Category Archives: Prose

Happy April Fool’s Day

I’m not in the right kind of headspace right now.

My moods are just so fucking erratic and insanely volatile that it severely frustrates me and everyone else around me that’s unfortunate enough to fall victim to my inconsiderable foulness. One moment I’m joking around with people and simply hanging around in a chill demeanour, but then someone says something petty and irrelevant that somehow gets me all worked up and then the next thing I know, I’m screaming profanities at everyone and hurting myself again for the stupidest of reasons.

I hate this, I really do. I know I’m being idiotic, and to barely any reason that’s excusable to logic, but I can’t fucking help it.

A weighted feeling is building up inside me, and it’s leaving my soul hanging itself in a teeth-gritting suspense. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like something’s changed. Something so trivial and succinct, and yet it’s shaken up my perceptions and right now, it’s screwing up my entire mentality. And I can’t even figure out what it is. I’m two days away from graduating and the results of the only college exam I took are going to be released (or maybe already is), and I’m not holding out on too much hope, so maybe it’s that. The pressure of everything, the burden of the future and the flickering candle that it holds out for me. The feeling that I should blow out the flame myself before the wind does it for me. So close to the next page, and yet I’m giving up and burning it all away.

It’s foolish, isn’t it? Acting out like this at such a crucial point in my life. My problems don’t amount to anything, so why should I keep on bitching about it? And why am I letting it get to my head? Who gives a shit, anyway? What the hell is wrong with me?

Why the fuck am I falling apart?

Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. Maybe this is my boiling point, and my head’s just about overflowing right now. Six or so years of repressing and ignoring the alarming emotions that have attacked me ought to do a fair amount of damage, after all. I just constantly feel weird and unsettled and anxious and empty most of the time, and the main distractions I have to keep me at bay aren’t even working. The endless dreaming that I contradict with my own uncertainties, the ambitions that five seconds ago I’m so sure I could reach but now I don’t think I’ll ever handle to reach for, the people around me that make me feel like shit, either intentionally or unintentionally, the self-hatred that’s so poisonous that it’s making me cave in on myself, everything’s too much. And I don’t know how to expel it from me, how to do catharsis that doesn’t involve me tearing myself to shreds, I don’t how to deal with everything anymore. I’m even considering seeing a therapist or whatever, even though it’s opposed to everything I stand for as a self-built, self-destructive, selfish person, as if I even have the capacity to do that, because I’m really going bad. And once I’m way past my expiry date, there’s no going back.

It’s always been this way, me against the world against me, and I’m a stickler for the familiar and don’t like changing things if they ain’t broke, but how could you do that if everything was already broken in the first place? I just don’t want to punish myself anymore. I’m tired and wrung out of my mind and my insecurities and venomous emotions are relentless and eating me inside out like starving, virulent parasites. I need actual help. I really, really, really need some actual help. Because it keeps getting worse, worse than ever—which after a couple of offing attempts I was a hundred percent sure wasn’t even possible anymore—and I don’t know what I might do to myself if I become insensibly irrational enough and more daring in my fool’s exploits to try to get rid of whatever the hell this unknown horrible feeling is. Who knows how far I’ll go.

And I’m fucking scared. I really am.


Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Hold On, Fall Away

Do you know
I count your heartbeats before you sleep?
I bite my fingernails to bone
And then I crawl back under the stairwell
To a place I call my home…


Hold on, she says, and her suspended voice feels like a serpentine blossom, mutinous choking thorns wrapped gracelessly around the wall of my deflated lungs’ chambers, puncturing them effectively and leaving me gasping for the air that never enters my mouth.

But I can’t breathe anymore, I implore.

Hold on, that simple phrase again, manipulative and senseless, gently caressing the convoluted scars on my wet face like quietly-raining feathers from a fallen divine being’s cast wings, the burning touch barely grazing past decrepit flesh, ethereal and gossamer.

