| my giggles are clueless |
[31 Jul 2005|02:51pm] |
I make philosophies of self-absorbance, but the knife told me to cut it away and throw it in the fire.
I am a part of the waves, stealing the colour of the sky to disguise as my own, to claim myself blending in.
I imitate the cemetary night, of the visitors quietly wishing under the black threads to open out and dig the graves of their longing.
I found and old clockwork piece, with it's jagged ends to the day which my bones had pushed my heart out.
I crept away from the fingernails reaching for the skin, emitting a strange conspiracy feeling to not to mend myself.
I will create phrases without extemporary details, without designated thrills, without conceptual rushes.
I won't take another wrong step again; my feet will make a diversion with my gaze on the ground to not to fall down.
So you passed by with my eyes stealing a gaze without the money to pay the departure ticket. Am I that happy with the travelling with the short visit? My plane has begun to make alternate bendings around the distance, and so far, my shape hasn't reach yours.
After I opened the window, I am a room with messy beds and opened empty notebooks. Of journals and letters returned to sender at any purpose. Of a massacre for the neutralization; a riot of personal. In jars with angry candies for desperate measures. I walk through the dirt of materialism with a sense of uncontrolled neutral gaze. The sense of the need to be lost is in a conflict, and it makes my foul mouth frozen. So let the limbs be soft and not enhancing the robotics of me. It's time for me to break out these wires and metal to feel how it was again. The sense of the tingle breathing through my blood, not the oil for me to move.
I still won't make first steps, I still won't spend the time yet. The discovery needs some time to be polished, and I fall as my own prey. You won't be harmed yet. I won't start writing letters with "Dear [yourname]" for now, until I have the sense of realisation.
|
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| this is a pointer |
[23 Jun 2005|12:25am] |
Famous accidents building sky-
scrapers; implicating the lost. M
ay his roses kept inside the
coffin. To give a gratitude for
leaving nothing [nothing is
peculiar.]
The hymn enraveled what was
the oldest thought of humanity;
a mere style with no substance.
Something that makes the
hands fold apart into the grasp
for the eqilogue - conversing.
Communicate the road. M
ay it break down and be bu-
ried under the debris of the
falling cells from his nails, S
cratching through his skin to
reach his dead beat. For
noting that the ribbon will
be cut off.
The architecture of the expe-
rience makes the theatre
entertaining. Like a desolate
speaker, to hung himself by
his words, of distorted
lies. The roses he got -
the decoration for the coffin.
So give a minute. Give ano-
ther master plan. Tell the
way again, trigger the ink
and push the tip right under
the skin! Scream out
on the smooth skin, tell every
morning is not welcomed!
Shed some shades, crawl
into the coffin,
and leave, exit the last exhale.
|
|
| interior perspective. |
[19 Jun 2005|07:50pm] |
I had my tongue locked
in what seemed twisted hallways
to collapse over riddance
; Riddiculous!
I'll have my wires tieing knots
and at our limbs are no control.
Have I told you that I'm obsessed,
to carve, to act, to dance
with such biological manners.
Hustler, hustling away,
make my bones quiet
and make them reproduce, eating themselves up.
Inflate the walls, emerge
explode into forged knives.
All aiming for the pump.
I breathe in.
To have my hopes choke on good company.
With your capital letter of your name
rolled forever to cut my half.
To submerged in your fucked up chorus.
To joke myself.
My conscience will lie next to you, and lie to you with a rose pinned at the heart, pinned deeply down;
and bleed like your knuckles. And I'll bask in your blood, like my oxygen tank will be cleaned up any moment soon.
|
|
| Planes : 01b |
[16 Jun 2005|03:10pm] |
Strings of the guitar crashed into each other, scrutinizing the sense to inhale something beautifully crafted, and sadistically melancholic. The windows were left open, ajar, leaving the wind rushing in to find it's shelter. And it breathe out the air of beer and sweat, of lies and truths, circling around the room just to leave a sensleess trace, with no one to bother with. A band of voices not to be heard, and nobody wished to take it into consideration.
He left his soul back on the stage, and all he came back in was his own plastic shell, a shell with just nails and screws holding on together, and yet just waiting to be taken off. But by next morning, he will put it all back, and acted as if he is brand new. A fabric waiting to be cut, and to be sewn again. Just a toy. And all he did was on the dirty brown sofa, 'the old hag', and covered up enough for the cold he swinged his legs, waiting for an arrival of the next passenger. And he still have the delicate hairpiece, to hide nothing, to disguise him bare, in order to get money.
