Tag Archives: delusion

so what was it that you were hoping for?

just an instantaneous reprieve

i still piss myself off with the thought

that it wouldn’t matter if i worry

you’re just a pretty name on paper

and my stuttering pen refuses to bleed

so my head does all the purging

again and again and i want it to be fine

even if i’m inconsequentially yours

because you’ll never find me out

i’m too shaded but i can’t cool it off

blindsided by your automatic ideas so

i guess i’ll apologise under my breath

every night, just before you save my

nightmares and leave the brake in

your clutch, ripped off like the breaks

in my heaving ribs, mouthing sorry

over and over and i’m not over it

i’ll never be fucking over it anyway

is that all you want? don’t even bother

i’m just the mirror you’re pointing at

and i’m just mimicking your baby eyes

it’s exhausting to let it glint all day

but who will care? you’re the best that

it gets, and i’m half as worse as i will get

and we’re all just a bunch of broken bodies

seemingly set for headfirst collision but

only narrowly missing by a sinew in the end

well i shouldn’t really get my hopes up

you’re far too clever for my cry for help

and my delusions can only cash in so much

before you’re changing your mind again

and i think for a second, maybe, oh

just fucking maybe—falling prey again

to your last instantaneous reprieve

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How To Say “Sorry”

There’s ten million ways to say an apology

But I could only count five stars blinking out on the palm of my hand

Whispering that this illusion’s grand, and I’m too infinitesimal to understand

How the world works and spins in its torque

How the skies are blue and why there’s rain in June

Why everyone lies and why people die

Why memories are memories, why angels don’t fly

Why chaos reigns in anarchy, and why you refused to say sorry

Even though I was bleeding out in front of you

And how the bruises are evidence for my allegations being true

But even without the vivid purple tattooed on my skin

I could still count every single sin

That you carved with a knife on the back of my heart

Saying you won’t end my life when you killed me with an art

Pressing down, feeling rife, tearing my veins apart

Will you still say this was simply for a restart?

For an iota of the darkest eyes you still call human

Face away from the tragedy and turn your soul to the sun

If those lips are crushed under the pressure of the truth

Fucking scream about everything, they won’t refuse if they knew

About the spinning planet, how they won’t understand it

About the blue skies and rainy day day lies

About death and regrets and how angels can fly

About memories being memories, and chaos made to create

And about how you refused to say sorry while you stood at hell’s gate

I’m at a loss for words, and everything escapes—

There’s ten million ways to say an apology

But I could only count one mouth moving soundlessly at the palm of my hands

Saying that my delusion’s grand, and I’m too foolish to understand

Against the stubbornness and the haze, that you were never one of the ways.

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involvement

i don’t deserve

the patience

and the grace

i’m but a faltering

echo of a silent

distant disgrace

stay away from my

startling ignorance

or you’ll find yourself

caught in a senseless

and endless dance

i’m delusional, manic

i’m nothing but toxic

don’t linger too long

you’ll end up getting sick.

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tipsy musical notes

So I take the long road to think and wonder
Why I can’t sleep with all this sunlight
If there’s still evidence of us
Why can’t that be enough?

~*~

five a.m. serenades

with a smile that’s built

on the colour of dawn

and a soul that’s stabbed

with voodoo needles

crying blood in the distance

screaming out the name

that it shall nevermore have

annihilating love begging

please, please, please

darling bring me back all

my quagmire stars and

never leave me stranded at

the back of your head

oh darling, please stay away

and fucking come closer

.

five a.m. serenades torturing

spinning the rotary arteries

nonreciprocal delusions

hurting me so fucking much

the cyanide in my tongue

begging please, please, p l e a s e

drown me in the madness

murder the blue moon again

to make me lust for more of dusk

and darling, oh please, please

please don’t depart this brainsick heart

without a final limerent requiem

ending with our mishap beginnings

and shove sunlight in my lungs

to keep me barely breathing

so i could feel your pain some more.

~*~

I’m guiding your chin to my lips
Using only my fingertips
All we have are parking lots and nowhere to go
If you love me, then show me more…

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The Madness of the Mortician

She’s made of hair and bone and little teeth
Things that cannot speak
She comes on like a crippled plaything
Spine is just a string…

The mortician stood in solemn vigil, as motionless as the petite corpse that lay in front of him; a body wrapped in a translucent green body bag that caught the oil burner’s dim lamplight and shimmered iridescently like pulled-off dragonfly wings. The fetid air of coalescing formaldehyde and putrescence tasted bitterly stuffy, damp and stale. On the scratched wooden table, where his instruments were also prepared and patiently waiting, an ancient radio buzzed and crackled with static; the faint echoes of a lost song playing ever so distantly beyond the veil of the curtained morgue and worming its way into the back of his head. He paid it no heed at all, dismissing it as merely white noise as he wiped his hands clean the with a sterile cloth. Outside, nightfall was beginning to amalgamate into a midnight of pure blackness that not even the most resilient of shadows can dare to permeate. He sighed once and checked his watch. Time was running. He had work to do.