I didn’t want to miss anything, but the wind is chafing my dehydrated eyes. So I blink. I suddenly feel dizzy and nearly fall flat on my back, reveries resting as I attempt to steady myself. Sleep would be so merciful right now.

Hold on, another rousing round to jolt back the drowsy senses of my rapidly-decaying nerves. Each uttered word is like the sweetest taste of corrupted fruit in an exegesis dream, and I can’t allow myself to swallow it anymore, even if I took the first bite of sin.

Don’t make me do this. A foreign voice breaks the muffled barrier, and I flinch in static shock before shamefully realising that the unfamiliar sound was my own. Who…who was I now?

Hold on, the conversation hits like a loaded shotgun with a chipped bayonet, bullet penetrating the back of my head and cracking my skull once, before the sharpened blade cleanly slices through my wandering brain, a merciless double kill for certainty. Bang. Crash. Slash. Crack. Death.

I’m forgetting the colour of your hair now, the dainty lavender scent that follows you around everywhere you flutter, the way your plush lips mouthed serenades that collided and lit up fireworks in my reflection; I’m forgetting the sensation of seeing you, of wanting to see you again.

Hold on, the promenading whisper has amalgamated into an earsplitting scream now, dangerous hedonism dancing in demons and demigods around my shattered ears, past my constricting throat, relentlessly waltzing in wearied circles over and under what used to be the armistice memory of you.

No—My deteriorating vision blurs and falters, cascading and collapsing in iridescent shades of gold and silver, coalescing in glistening hues of diamonds and rubies, fluctuating in pastel blossoms of jasmines and forget-me-nots, all before shutting down into that damning void of sempiternal blackness. The last thing I saw with my weakening sight was her colourless ashen eyes tear up once, twice.

Hold on…was the last thing I ever heard.


Murder the moment!
My god, I’m the serpent
I’m sorry, I can’t see
That you truly love me…

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Gloom Boys in Natural Blue

I have candy floss over my eyes, and no one can ever take that away from me.

I’m a double dare away from jumping into the clouds and getting lost in heaven, and even though their motionless lips tell me otherwise, imploring that the despondent sun will burn my frail skin and my charred cape will drag me back down into the ground, I’ll simply fly over them and defy what it means to be human.

For being an angel is not made of mere matchsticks and febriculic feathers, rather, it is the catastrophic sensation of breathing in your existence from your lungs and never letting it go, holding your oxygen in so tight that your chest will hurt, and tasting the very molecule that the wind is built up of, all before exhaling heavily and letting others share the light that passed the very chambers of your symphonic heart, and inhaling that decadent love once more like it’s the only sugar high you need.

I’ll be dancing a hundred footsteps as I reverently play the halo’s mellifluous beat around my head over and over again, but I shall never get tired of laughing and listening, and the glow never fades, the glow never coalesces into a darker retrospect of aspirations and bad habits, the glow is etched at the very back of my confounded head and if I close my eyes and wish a little softer, I can see pastel whispers floating and resonating behind my dreams, smiling quietly as it tells me fairy stories about twill reveries and acrylic oneirism.

Will you tell me that much? Will you beg in blazing yellow and speak in purple hand grenades, waking up again when the water parks detonate and soothing water splashes everywhere? This is not my gloomy lullaby meant to be kept under hushed tones and clandestine affinities, buried under the bones of ‘92, rather it is an everlasting caprice that is meant to be jubilantly shouted from the rooftops, until the nightingales and mynas and bluejays and hummingbirds mimic the colours in my eyes and echoes back a chromatic rainbow to be chased.

Am I not making any sense, or is the semblance of my self-optimistic throes withdrawing like violent ocean waves? It is not their fault, and it certainly isn’t mine. It’s yours. It’s all yours. This nonsensical tirade making me backlash the usual defamation that is my wretched soul, making me passionate for what used to be desert sand and black light, now efflorescent flowerbeds and ultraviolet ecstasy, making me smile and laugh childishly at the most fickle of things like a madman staring limerently into the cornflower moon. You let a playful cyclone into my bedroom while I was sleeping, and it ravaged my closet and spun me all the way to your window until I was sickly dizzy, and you held your hand out to steady me and pulled me in, winking cheekily at the cyclone and returning its breezy grin before waving it goodbye.