An order. The sound of the doorknob twisted, footsteps and murmurs and exchanging glances. An exchange of something to pass the time, an exchange of something that is forced. Blackhole, greed, it's his job.
Fuck money, fuck satisfaction, fuck time, fuck the passenger.
No one was breathing on that night. The office building across his room has their lights off, and so are other windows around him. Everything was still, so disgustingly still when he was the only one who was awake to try to throw away what had happened. Not to recollect everything. All he needs is a place to stay, with a non-memory of whatever that had happened, with a memory of a non-existant event so strong that he would never wished he'll be in another place. Just a programme to delete everything so easy, with just a blink of the eye.
But he has to suffer the tears. No one had really wanted him, not even those who stand under the title of Mother and Father; those who stand as his Guardians; his Relatives; his Lovers; himself. And all he did was to let out tears as he curled up, with a body of regret and malfunction, a body searching for it's own right place. He had never stand on his own philosophy; he had to serve under others. He only had to be covered by the air around him, with the particles of emptyness sucking his skin. And he had to drink everything in. The passer bys, who came with their gluttony, just stopped by to have their dinner. And he feed them. He just let them lay their fingers on him, and he shut his mouth to let him clean from the business. It's for his current employer's benefit. It's for their satisfaction. Who cares about his own desires: he deleted it, and he has no reason to rewrite it.
He reached out for the shirt that was resting on the chair next to him. The shirt, in his hands, had lost that scent. The only memory that he keeps, the only memory that he never would let go. The only memory that has kept him alive, that made him feel like he would never have anything else for absolute. The only memory that made him got up, with tears travelling down on his cheeks, and made him take the risk.
The wind came rushing in, and he got the message: "There is no space for love anymore."
|
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| black tempered. |
[18 May 2005|12:39am] |
This was done during my Physics paper. With a simplistic tune, and the mews of a cat behind me.
The glass is full of smudges
From yesterday's track
of impertinence to
invade my black-tempered
black cat.
To call me of a law
against the tide of redemption
my obsession, your vision
let's have our tea at the back.
We cradle our bodies in
soft silk and scream,
"Are we serene?
Or commonly obscene?"
I put my necklace on your grave.
& I hold my whisper,
& let the blue moon unfolds
to speak for itself
about this faultered ego.
and I say, "hey muffin,
I'm falling and I'm grinning."
To call you, save you, touch you
On what our stories unfold and
lust in control; to my black
black cat, I am your collar
hanging on your bones. Black
black cat, I'll feed you
and hear your tone. Black
black cat, don't mess with your
fur, your claws are speaking,
reaching my skin, I am
dreaming, oh this is such a pain.
The glass is full of smudges
of tomorrow's lack
Of conversation, I am certain
I am waiting for your deck
to land on my black-tempered
black cat.
And took me out of my window
to caress the dirty clouds
You're telling me nonsensical
strings of words
And break my necklace, &
dig the glass into your grave
and feel your heartbeat
tearing away; to my black
black cat, here's your dinner and I will stay. Black
black cat, let me stroke your neck and daze. Black
black cat, just sleep on my
leg and start purring, and
press your claws and
take the pain.
|
|
| cold lava. |
[12 Mar 2005|10:35pm] |
I live beside a cantankerous volcano.
In certain times, it splurged out inconsistent alphabets, morphing into a bad symmetry of judgements. And I am trapped, in that lonely village of woods and fears, & forsaken.
I closed my ears from the Howl, I closed my eyes from the Glare. Mr Belly Gerent took me out,
drove me out of the Klaus Trofobik town to ensure that in sacred times, I would stop sticking my arms out so I could fall.
I am flying with the winds running by towards my face, with my hands reaching for the graveyard. Without pointed toes,
without any inquisition, I stepped and say hello to what was left, Be Nign. Oh! sir! I traveled from far, in order to what I despise to wrapped me up in it's tattered cloth!
Are you being fair? I often hid myself in the shelves and shelves of transparent knowledge, so insecure, so true and yet everything was intentionally fictional.
I tumble! The needle connects the thread to what I am not!
I have seen it's muddy water,
Bearing the concept of producing something good, something new, but unoriginal? Are you playing with my mind's reputation?!