I wrapped our love in all this foil
Silver-tight like spider legs
I never wanted it to ever spoil
But flies will lay their eggs…

With cautious steps taken and wary calloused fingers twitching infinitesimally like burnt moth wings, he reached out for the diaphanous body bag and slowly unwrapped the plastic, peeling it painstakingly, yet with an impatient breath held, as if it were a birthday present. But he was fully aware that what would greet his beady eyes would come as no surprise to him at all, given his work and the police records scribbled on the clipboard that spoiled it for him. Still, he braced himself. The pungent smell of decay and sour reek of death began to grow stronger, wafting nauseatingly and hanging around the stale air cloyingly, sticking to surfaces like a demented fragrance. But he was used to it. After all, he had smelled worse things on worse days. Like when he gets those damn bloated carcasses pulled out of canals and lakes after god knows how many days of fermenting underwater, half-eaten by fish and sticky and vile and overall repugnant and a nasty affair. Heaven forbid if more criminals choose to dump their casualties in the river to get rid of them. The taste of the drinking water, that’s what he worried about.

A blowfly softly landed on his hand, jolting him out of his grotesque reverie. He waved it off and continued to unsheathe the cadaver, noisy plastic crinkling intertwining with the radio static, oil burner hissing quietly, the silence growing so thick and viscid that even the perspiration sliding down his forehead could be audibly heard.

Take you hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

He was prepared for every possibility that could ever occur when he fully exposed the corpse—not that there were many of them, mind you—and yet nothing could ever prepare himself for what was revealed underneath the flimsy layer of plastic. On the cold metal table laid the lifeless body of a small girl, no more than four or five years old, wearing a tattered pastel pink and white dress, soiled knee-high socks, and only one red shoe on her left foot. Her auburn pig-tailed hair was matted and caked with layers of mud and soil, barely distinguishable from her scalp, her pallid, almost porcelain skin looking so fragile that he felt like he would break a piece of it off if he so much as dared to touch it, her gossamer lips a blooming shade of bruised lavender, and her delicate glassy baby blue eyes were wide open and staring at him accusingly.

He blanched, stumbling back for a moment, and reached for his whiskey flask to have a drink. He took a swig, momentarily glanced at the corpse, and then proceeded to drank deeply, almost emptying the flask save for a drop or two to spare. He wiped his mouth with one unclean sleeve and checked the time again. His schedule was turning a little delayed. No more beating around the bush. He must carry on. He must.

Prosthetic synthesis with butterfly
Sealed up with virgin stitch
If it hurts, baby, please tell me
Preserve the innocence…

He steeled himself, took a brisk breath that felt like daggers running down his throat and into his lungs, and with an unsteady gloved hand, he picked up a scalpel from the table and forced himself to continue working. He placed a face mask on ceremoniously with an agitated flourish, and hesitantly faced the deceased child. Let us begin.

To start, he’ll make a Y-incision in her…no, he mustn’t think of her as a human entity now, only a non-living object—its torso, pardon—beginning from the stomach, all the way to its frail chest, and pry its squalid flesh open to reveal and dissect its internal organs. Her skin. Her flesh. Her internal organs. The dead little girl, squandered at such a young age. She was young. So young and hopeful and once innocent, yet now all that youthful innocence has long since been pillaged by the metal weapon of a twisted soulless psyche, devoured and ravaged by ruthless parasites and bacteria, and the scintillas of the remaining scraps of it salvaged and gulped down by possessed, remorseless, feather-molting vultures. He shuddered at the morbid thought and nearly dropped the scalpel. His mind wandered for a moment, then pleaded with him, strung tether attempting to pull him back into a detached rationality. Do not think of her, do not think of her, whatever you do, you must not think of her…

I never wanted it to end like this
But flies will lay their eggs…

But his resolution was futile, and his ulterior willpower was immediately extinguished as the gas lamp flickered and flared defiantly, hissing like agitated serpents, brightening the dank room momentarily, silhouettes dancing fiercely on the little girl’s blank face. He shook his head. It’s but a trick of the light, a mere illusion, a worn-out mind taking negative effect—he must be growing tired. He rubbed his bleary eyes and looked upon the girl’s visage again. Devoid of life, devoid of movement. Nothing. But for a moment, to his disbelief and utter shock, her deathly ice-blue eyes appeared to blink. Both eyes. Blink. Blink.