Now that I’m here, will you promise to keep me? Airplane conversations and clustered entertainment isn’t enough to leave me amused. Are you laughing at my sadness yet? Are you performing odes along to me mournfully singing about the underhanded depression that makes me mad all the time and fucks my worried flurried mind up when the night is young and makes me go down the long road home? I’m a car crash that you can’t ever look away from, and I can’t ever look away from you. But don’t follow me to the site of the wreck. If your favourite set of stairs is the one up to my room, piece together the trail of love notes I left in the kitchen that say it all, and when you find me, I won’t ever have to let you go up. Let’s be lucky people, you and me.

Amid tantrums and crybabies, you’re nothing but rare. I may not be a warrior and you may think I’m the worst, but I know I don’t have to sleep alone again. So won’t you stay awake, stay awake for me? If you’re singing about la-la-la-love, my tune is more to the beat of a la-la-la-lobotomy. You’re my yellow lovely jealousy, in natural blue and viridian green memories, I’m losing my mood in a late night phone call, shading everything else from silver to pink to hiding under porches and craving territorial phantasms, it doesn’t matter. My common sense is powerless when you speak, and I’m not royal but I’m stupid for you, and 11:11 can go away because I don’t wish for anything else. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s be tired together. It’s more fun that way, don’t you think?

I have gloomy clouds over my eyes, and only you can ever take that away from me.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Ash & Tongue

Ash is just a word, but why does it taste so ironically bitter in my mouth? Does it hurt to say it, because the conflagrating embers originated from my pharynx, tactlessly ignited after I accidentally swallowed phosphorous nitrate and it corroded against my sandpaper throat and set me on fire? Who would kiss a person with a mouth this filthy? Even the most affectionate of mothers turn their backs away from my chapped sooty lips, bleeding of halitosis and ashes and lies lies lies.

There it is, that word again, pulling my voice under hell and waking me up when I’m having the sweetest dream in my acerbic existence. The exit signs are glowing softly in delicate overtones, yet my bloodshot eyes perceive it as an uproarious neon scream, blinding my eyes, deafening my sight, blackening my vision. The water’s getting colder, I’m caught up in the rip, and my footing has slipped away. I’m swimming, no, drowning in the hazy fumes, dizzy from the medication-addled ozone, and still I could not hear a single truth amid all the false accusations.

He was a man until you destroyed him. You were a girl before I desecrated you, cautiously building you up brick by chalkdust brick, all the while as I’m hiding away the solitary intention of vulgarly demolishing the body that is your temple. And it was all too late for you when you found out. Did you survive all the devastation I caused and rose up from the rubble like a newly-reborn phoenix? Or have your devout worshipers fled the havoc and left you suffocating and buried under all the debris and ashes? Ash is just a name I used to call in my sleep, but why…why does it taste so painful between my teeth?

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Let’s Get Uncomfortably Personal~

I remember the day I had a breakdown right in front of my mother.

Fun times.

So there I was, somewhere in the middle of a December afternoon, eating a nice meal while watching a really funny episode of The Big Bang Theory. Penny was unfortunately caught in between Sheldon and Amy’s awkward date, just as Howard had just accidentally gotten a robot hand stuck in his junk and Leonard and Raj were jerking him around (pun very much intended). I had been clean for over a month then, and I was rather bubbly and fervently hopeful that I could last until the end of the year and also hopefully carry it over all the way to next year and beyond. Things were fine and I was content in my quaint personal bubble of space, that is, until my mother decided to intrude upon it and pop it effectively.

