Monday, 25 June 2012

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.

Saturday, 23 June 2012

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 the game the British wind plays? Is there some sort of sect ritual or virtual penance to endure in order to capture the placebo of understanding? That even when overcame with desire to be beneficial empowers even the finger that stuck between his anus. That lingering stink at the tip of his nostrils. That untouchable taste of dandruff flaking off his scratched scalp. Whatever.

There are plenty of desires now lost due to Cecil's incompetence, his inability to adapt to certain invaluable causes of survivability. Cena has had enough of it herself. Probably he and she both, attracted to opposite poles of agreement. His desire is to start was he's been meaning to start. Her desire is a worthy way to concede the battles. She's won and lost it all. But lost it more when she lost Cecil in an earth-shattering confrontation. The types of which are irreconcilable and blasphemous. The types of which that make God Himself weep.

If he could only poke into his anus without any severe ramifications, he would. Cena's been too supportive of that. Cecil has been too stubborn to think that life could feed him a box of chocolates now. England is his and it owes Cecil a living. But why? Simply because just because.

Cena's time is almost over, she's been too unhealthy for her own ungood. Cecil's never even bothered showing his appreciation for his dour predecessor, but deep inside him lies the only truth. Down there in the coffee shop Cena's life passes her by and a torrent of bittersweet nostalgia engulfed her thirsty soul. She is by no means perfect and it clearly shows. Her stubble fingers struggling to press a touch-screen smartphone, holding on to whatever path of short-term happiness leads.

As for the recluse, Cecil drowns himself not by memories but by a mass of tedious knowledge left and right. Not books but opinions, as he could care less for theories. This man, in search of a niche, desires not fact but a loophole. A hypocrite unlike any other. A pretentious Howard Roark in sheep's clothing, abundantly yielding the divine laws in search for metahedonism. A douchebag objectivist way ahead of his time. He comes and goes and stays and loiters for little to no return. A liability more than an asset, a cutpurse, even that and pussier, with a flesh so rotten no one would even bother sitting with in the tube. That's where he's headed, unless he could squeeze some sort of final revelation for his sickness to poor Cena in the end. He asks to himself, 'Where is she?' not because of concern but because, truth be told, his life is so irrelevant his presence barely even matters. In him there's that human loss of concept. A figment of one's delusion. The fool of fools.

But what better can Cecil do but to wait for absolutely nothing. His mind may conflict against worldly conformities but his heart burns for otherworldly creations. There is no better life than an intellectual recluse, because for him judgement is eternal. Emphasis on eternal, because it arouses him higher than any sensual seduction. Eternal, forever, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. He asks, 'Why am I so fucking poor?'

Somewhere inside the coffee shop, Cena's zeitgeist responds, 'I'm sorry.'

Well, apologise somewhere else, you piece of shit.

Cecil whines and loses control of his balance, twisting his neck as he plunges to the floor. The sound of medical siren bounces from the wall. Cena sips her coffee still, completely unawares.

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.

Friday, 22 June 2012

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, minsan talo. Kung may sagot sa tanong ko, siguro hindi na akong mag-aabala pang magtanong.

Dahan-dahang lumiliit ang anino ng kanyang likod sa aking harapan hanggang ito'y naglaho't parang salaming lumalabo at hindi na mapansin. Biglang sumuntok sa aking isipan, bakit sa lahat ng pagkakataon at swerte ay may dalang kapalit na lungkot? Bakit nandiyan lagi't nakabuntot ang opsyong ito? Bakit kailangang marunong kang alamin na mayroong mga bagay na nagpapaalala sa atin na sa bawat swerte ay isang importanteng desisyong kailangan mong pag-isipang mabuti bago sagutin upang maibsan kahit papaano ang higpit ng pagsisisi na lagi na lang nasa huli?

Tinawanan ko na lang ang aking pagkapilosopo. Sa ngayon. Mamaya-maya, ito'y babalik at ako'y muling magmumuni sa ilalim ng ugat ng aking sensitibong isipan. Nilakad ko ang daang mahangin dala ang pangarap ng dalaga na aking ninasahan. At muli kong naranasang magkaroon ng ambisyong matamasan ang pagiging nasa sentro ng tuktok ng mundo.

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 it takes, yes, alas he lacks the ability of execution.

The day prior to this day, Cecil is all but dead. Room-ridden and lost in his epiphanies, them desires to procure his Messiah complex. He lacks the fine sense of ridiculous, so he goes on to create it himself. This week was all about discovery prior to the aftermath of the apprenticeship. This week, Cecil becomes an amateur.