He started with a roar and crashed backwards, landing on the floor with a dull thud and cutting his hand on the scalpel blade. Letting go of the scalpel, he stared upwards into the motionless corpse in equal parts terror and curious confusion, his heart pounding like the beat of a sovereign marching drum, throbbing head dazed and heavy with blood, breaths shallow and ragged like the edge of her torn dress. He absently held his head with his bleeding hand, smudging his temples with the glistening scarlet liquid. His soul filled with a shuddering dread. No. This cannot be happening. His worst fears, have they been finally realised? Was he regressing into what everyone had warned him fervently against? Was he…was he beginning to grow mad?

Take your hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

God no. Please, no. Stop. Stop. Stop. The piteous chant in his head was depraved and overpowered by his other detonated senses, the other discordant voices in his head, uproarious and painful to hear, as the radio static gnashed and screeched cruelly, amalgamating into a demonic caterwauling. He dropped to his knees and held both hands against his ears, trying to block out the overwhelming noise but failing to do so, for, he realised, the source was not external. Amid the clangorous dissonance, he could distinctly and vividly hear her sweet, soft-spoken, splintered voice, laughing shrilly and squealing in excitement as he spun her around on the playground turnabout, cheered her on to complete the monkey bars to the very end, and pushed her down the peppermint candy-striped slide, shouting all the way down. But the slide never ended, and the ecstatic shouting turned into a bloodcurdling scream. She was waiting for him to catch her at the end of the slide, but he didn’t show, only empty faith gone to hell, and she fell out of the mouth and collided with the rough concrete ground, skinned her elbows and knees, and cried. Cried alone in the ground as the children around her sneered at her, as she still vainly searched for her absent father that walked away from her, away from her life. The horrid mocking grew angrier, barbarous, louder. The screaming intensified. The muffled crying turned into inexorable wailing, imploring, beseeching, beleaguering as it endlessly asked him why why why why why WHY

What I wanted, what I needed
What I got for me
What I wanted, what I needed
What I got for me…

His daughter. Her crying. His hands. Her throat. His wife. Her mother. The abandoned rundown house at the end of the town street, his abandoned rundown house, infested with restless phantoms and ghosts of the visceral past, raising question marks and concocting urban legends and horror stories under hushed voices and sussurous muttering, passing it on and on and on without ado. The perfect happy family that was immediately shattered on that fateful night much like their photograph that he furiously threw on the wall, and the sharp shards choking reality, the same way the broken glass did as it caught in his spouse’s screeching throat. The fight. The madness that took over. The knife. The screams of NO. The gun. The woman. The girl. The chase. The first shot that reverberated in his skull. The slash that slit skins open and lacerated the beige patterned wallpaper to shreds. A shaky hand doused with vodka. A penultimate warning. The wrong target acquired. The second gunshot that finished the story. The end. The collateral damage. A man dropping his weapons and passing out drunkenly on the stairs. A wounded mother bleeding out and lamenting such a cursed fate with shuddering howls. And the girl. His girl. Dead. Fucking dead. And it’s his fault. Him to blame. His guilt. His conscience. His life, forever locked away in all the insanity like his confined wife in the mental asylum, and buried down along with her darling sweetheart child. God have mercy and damn me, what have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

Take your hatred out on me
Make your victim my head
You never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet…

The radio thrummed, piercing through the manic hysteria, His psychosis abruptly ended. The vivid hallucinations and insane delusions faltered back into the crepuscular room he huddled upon. The vehement tempest gradually dragged down into a catatonic still; a quite disturbing calm. The oil burner dislimned into a sombre light, flitting and flickering restlessly against the unpainted cemented walls of that frigid, haunting basement morgue. He held his breath and hitched. Breathed deeply and composed himself. Murmuring deliriously, he removed his madly-trembling hands from his ears and slowly opened his eyes in suffocating fear and trepidation. Dark morgue. Inanimate corpse. Damaged man. Distressing relief.

Lulling himself, he attempted to stand up, steadying himself against the oaken table. But as he clumsily straightened his legs, his besmirched coat sleeve accidentally snagged on the metal tray and he went down again, lightning pain shooting up his spine, the rusted clangorous metal instruments clattering dinningly and crashing down with him, and the vintage radio pulled along with everything else and hitting the ground, its tiny plastic pieces coming apart and effectively killing the only palpable sound in the room.