There she came, parading in ostentatiously like she owned the place (well to be fair to herr, she did partly own it) as she grabbed the chair next to me and sat down. As usual, I didn’t acknowledge her existence and carried on with my life, munching on food, occasionally snickering at Howard’s helplessness and Penny’s exasperation. But upstairs, things were getting louder and a situation was drastically escalating and coming to a head as my two bickering sisters shouted at each other over some petty problem, most likely about someone borrowing someone else’s clothes without permission or whatever, or something else just as equally-stupid as that, because they’re but mere simpleminded troglodytes who squabble incessantly over articles of clothing like that even mattered in their lives or everyone else’s. I didn’t give much of a crap, I mean I was used to the noise of a thousand screeching amps that rivaled their maundering and sounded far more mellifluous than they are. But then, boom, my mother, ever the stand-up comedian and right on cue, said something incredibly insensitive that snapped my full attention to her.

“I get what you mean, Allen. With a family like this, I would slit my wrists too.”

Real classy. Real frank. Real goddamned dick move. Honestly, it wasn’t the first comment she ever made about my little transgression, but it was the most blatant and painful one, and it made me snap. I immediately slammed (yes, slammed) my laptop shut, stormed upstairs, and threw myself on the bed. And then I cried. Like a fucking idiot with stupid unresolved issues, I cried over such a petty unreasonable thing because I’m just a goddamned pubescent drama queen like that. And apparently my breakdown was getting a little bit too loud for my liking, because there my mother went, barreling up the stairs and zipping up to my side, radiating cloyingly saccharine concern, playing the fool as if she didn’t cause the fucking mess that I was. She asked me what was wrong, if I needed help, or medication, or if I needed a doctor, blah blah blah and all the mouthbreather’s words echoing diluted emptiness. I wasn’t surprised. After all, I had never let my facade slip before, in all the six years that I’ve had it. Literally no one in my family had seen that side of me before, that meek, sobbing, sniveling, depressed, pathetic creature wallowing slathered in his own tears and crying like a shitfaced twat. I was just careless this time. I didn’t mean to. But there was no going back. The damage was done. Of course, I just ignored every question she had to ask me, because we’ve never talked about anything this serious before anyway and what was the fucking point in starting now? What can she do to help anyway, when she’s done nothing but the exact opposite? I immediately stopped crying, and I just stayed there in that semi-foetal position, covering my red face and trying not to clear my throat or sniffling even though my nose was getting pretty stuffy, and shrugging her pretentious hand that just reeked of sanctimony off my shoulder. It was like that for a solid five minutes, before I finally felt her go and leave me the fuck alone, good riddance.

I slowly recovered from my sudden turmoil and wiped the shit off my disgusting face, and proceeded to go downstairs and get back to my show. But I wasn’t entertained. I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. In fact, the sight and sound of slapstick and laugh tracks sickened me physically. I was just so blank and numbed-out and fucking tired of it all and I can’t do jack shit about it, so that I went ahead and do what I do best. I wrote a bunch of hurtful self-deprecating things of malevolence towards my callous fucking family and maudlin confessions of severe-self hatred. About how the only promises I had to show were the ones I never kept, how it always ended like this anyway and I didn’t know why I even bothered to change, how I’m so pretentious and nobody gave a shit about the things that I felt and wrote anyway, how I want them all dead, dead, d e a d, how I want myself dead most of all. Triggers were pulled, bullets were shot, I was hit in fatal areas and sustained unhealing injuries, and unbeknownst to me, some shrapnel bounced off and actually carried over to others, unintentionally wounding them as well. But I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know shit about it. If I did, then I wouldn’t have found myself sinking rapidly in an even bigger mess that I couldn’t flail out and escape from anymore.