"Traitor", it cries.
"You have embraced what's left of us, we take you in, and you will help us to be a skyscraper. You are the typewriter, we are the best-selling novel.
You sew us up with quality fabrics and colours, and we are the fashion of the season."
You played with our cheques!
I am chained and I can't go any further.
You promised us that I'll get a big step to go further.
We are Your servant, and 2 years, we will be another's, we will be Theirs.
In His game, we are minor characters, our ribs will break in time to meet the center
of the cantankerous volcano.
|
|
| lullaby ___ oi |
[03 Feb 2005|08:23pm] |
"My red paint likes the cloth
it saves me from impulsive judgements
and it doesn't let me go from
these darling baby dreams I have
I have stored it in this old closet
and I dowanna let the rats have it for lunch.
I kept it hidden behind the doors
until the crack spread through the ice
and everyone will drown in.
"My porcelain mask is temperate.
I hid my glass spines under
water under waiting,
exhaling and submerged lanterns
blind me with ferocious glares.
I let a jellyfish giving me
pain.
"Oxygen where are you?
It's nice to meet you,
it's nice to co-operate
but when were we so frustrated?
Please don't leave me.
Oh come back and teach me
nightlife, north pole, blackout.
Converse and frenchkiss.
Manipulative."
Loud speakers are overrating us.
Elaine, the water's getting cold now. !
|
|
| great work, ugly graphic text! |
[03 Jan 2005|03:37pm] |
|
The walls are orange. Not my favourite colour, it's so desperately garish; I can't think of me being enwrapped in such. Now heavy type prints are taking control, taking the precious time enslaving us to what will be left like dust. I drink this, for what's better, (or for what's worse? Particles will be eaten) for reputation's glory, damn I will follow suit soon, raise my head up high among copies. This is all so senseless, so not thought provoking, individuals are behind electric barb wires.
Aren't you tired, dear? Every year those sentences were being repeated again and again and again, and you are so immune to this. And you are so great at faking it. Have you consumed your pills? Have you threw up all of them? Have it glides through the atoms just to be locked out of the gate?
They forced us! They forced us!
Money forced you! Money is evil!
I see misspellings. You don't do us any good, sir/madam/mr/mrs/miss/whichever you prefer. YOu had us in the corner, but your black eyes prove that it's the other way.
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| the penchant. |
[30 Dec 2004|10:57am] |
I have never feel the fake winter chills leaving kisses on my bare neck (it was covered with black threads, but now those might have been another's posession), but I never have the feeling for wanting something warmer. I don't have any string to hold on to, or being dragged, I have never even touched what was meant to be the most desirable feeling, either.
Probably being immuned to the flaws of loneliness, my face has never been able to carved any true statements. Drones, drones, drones, chemically done like some sort of mechanism. Better of as a robot, programmed, better of making seductive eyes to things remained. Better of as an autumn tree losing all it's leaves, with it's skeletal branches reaching out for what looks like nothing.
I have never been able to churn out long sentences with so much human attributes to spare. Consoled my conscience and yet my furthest agreement would be about how I have never meant to be what I aimed to be. Speak up, probably, the worst mistake I have never done. It came as harsh and in fast motion, hurriedly rushing by to it's (none)destination. My dear, we are solid ghosts. Our inability of walking through walls are their inability of savouring the meal. But we are invisible, in any parts, we are invisible without eyes closed and we will fall without any notice. We will be held up high but with our whole body covered in ashes and stain, our eyes will steal the sky, and we have no more shelter for our rag hopes.
|
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| the surname. |
[25 Dec 2004|01:12pm] |
metallic cultures washed over plastic gods
like rusty holy paints dripping
and stating a fantasy in the ice box,
"happiness is a concept,"
and compassion over fashion
like rumours are meant to be friends
so trustworthy it's time for us to run.
the repulsive caring is expensive
like glitzing glamour on the sidewalk
ready to suck your skin,
ready to cut your veins and
build an arch for mechanic religion.
chemistry dissolves, really.
purging delicacies of wanting to
cut you open,
gore, massacre dreams
over this candlelit romance. really.
we're here for dinner.
|
|
| strands |
[16 Dec 2004|11:04pm] |
sultry late evenings over maladjusted archways
blankety spines travelled along the bridge
my sun, what have you done?
this doesn't belong in the upper mines
like whiten charcoals decorating your teeth
and scrap books of coulds of narcissism.