Take your, take your
Get up out of me
I’m not proud with me…

A subdued silence ensued. He broke down and collapsed into overwhelming contrition and mournful madness once more, this time never recovering, and he crouched there, on the verge of guilt and trauma, sobbing and frantic, face buried in his bloody hands, whispering splintered apologies amid the occasional sickening laughter that escaped his pale split mouth, as all the while his deceased companion watched with her empty glass-blue eyes. His broken watch ceased ticking. The lost song faded away. The cadaver’s lips twitched. The gas lamp hissed once, twice, and instantly snuffed out against the volatile wind, leaving the grieving mortician and the dead girl in total darkness.

I never ever believed in me
I am your tourniquet.

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sugar me bitter, bitter you sweet

It started again, claiming a friend
I couldn’t be, I’ve never been
I’m all alone out in the cold
I’ll never know, your sugarcoat…

~*~

the thousand apologies

i left past your bedroom

but do they really mean

nothing at all, for you?

those tiptoes in soaked

socks and hushed laughs

were they just tolerances

you never want to pursue?

confusions and delusions

of the deluded convolution

but was that all i really set

myself up to run and trip?

for all those wrongs i know

and the mistakes i will grow

will you never be the mouth

that distinctly explains it?

~*~

Look what you did
Suck on your lies ’til your eyes turn red
What did you say
Willing to drown in a tidal wave
Take me away
Let me believe that you’re on your way…

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Cheers And Happy Judgment Day

Oh, what a time to be alive!
Wake up and smell the dynamite
And keep your eyes locked tight to your screen
And don’t believe everything that you see
You’ll find, modern life’s a catastrophe…

~*~

Walk to the end of the world and cheers to judgment day

We’ll drink all the champagne we want and no one gets a say

I’ll wait ‘til the second coming and get drunk on criticism

In a planet gone wrong, these plans go on, it’s simple mentalism

The losers and lovers and liars all holding up their lighters

Saying three cheers to us and three cheers to all the ones that hate us

I’ll be joining the crowd and singing aloud, trying to drown out

All the screams for peace and sedated panic, they’ll end without a doubt

.

Walk to the end of the world and cheers to judgment day

Life is a game and I didn’t even know how to play it anyway

I’ll kick up the rocks, tear a hole in my socks, maybe I’ll have some fun

We’re all fucked anyhow, so why change now, we were always on the run

The kings and the clergies and the jesters tearing down their castles

Saying we almost had it but it wasn’t worth it, it was nothing but a hassle

I’ll be joining their laughter and offering some banter, trying to ignore

The things that we’ll lose and the things that we lost and the things we had before

.

Walk to the end of the world and cheers to judgment day

Count the mistakes we had, the good and the bad, and throw it all away

I’ll give one last kiss, this time I won’t miss, before the apocalypse

There’s something else worth doing in this world that’s going to ruins

For the men and the ladies, the children and the babies crying, scared to die

Their prayers won’t reach heaven, but they’ll sure as hell damn well try

I’ll be joining celebration and losing any emotion, trying to accept

We all knew this was coming, but the delusion’s better than having nothing to expect

.

Walk to the end of the world and cheers to judgment day

Humanity is done burning days around the sun, guess we couldn’t stay.

~*~

Is it just me or does anyone else
Feel like this could be farewell?
Oh, we almost had it
Then we pissed it all away
Building walls, dropping bombs
Stop the world, I’m getting off
Oh, we almost had it
Never thought I’d see the day
When the world went up in flames…

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You Better Get The Door

Wash away these memories, silent and proud
Blood won’t confirm on these curtains
Your blood, my hands, your blood, my fucking hands
Run for the hills, your strength, from the dead afar…

~*~

A moment of delusion, celestial superfusion

Wander, demand her, a second of confusion

Seven to heaven when I find the intersection

Logistics and statistics that I failed to mention

.

Broken and unspoken, for the days I set unnumbered

We’ll plan this sheer madness until we’re torn asunder

Mayday don’t you say a thing, now don’t you maunder

Relay and decay me, the taste of suffering feels blander

.

Sorry, you know me, a crack away from the brick bracs

Gave me what you saved me, and the senses that I lack

Then we’ll set up for the kill, the trigger’s left unlocked

If I leave my morals ajar, maybe someone else will knock.

~*~

Run for the hills, your strength from luck
Cut this off, and if you think you’re alive,
Then you’re better off fucking dead!

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Calypso Syndrome

It’s strange, this calypso.