After I exhausted my fingers on the keyboard and filled up about fifteen or so pages of Word, most of which I never really did post anywhere and never really will reveal because they’re just 100% quality content like that (*Sheldon voice* Sarcasm?), I was done being distractedly rational and it was time to get back to the blades. OoOoOoOoh, rEaL eDgy brooOooOOo, you goad mockingly, but go to hell and bite me, I’m simply saying it as it is. Goodbye clean streak, you have been fun while you lasted, but good things never fucking last, and I learned that the hardest way. But slash slash slash, never mind the obvious details, I’m pretty sure ya’ll are getting real jaded with all that natter so I’ll kindly skip over it; and an hour later, therein sits a proud paling painter with a horrible grotesque masterpiece, if you may pardon the unnecessary grandiloquence. Sixty-eight cuts all over my arms and legs, and I don’t even know why I was counting them. I’m just naturally pathetic and disgusting and bored like that, I guess.

After which, I washed my face and my skin, took deep breaths and closed my eyes to finally compose myself, and I had my earphones plugged in and was going to zone myself out to earsplitting music screaming fuck the rest of the world and telling me that I’ll be alright somehow, literally the only things that were keeping me alive at that point. But then I suddenly heard my mother underhandedly whispering upstairs to my siblings about how poor Allen cried his eyes out and that something was seriously wrong with him and they don’t know how to deal with him, and it made me feel more derisive amusement than anger. Sure fuckers, just gossip and chatter among yourself ignorantly because that’s all you can do, brag endlessly like you can somehow solve this puzzle, like I’m just a nice little mystery wrapped in a pretty pink bow, ready for you to figure out and turn into a masterpiece. I mean bitch, what the fuck can you even do, breathe at me? And then you’ll think I’ll somehow magically transform into one of you, you happy little munchkins who look at the world everyday with much love and vigor and say “oh my, how grand!”, with a biased mindset and will mercilessly brainwashed into your cruelly ironic family manifestos? Because I would rather kill myself than to force myself to fit into your square ideologies that you shove down my throat that make me choke and retch.

Pardon this rant. Honestly, I don’t really know why I’m writing this down. Mostly it’s because I need somewhere to vent, and this is the only place where I can clear up misunderstandings and elucidate things to those who will never give me the chance to explain, and this is simply the closest thing I have to making them listen to me. Also, my anxiety attacks have been growing worse and more frequent as of late for some reason and it occurs at the worst possible times like family dinners outside, and my family is giving me shit for wasting food and being so out of it and calling me a “downer” and a “killjoy” (and not the cool MCR kind either) and is basically downright pissed at me for having a dysfunction that I cannot control even if I badly wanted to myself. I even got screamed at by my older brother in the middle of a mall with a very verbatim “fucking bitch” for accidentally wearing his clothes without permission (seriously, what is with these vain assholes and their narcissistic obsession over clothes?!), which is the most conversation he has ever had with me in my almost 18 years of living with him and I could say from experience that I would rather he shut up and never speak to me or acknowledge me ever again, and I’m so glad that he’s back in his college dorm now so I don’t have to put up with his obnoxious selfish douchey ways anymore.

And I never really talk about my family directly, do I? It’s just dirty potshots every now and then dressed up in syrupy words that obscure the true intentions, but now it’s time for me to stop lying to myself and sugarcoating everything, and wow do I have so much shit to say that I’ve been straining to keep in all this time, and see how it all comes overflowing out of me right now like burning magma from a volcano. ‘Cause this goddamn family ain’t all it’s painted out to be. They can be a bunch of wretched, pretentious, arrogant, self-absorbed pricks that sometimes, a very tiny sliver of sometimes, are okay and I can tolerate, but they’re so problematic and insufferable and most of the time I can’t stand them at all. Believe me though, when I say that I have tried reasoning with them. Today I even straight-up told them upfront that I was feeling anxious back then and tired not really right, but they just sneered at me, blamed my faulty circadian rhythm and health habits, and finally went straight for the jugular and condescendingly suggested “then you shouldn’t have come with us then”. Wow, real fucking helpful guys, I’ll keep that in mind. If they can’t understand the simplest of explanations all shacked out for them in layman’s terms, then I don’t know how to put it in terms that they could fully understand, and I’m just about done trying. Disown me please. I don’t care anymore.

