnessed bridges torn asunder by the wrath of my own hands. Swaying and swaying and swaying, back and forth, left and right, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, and swaying. The sky was dark by the smoke with which the torches breathe, and on the following minute an explosion so devastating the world experienced a monumental crash. All by my doing and everyone staring at me from below with vile and intent.
They rebel against the cause by which their lives were put upon.
But there was no cause.
Destruction is neither my salvation nor theirs. Neither my entertainment nor theirs. There are things that least require comprehension. There are things that just go out of the way of their course and into new velvet.
An elevator, when my best friend fell from the topmost part crevice, woke me up to a deep, dark breathlessness in bed, confused without relief. The blanket comforts from my trapezius up to the ankles, all except the toes.
The bridges I tore are back to normal, as my eye…

Reap

Infiltrators crushing in at every angle flanking at all corners We stood at the edge of the world's mightiest battle The conduit rose from its blue mystic light Illuminating the heavens with its cold, beaming might Shattering all forms of life as they please The morning comes with an early breeze But the night's shadow looms the sun still The planet's doom was all that seems to kindle In the eyes of a forgotten moccasin While a child burns feet first on dreams upon dreams Indoctrination, subjugation, limitation, dreams Rise mighty monarch and harvest
Show us what it means to be alive
Show us our hopes and dreams
Show us, show us your power Power through domination
Power through destruction

100312

Not sure about LISPA anymore. Three more months to go and yet here I am ready and willing to finally just let go. Or maybe not. The fun is no longer there. The quality of feedback diminishes quicker than we can finish the Tragic Chorus. It’s hopeless. There is no right amount of justification for what is about to transpire. All I hope is that for all the things that were left high and dry to help me carry on beyond the works of this putrid environment I am at now.
The very term ‘physical theatre’ sounds like a very enticing prospect for one such as me, who’s about (or already had) to venture into an unknown abyss of art and creation. But as I have learned the hard way, it contradicts itself with its own label. The aspects which can be traced easily to the core of the definition; the ‘physical’ aspect and the ‘theatre’ aspect. Whichever way you’re looking at it, it doesn’t have to make sense. For many artists, or for the self-proclaimed ones, the subjective point of view in all art wi…

Tragic Space

Something, or someone, inexplicable whispers vague and ambiguous words and exclamations inside me, unabridged and longing, enigmatic and supercilious in nature. There is something needed to be done, and is to be done by me alone. These whispers, somewhat incoherent, resonate a resounding translation that even though and despite the confusion, it remains adamant, optimistic, confident, as if I were involved in some sort of serendipitous conspiracy that is bound to deliver, bound to occur. Then I took a step forward in order to test this imposing force, and sighed, at the very relief of having still that freedom to think that I am able to think if indeed there was that possibility to step forward. My mind, as proof of this experiment, is still mine and mine alone. But this thing desires one thing, and only one thing, and it wants me to discover this, to find out for myself what it most likely means to be completely free. Very free. Maybe a million miles away but still free. I say my na…

To Be A Marquis of Happiness

Time never stood still as I would have wanted. Even for a second a huge difference it may incur.
The mornings stay stagnant, lazy, and unwilling cooperation lingers like oil in water.
The music enlightens the view, Man Gave Name To All The Animals, too much relaxation and not much effort pushed. Still on the buff, and strong smell clogging the nostrils from the gamma radiations.
Typical Thursday, no.
Unwashed dishes from the night before, bones and plastic glass, not a sign of productivity. Noises from the window beside me tickle, as if they drew me into the equation, into the madness of what's beyond that. What is beyond that is the goal. Two ways. Love or life.
The salty tears from her masturbating finger drip from her vibrating Mr. Pinkie. She shows me her smile again, then her breasts, and she touches them, and shakes them manically. Turns around to show her ass cheeks.
Where the fuck is my erection?
She smiles and turns towards me, making funny faces and giggling.
Flaccid. F…

Funny Tea

In her chubby face the shadow looms Tomorrow is something to reminisce However improbable or true Decadence serves like penance For those whose egos are sharp as thorns Double penetration One for the touchdown The other an anal cucumber A woman of a slut of a face There is that light It never faded out And love blooms

You flip, you flop

There is a severe lack of snowfall for supposedly winter nights recently that I find it hard to take this cold seriously, I opined in order to make a point-blank decision for footwear preferences. It's always difficult to make choices based on others miserable sense of entitlement, that certain way of telling you that you are no longer in tip-top shape as you were, that you are out of their league of fashion, and that your social life is impeded by how you choose to look or act in a certain, even if peculiar, way.

Chance Encounter

By Steel and Blood: Chance Encounter

I could almost feel my hard-hitting aggressor closing in on me from behind those bushes, intently eyeing me with devious intent, waiting for the right circumstance to attack, beefing up its strategy to catch me off-guard. In a sense I pity this creature in that I am always one step ahead of it. To think that it actually and instinctively believes that it has already etched my demise, it boosts my great pleasure to know I would not think twice of cutting its breath off its lungs. My dagger alone would make swift action of it and I'd spare it of the pain, just because I'm feeling a bit giving as of lately. This bonfire in front of me is at its twigs' end, and once it loses its luminance then I'm pretty sure the wily creature would flank me from behind.
Three minutes in, fire struggles for breath, and it begins to drizzle, killing off the very last one. My enemy steps out of the bush, drool dripping from its sharp, murderous fangs, fro…