Neil Gaiman's words barely travels into my spine
but infections of paperlife, my guards are down
into his spell like creepers marching through
my veins.
My land doesn't call for winter,
but the clouds have a frailty wish
and miracles is in ther positive vibe
by calling the winter sky to
pay a visit to the homeless weatherland.
|
|
| Planes : 01a |
[27 Nov 2004|02:13am] |
I decided to make a new novel. Teehee. & I really do enjoy having feminine boys in my stories. HMMMM. YAYOYIIII haha ok bye.
The nerve dropped it's nails down & now having severe aches a strong twist left a phone unhooked. Terrible things happen at certain times, and it would be nice to listen to happy songs for once, happy songs for such a lamentation that is so fumble it couldn't stand by itself. & these lamentations had to travel through the cords, the chords. Oh how the wishes for harmonic lamentation seems so fragile, and it's so ironic to drown oneself in an emotion so fake so nauseating. But with a voice that can be a perfect disguise, nothing can really make the audience stopped and follows the soundwaves instead of the word carves.
The jaw dropped like rusty doors, and to savour such a greasey drink at the same moment is not a good combination. Is this the house? This is the house. Where lovers come and kiss under drunken eyes and fighters come and exchange physical damage, opinions under charged, under blacken lights. This plane stayed on the ground firmly without any passenger change, maybe once or twice but the ticket is a one-way ticket. The pilot stayed behind the cockpit looking inside his aircraft, looking inside to watch the reality tv stars all not noticing the entertainment they have given. The pilot stayed behind with her coffee cup being rubbed with the kerchief, again & again, with the loss of skin. Her pockets are filled with booked places, oh these short vacations can do satisfy their night well. All stayed in for just a short time where they could feel their own place. Their own seat. No money needed, really, just some jugs and some strummings, some sweet words and a messy room could do well. The nights are not meant to be sleeping in.
Here lives, a boy or a man? hiding under the bravery and vice versa with his eyes called out for delicate times. How delicate, he plays the game. He owns the game. We find smokers, we find drinkers, we find maniacs, and yet he finds for just another companion through the night. How delicate, he enters himself with others' hair closed his forehead, closed his other good intentions. How delicate, his fingers travelled the strings. Oh won't he cut himself? & oh, How delicate, really, those slurs went inside their eardrums. & how delicate, their stagnant eyes locked without any soul within.
|
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| 12 past film strips |
[19 Nov 2004|07:32pm] |
expired black surface
enhancing the faintness of captured
tree leaves and ruffled skirts
probably stiched smiles and everything
every after; turrah! rah! rah!
Paint accidents undergo serious injuries
the oil spilled & fire drills
someone's mouth was not closed.
distorted; damaged;
holy holy name of god : holy holy work of art!
a japanese would accuse me
of stealing his/her soul;
it's a nice trophy to put on display.
guarded by fragility, the
capture itself is fragile.
it's a nice advert of my eye works
focus-focusing-focused-snap! owh! fssssh wow!
I went through a yellow state yesterday
and Monday would be red,
I manipulate tight airspace & people
i manipulate the age of
nuh nuh^ti_ve ag = neh-guh-teevs
i breed coloured papers
i stopped time but the hands of clock
moves as a lot of my captures
stayed still without a sound or difference
i am proud of my hunt success
i am brave enough to steal
other lives (jewellery?)
i collect these: the ones that are
so mellow, so grand, so vibrant
so exquisite
so original ?
You should try killing the
film strips; praise the
dead of artificial living
but sometimes i harvest
the true piece without any damage
and i led it into a book
and i led it into my memorial
and i led it into my high
feelings for surreal
and i'll clap clap clap
and go to sleep.
|
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| portrait. |
[22 Aug 2004|07:29pm] |
Red satin on the stairs
loosely hung on her yellow shoulders
her smooth yellow shoulders
oh, pale, wrapped skin so tight
to hold on every particles, cells, bones & flesh & breath
every used oxygen and wasted carbon dioxide
So black stilettos tapping per beat
on the rusty stairs
per blood pump
and with a loud but solemn stare
tracing all the trails and white shadows
and to interpret everything in slow motion
and to ignore the daily misconceptions
and try to read the printed words
signifying nothing to reality
I am restless, I am concealed, and how I tried to open my little movie that involves everyone, stranger and new or familiarity and sick of it, interests about certain events under the observing walls. Our head, one day, would slide down, will lost itself in it's own imaginary mind of the mind, and we'll walk without any senses and without any dreams or nightmares, it's much better that way. Everyone is fixed to one and another by empty and without any filling lies and without any frown or any smiles, just hand in hand.