It’s my father’s death anniversary tomorrow. They’re planning to go to church and eat out at some fast food chain after, and I’m going to use the tireless excuse of “we have research tomorrow all afternoon” (in reality I’ll just be hanging out at the library all day) to get out of it, because I don’t want to be there, and if they don’t want me there, then it’s best that I do them a favour, get out of their way and let them revere themselves shallowly over their illusion of a “complete happy family”. They’re all slowly pushing me away, and I’m withdrawing in return and pulling myself further from them because that’s what they ultimately want anyway. Sorry dad, but shit’s screwed since we lost you and there’s no changing it anymore. I always tried to convince myself with the reasoning that my family isn’t that bad compared to all the fights and dysfunction and domestic abuse that other families receive on a daily basis, but worst or not, they’re still a terrible bunch making me suffer a lot and there’s really no making that better.

And as a final unnecessary thought to lighten up this…whatever this is, just today, I accidentally dropped my green pen in the middle of the highway while crossing the street and it mercilessly got ran over by vehicles. I could do nothing but watch helplessly in horror as it cracked audibly and shattered into a million tiny plastic pieces, the last thing I wrote at the back of my notebook (“search: half-life 2 cheats”) being condemned to be its final swan song. The now-deceased pen still lying sadly on the road, still being ran over by cars and buses and motorcycles without any remorse, was just a nifty representation of my life at that point. Things had started out optimistically great for that green pen, and hope was its word. That is, until, the ball had dropped. Or rather, the pen had dropped. If that pen thought it was going to live out a long fulfilling existence, well, shit happens and it got crushed. There is no salvation for the pen anymore. What a nice reminder for me. But oh well. Guess I could get a new one. Can’t do the same for myself, but hell, life’s just funny like that.

(And yes, I just soliloquised and lamented over a 20-buck pen. Get used to it)

In conclusion, fuck this family. Fuck the word and everything it stands for, because it’s all just a bunch of bullshit some sentimental sap came up with to enforce an outdated virtue that no one wants to follow anymore and to excuse unreasonable behaviour of class-act jerks whose degrading behaviour runs in the blood. Fuck my life. And fuck this year, screwing me over barely a month in. You keep doing you.

((We will now return to your regularly-scheduled program k thanks))

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Chase Atlantic

For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.

Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.

There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.

How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.

I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.

For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Of Bards and Boulevards

I am a poet, and I am here to tell you a story.

But, be forewarned, for I do not narrate. I simply leave mischievous glimpses and equivocal fragments for you to pick up and stitch together on your own. I do not wish to be straightforward; for the better adventure is surrendered on a vertical highway. Instead I provide narrow twisted paths and interminable dead ends, unhelpful road signs and perennially blinking broken traffic lights, confusing directions to nowhere that will lead you to everywhere. It is solely up to you to decide where you shall end up, whether it be a populated city with brightly glowing billboard lights, or a dark narrow alleyway with a fetid corpse abandoned under the dumpster. The exact same steps taken can lead to either one at any given time. The travel is truly yours to pursue, and I am merely there to provide you with what scant counsel you might require, and even then, my offers of assistance might be questionable, and the information given will be more misleading than useful. For I am a poet, not a mere storyteller, and my intricate words are your only guide, your sole map and compass in this discordant infinite chaos of a universe that I have created. Never take them as they are, and pray caution, for they do not want you to arrive at your destination. And neither do I.