The first task Cecil needs to accomplish is finding the tools to remain glued to the soil down below. That is of utmost importance. Remember, there are people who desire for him to eventually fail, most of them the same ones that wanted him totally removed from public view. Well, they simply cannot, for Cecil is a man of empty ambition. Empty, yes, but ambition nonetheless. A little 'fuck off!' would do these critters some good.

Cecil prepares for his next step of the ground-staple-glue, come morrow an invitation to his health practitioner demands he be, crazy as it sounds (pun intended), unwell and of unsound mind, or else. Everything around him should be cast ashit. Now Cecil is by no means a method performer, he desires no part in shitting his entire sanity. A wise young fool once said, and I paraphrase for fucking clarity's sake, 'There are only two ways of acting: One is convincing and the other not convincing.'

For Cecil, it matters little, probably even not, in which to partake. What matters is he gets things down before shit turns to shit, given time is the biggest denominator. He certainly hopes the bag-totting bagdigger of a lawyer turns water to wine or shit be damned there will be blood. In hanar terms, hilarity: Exercise hyperbole to make a facetious point.

The effort needed must still be within reach at this point no matter how dire. Cecil here is a guy who cares so little of the next twenty-four hours, but cares enough to want to be relevant before his clock strikes thirty. This little boy of a man needs to step up his A-game if he were to compete on the iron bone. There is no room here for loitering and procrastination. There is no time for idle banter while the world awaits its feeble flaming hearts to spontaneously combust. There is no time for imbibing and flirting and fucking and babying. There is no time to fool around with masturbatory backroom casting couches and fleshy caricatures of the female art. There is only time for pen on paper. That is what a king does, to straighten and guide pen on paper and blot and spit and thrust and write! That is why they are called rulers! Puns will rule the iron kingdom! Kingdom to us all cult figures of mini-cunts. And here is the man worthy of this calling, Cecil provides all the necessary whatever-nouns-and verbs-related-to-awesome-here, for he is a king that needs no queen nor friends.

Tapping his slim-fitting trouser pockets, Cecil realises four quid is all he has to be the rightful heir to that one destiny. As he slithers his oyster card into the oyster card checker, he half-donates everything he had in order to seek a vision. He checks for his watch. It says, ten past ten, his Dr. Pepper still dripping on the other side of his shoulder fanny. This is what dreamers are made of, he thought to himself.

He arrived safely at the outskirts of a shithole of a flat wherein lies his nubile sister in tow. The late night whispers demand for the persons involved to slumber except of course Cecil. He is of the Night's Watch. Ten to ten, I need a pen, he whispers. Gathering all his bygone wits, he grabbed a pen and indulged in his habitual lurking in Quora and slept awake.

Ten to ten, the clock struck then. His eyes grew deep and spent but the intent of his visit now bears some lacking fruition. Cecil walked down the spiral polygonal staircase. A scruffy-looking man says hello. Undeterred, Cecil walks towards the clinic where the moment of truth is upon him.

Ten past ten, never again. It was all for naught. Okay, maybe not. But it was lame as it came. Cecil got to keep his sanity a little more but only for a short while. In four weeks, he shall return and report. Depression my ass, he says, who'd have thunk. Frustrated he hurries back to the shithole and out came a box full of sleep.

Saturday, 16 June 2012

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 everything we've always wanted. I think to myself, somewhere down the road there's that, not even the starting line nor the finish. It specifically fingers somewhere down. The dream of a panoramic view, a kaleidoscopic image of the self in decadence. Laughing hysterically at the things down below, the world in the palm of one hand. The only thing you could ever ask for. The experience of decadence. We all fall down.

But before that, we'd have to climb up higher than dreams are capable of. Just like a gorgeous discus.

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

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.


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.

Sunday, 10 June 2012

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, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food, 
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad, 
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation's OK 
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour 
And enamour rhyme with hammer. 
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, 
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, 
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger, 
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very, 
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. 
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. 
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual. 
Refer does not rhyme with deafer. 
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate; 
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, 
Science, conscience, scientific. 

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable, 
Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal, 
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor. 
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas. 
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine. 

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever, 
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. 
Heron, granary, canary. 
Crevice and device and aerie. 
Face, but preface, not efface. 
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. 
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even, 
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, 
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, 
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. 

Pronunciation -- think of Psyche! 
Is a paling stout and spikey? 
Won't it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits? 
It's a dark abyss or tunnel: 
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, 
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict. 

Finally, which rhymes with enough --
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup. 
My advice is to give up!!!

Friday, 1 June 2012

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.

Search and destroy