Everyone running around holding their faces
holding their truth or lies or works or prayers
from falling out
anger with compliment and sarcasm with honesty
she knows how everyone tries to run away
from being shown bare naked
without any shells to hide their desire
Even with one eye closed
she enjoys the performance of hypocrisy
with an excruciating terror comedy show
and how she would laugh to herself,
since the others are all jokers and strings on them
being pulled here and there
she close her ears from listening to the graveyard silence of the mind.
she continue reading the story of a fantasy love.
with everyone rushing through the lane without a simple gratitude for the others for living.
with the actors and actresses play the rerun of life all over again.
|
|
| the postal service. |
[20 Jun 2004|12:45am] |
|
I guess it’s all a little late now. Simplicity has never strikes as how much it bothers to even leave this town covered in bruises & dandelions blown away. The smell without any touch of realism; I’m glad there’s no motion sickness. It’s like being drugged. Carrying our own body just to get through all of this, but sometimes we don’t even know where to end, & how it shall be. Fate does not really choose itself to be with us like how you said on that one night under those stars that we have given the names of our other friends.
It was so quiet at that moment. Everything was in black and white as how it was being remembered. Or maybe that was in my part, not in yours. Often we called upon ourselves as silent observers of what revolves around us. We’re our very own philosophers, & our thoughts could not be actually held by other people. Do we actually leave them out from our idiot box? I swear that it [what contains inside this box of some sorts] has closed its eyes as well, drifting itself to its own dreamland. With such comfort and tranquility, it’s just a decoy, a trick to not to let us wake them up and be a captive.
--- That’s how it works.
Ah yeah, laughs, so remarkable and yet so naïve. Is that what are you trying to say?
Dear boy with the left grey eye and black another, dear boy with the tired movements and sharp stare, it’s amazing how you managed to wear that concealer over everything that they had done to you, with no reasons after all. I sometimes wonder how you could be so sure that he, 35479 miles or more away in a life another, would still be thinking of you. While drinking tea, or while trying on a new coloured fabric keeping him warm, but every night wishing that you were there right next to him while he slowly calls upon lyrics. Here you are closing your eyes trying to bring yourself next to him, but there you are. Standing next to me, with you black ruffled hair being blown by the wind. The same black shirt buttoned up, with the loose red tie holding upon your skin & bones. You sighed with melancholic eyes that hope it will sleep tonight.
It’s back to the drawing board. The lights are so dim I do not think we will be able to see what you are actually scribbling upon. You want it to be cold, the windows are open by an inch but by then the screaming of the children in warm black summer night already fills this room.
He hopes that you will stop taking these pills, whatsoever use it will be, it will not lead to him.
--- There is always a hope, even it is crap. Like how we could always go around in the neighbourhood right now without any worries. You know.
You are writing about –
--- A portrait of what it could be right now.
I’m just hoping he would not be sick hearing everything of this.
--- And I am just hoping that every atoms, particles, bits and pieces of him will be right here next to my skin.
The postman delivered every letter with all those scented secrets waiting to be let out. The mailbox would always be eager to receive everything. There you will be right next to the mailbox, holding out your hands as the letters should be reached straight to your touch. But all of those deserved to be in the mailbox in the first place. You and that same old black shirt buttoned up with the red tie hang upon your neck loosely. You and your eyes observing the scribbled lines that maybe could not ever be reached to him.
You do not mind me sitting right next to your bed. I do not think you think I am actually there after all. Brand New Colony is the only track being played again and again, after a long time it seems pretty hopeless to you. And everything what’s not. “Someday”, that word, you used way too much. I saw how you always walk around the room in circles. I saw how you always go to the mirror and the conversation is in circles. I saw how you always crept outside to the garden and sang the song again and again every day. In circles. Until a day the papers came and the mail deserved your hand.
Dear boy with the deep longing, finally you closed your eyes. Gone are your fake smiles and your fake appearance. For you are just a figure to cover my mind.
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