I am a poet, and I’ll tell you to get lost.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose


Sometimes, things break. Sometimes I break them and I’m unable to fix them anymore. Sometimes I dream about the mistake that I’ve done for consecutive weeks at an end until I decide that a hundred sleepless nights is better than being forever plagued by fucking nightmares. Sometimes, people notice the madness I’ve become and tell me to simply let it go and move on with my life, like that would be magically effective somehow. Sometimes I listen. Most times I don’t. Sometimes I don’t say sorry even though I caused an irreparable amount of damage, and I always get blamed, which is only fair sometimes. Sometimes I promise that I’ll change and replace what I can, and clean up the mess that I made. But that never works out, somehow. Sometimes it hurts me to see what I’ve done, and sometimes it hurts other people too. I’m always fucking things up constantly, and some of these sometimes are gradually turning into an always. Though sometimes, in a very blue moon sometimes, I fight back and rise against it, defeating the odds and putting back what I broke, fixing what I can, saying my apologies, being the better man, going against myself and everything I’ve always been. And when that happens, sometimes I’m actually happy. Sometimes, I’m stupidly hopeful. And sometimes, I think that I’ll always be okay.

But I never am.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Mary’s Counting Dead Sheep Again

Mary had a little dream
Her eyes were blank and cold
And everywhere that Mary went
The beasts were sure to go…


Another night spent where there’s nothing but wasted thoughts arbitrarily presenting itself behind my star-sewn eyelids, slaughtering and slandering what little is left of the fleecy drowsiness that I stared the myriad astral bodies into. Horizons blend from honeysuckle sunsets into a velvety-rich midnight, every jaded memory and faded remembrance lying somnolent on my bed, and activated by the flick of an overused lamp switch. Nondescript chagrin is pressing softly at the back of my inundated throat; later on I’m aware that this force will grow until I begin to choke and fail to intake oxygen. For now, I exhale tiredly. The weight of the world trails behind my breath and sinks in the disturbed dust, kicking up old resentments.

I feel vexed. I shouldn’t be trusted to live up to the chimerical expectations that everyone has written down for me in indelible ink, as if it was the byzantine code that would unlock my stubborn rusted heart if they sharpened their blunt needles and tattooed it under the layers of my diaphanous flesh, into my clenched and straining muscles. It hurts, doesn’t it? The bared grins sneer unsympathetically, claws holding me down with incontestable strength, and it’s all I could do to complacently nod, cautiously wary of the glinting guillotine that’s dangling only inches away from my stiffened neck. I’m merely a plaster-cast mind, deranged and cracking under the pressure of the tattered cassock’s final judgment, and someday they will unsheathe me and mock my abstract art.

Despite the vainglorious efforts, painstaking hands filling in the voided gaps with purified liquid gold won’t fix me. It may look to be a desirable effect; yes, and perhaps it would do me good to have a little bit of luminance in the bare, simple vessel I questionably call my body. But in the end it’s nothing but a deceitful playact, an illusion of smoke and mirrors, fragrant cerise roses beneath the ravenous mucilage monster waiting for dear sweet Mary to reach out her delicate hands and get her cherry blonde locks entangled in the lethal thorns. And I do not wish to be darling strawberry-cheeked Mary, adored and oh-so glorified by everyone, yet playing the unfortunate lifeless victim in the end. I won’t be the one being grieved over, I won’t be at the receiving end of the sword; rather, I’ll be the merciless hand holding the ax and wiping the poison off her pallid blue lips.

And where does the verdict of the counseling jury lie, staring down upon me condescendingly with my indelible inked-on vices and gaping neck wounds from grazing the guillotine blade and the inevitable tempered gold patching up my shattered bones, as I hide the bloody murder weapon behind my back and cross my broken fingers, still tasting little Mary’s most saccharine sin and feeling the prickling sensations dig deep into my engraved palms? Will they immediately claim me guilty? Or is my goading charisma enough to get the edacious wolves begging for my forgiveness to save the hunt for another day? The questions hang from my pastel ceiling dreamily, yet the answer rests in my lurid nightmares, I know. I know. For now, I hold my breath and slowly close my star-sewn eyelids, counting the wasted thoughts dragging into another night spent and another soul selling out. One, two, three, four, five…


…They followed her when she woke up
She woke up, she woke up
They crept into her fragile heart
And made its beating stop.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