I never minded it much at first, dismissing it airily as one of those Muzak or background noises that you never really notice until it becomes an unbearable itch, and only then do you start paying attention to it. But in a rather unusual case, this itch of mine grew all the more inflamed, and eventually my skin opened into bleeding sores that are unable to heal. By that time I can no longer simply wrap it with gauze and bandage and pretend it wasn’t there, waiting patiently for it to close into scars on its own accord. And the poisonous tune in my wounds began to affect not just my veins, but my neurones as well. And for a pleasantly tintinnabulum orchestration, it surprisingly hurts.

The calypso comes and goes with thrums of drumbeats and ludicrous whistling and other intertwining instruments that I am unable to disentangle from one another to properly identify, and though I must admit it’s a finessed, almost elegant tune, it’s also making me conjure the queerest of surrealistic denominations and distorted, perplexing thoughts from out of nowhere, sort of like a surrogate deconstruction, an impermeable derealisation, but gradually worse in the long run. Somewhere at the back of my mind I picture cowboys with revolver guns and Stetson hats, mounted on horses and kicking dust and desert tumbleweeds everywhere, and I’m the unlucky pilgrim that got caught by the rope and towed in their blistering lassos. But I’m not biding my time to contact lead poisoning, nor am I willing to scalp some nemesis. No siree, I shall hack away at the abrasive bonds with a silver butterfly knife, drink a round of hard liquor victoriously at the saloon, and retire by the brothel with a painted lady by my side.

What…what am I even saying anymore? This nonsensical metaphor further drives me off the exploding rocket, that musical calypso pirouetting daintily in my subconscious like a music box ballerina spinning soft and delicate in its silent gears, yet at the same time gnashing angrily like an undeterred steam train wearing down its metal tracks with a screeching discordance. The residual smoke from either grinding clockwork machines is making my head feel quite hazy and warm, to a point almost feverish, and you might see pewter whorls rising from out my ears. My bonny maiden, what have you done to my mind?

My dear, sweet, darling maiden, forgive my ideologies and spare my heart no harm. What have you done to me? Your melody is luring me in, onto a cliff, which I could’ve sworn was filled with tantric torrents of stygian waters and jagged rocks brandished mercilessly to impale me at the bottom, but now it looks like a doorway to paradise, the palest cerulean glimmering softly like a polished sapphire, a fantastic reflection of an immaculate cloudless sky, though not of the greyed hurricane skies accompanied by a foreboding drizzle, that the sombre weather has to offer today, so I haven’t the faintest where the parallel mimicked itself from. Heaven, perhaps. And if I lean in closer and dare to hang one ear off the edge, I could almost swear that your harmony’s getting quite louder, less garbled, less shrieking, more pronounced and more than decipherable. I’m almost tempted to jump right in, if only to have to listen to that perfect symphony palpably, but perhaps for even more sensible reasons as well. Or sensible to myself, anyways.

My quivering legs are beginning to dangle off into vast emptiness like a terrified child testing the cold water with his toes, and every last vestige of my dispersing sanity and gracious consciousness begs for me to back away from this dangerous farce, to catch my breath and touch my back for feathered wings that aren’t there, to shatter my delusions along with my fallen halo and walk it off, walk it off and never return. But that would be like throwing away the most decadent, succulent, most tantalising piece of fruit the entire planet has ever produced, without bothering to bite down on it and get even just a single taste of paradise, and I know once I waste it on initial hesitation, I’ll never get it back.

It’s hypnotising, this calypso…the never-ending music…that ocean of eternal aegean…this perennial phantasmic phenomena…it strains my invocation of curiosity very much…it winks at me, calls out to me, taunts and mocks and jeers at me…I cannot take this any longer…I must—no, I will know…I shall put an effective stopper to this vexatious mystery once and for all…to cease the sores from infection and haemophilic bleeding…to slash away the ropes of the rampaging cowboys…to cool down this deliriously smoking fever…and to return to my ultimate empyrean destination with welcoming arms to my elusive fair maiden…once…more.

I stare downwards at the dizzying drop as I allow it to pull me in—

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We Got That Fever Catching On

There’s a fire in my head
And it’s keeping me from getting out of bed
Take the TV, take the rest
All my riches for a vision and a quest…

~*~

I’ll hold you back

If the fever strikes

But rest assured

That these nights

Shall be mellow

As softest daisy

Cease all sorrow

For rose reverie

It’s not delusion

Simply blithe air

My companions

Would be spares

Do not turn yellow

As old bibliography

For on the morrow

You have no worry

The plague passes

Medicines battled

Retreats en passé

I will be Nightingale

I can hold you back

When fever strikes

For I am your cure

And I shall go fight.

~*~

I found out, I confused desire and control
And maybe nothing’s gonna save me
I’m in too deep, I cast the mould…

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