The Game Played Right

Is there anyone who can make me see?
Help me breathe
Is there anyone who can make me feel alive inside?
Sink or swim is all I know tonight
Well take me to the bed, it feels so right
Wake me up…


I keep on lying. The silent pieces remain unapologetically in my lips, melting and melding together and apart, clashing like shades of blue and gold, until my smiles are mutated and my bated tongue is in shreds. Fear is an embrace I’ve learned to take upon myself, selling myself short to it, buying away the final remaining original thoughts I’ve slaved over in myriad sleepless nights until I’m a-la carte. Change is to blame for the causeless effect, and I’m asking for more from what can’t be taken away from me, cutting corners and targeting the contrition with a bolted gun, as if that would solve my problem. Would that open the deadlocked box of hope, containing those transient reminiscences of what used to be faith, keeping my wrists from giving itself up to bladed handcuffs and abrading ropes?

No, because it’s been open all this time. I’m merely pretending that it’s fully out of grasp, stuffing the sunshine in a pocket with a hole, then feigning remorseful surprise when I grasp the cloth and fail to feel its reassuring outline. I won’t get away, just as the moon can’t break away from its cruel mistress, no matter how hard it tries. Dependence requires sustenance, never mind if one’s getting hurt, never mind if one’s just wasting time and lightyears, never mind that there’s someone who sucks on the cigarette and there’s one who gets snuffed out in the ashes of its former companions, and both are slowly dying with each harmful, addicting, nicotine drag. Perhaps it’s better to move on, burn my house down with the lighter, and stab a flag on top of a desolate mountain, letting the frigid Arctic breeze pierce my lungs, reminding me that I’m dead inside, day by day, every single night.

Yes, the truth hurts worst when you’re lying on your back in a hollowly-carved bed, watching the tick of the sagging clock draw frowns on your dripping beige ceiling, the crude notches on the bedpost your only substitute for a calendar, not even the gathering dust on your windowsill keeping track of your blunt existence, but is that really such a bad plotline to read into? After all, I’m a mere instrument of conflict, and if I do not fulfill my function, I have no point, and dull instruments are of no use to anyone but the junkyard. So, what’s the point but pointlessness? What is there to release from arrogance, from selfishness, from egocentric human needs and desires, shallowness sucking away the will to speak in freedom, constantly starving for lust and lusting for starvation and dying from either loneliness or hunger in the end?

Give me that. Give me an answer that would morph my vulgar counterfeit laughter back into a purely genuine jubilance, give me a reply that would wash away the contracting fallacies in my conflicted mind and make my craving lecherous soul finally taste the decadent truth, give me a statement to swim in and sink under as I ponder deeply upon it and spend all my cashed-in stars to figure it out until I may finally repose in peace, give me an oratorical rhetoric that would drag me out of the hands of the angels in the ambulance and shock my heart into sinus rhythm, give me something, anything at all that would set this hellish perpetual carousel in a dead jolting halt and wouldn’t throw me off the cutthroat ride, give me—give me what I want. Yet, is what I want really what I need?

Never. Because in this reality, the parallel cruelty prevents any chance of a perfect alignment or even a destined intersection between any limits, and it’s all we can do to keep walking in the thin line and keep a painful positiveness, because backtracking to the negatives would devour us whole, render us irrational, and count us as impossible. Yet, despite knowing all of those and sharing such meaningless contrivances to the eyes that refuse to perceive and the ears that refuse to listen, I still want you to lie to me. Lie to me until your lips are mutated and your bated tongue is in shreds, lie, lie, lie, until the wrong turns right, until forward becomes backwards, until the truth is the ultimate lie, and I’ll gladly do the same to you. After all, we’re just doing what we need to do. We’re just doing all we can do.


These self inviting auras
Made me bring out the sun
Your body’s played its role
It’s ruined my game
And now I can’t believe I’ve done it
But somehow I still feel
But I still feel, so far gone…

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose