Tag Archives: late post

Ex Nihilo

Oh, but don’t you see? We’re made to destroy

Shooting arrows onto the pockmarked ceiling

Until it loses its shaky grip, and begins falling

Finding another home in the chasm of our skin

.

Creating the chaos that even god won’t decimate

The first sin and final revelation, we will recreate

Holding back the maelstrom, a cataclysm presents

With every pain and agony, the loathing we resent

.

Chasing back the darkness, like starved animals we breathe

Savages tearing apart throats to shreds to get what we’ll need

Bleeding, bruised, medicine refused, suffering keeps us awake

Or we will never stay alive under the weight of all our mistakes

.

Running away from reality, breaking in nothing as we stalled

Tortured eyes seek wandering lies, and scratching at the walls

They make signs and burn our names in the wake of destruction

That we caused with our dying hands, genocide of the generation

.

Can I just have one more, one more…can I just have one more taste?

I won’t make it, won’t make it—I won’t make it through another day

Pleading and obliterating, until all that’s left is you and I alone to die

We’re made to destroy this decomposing world of devastation tonight.

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inhale

deep breaths

are supposed to be calming

like a soothing balm

an emollient for oneself

.

but somehow it

just braces me for the quick

sharp exhales of the

oncoming pain.

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silent summers and wasted memories

They used to be the rivers
That would take us away
But now you only call me
Every Christmas and my birthday…

~*~

diving into

liquid reveries

and searching for

lost words

i could never

set past my

grievous tongue

in endless

nights of misadventure

and chicanery

rife with fondness

and hyperbole

and playful kicks

jovial as it hits

our wayside brains

though never

directly spoken

we were speaking

in a language

that only we

could decipher

leaving the rest of

the world to wonder

what amuses our

strange souls so

little did they know

we were laughing

at them all along

for they could

never understand

how these broken gears

spin and stutter

and how we turn such

mechanical gnashes

into a symphony

listening to each other’s

lilting cacophonies

until sunset hits

our bloodshot eyes

bidding us its goodnight

and i yearn for those

pastel-shade days…

of glib tongues

talking about stuff

and sheer nonsense

and insensibility

and rancid relativity

and bouts of sovereignty

in blue screen deaths

and sleep infidelity

now a distant polaroid

fettered in grey

and fragmented by time

a memory daze—

i break the surface of

my reminiscing

almost forgetting to

catch my breath

and write the words

i remembered to think

but never said aloud

hoping someone could

still hear the wind…

it was a delicate summer

and yet, rather wasted

on dead air and empty silence

that much, i know

that much, i could see

and that much, i wonder

i wonder if you knew

and i’m rather curious

why are we wasting

time again?

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Empire

I didn’t feel right then, so I

Built this sturdy iron castle

But you’d made it crumble

With a touch of your finger

And as I foraged the debris

Looking for a piece to save

You stepped over the ashes

And buried me in the flames.

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Into The Nothing

Screaming on the inside, I am frail and withered
Cover up the wounds that I can’t hide
Walls that lie between us, the saint within the sinner
I have lost the nerve but it’s all right
Carry the wounded and shut your eyes…

~*~

A temporary twinge that sets back shadows

In the illumination of a thousand stars

Exhaustion slithering surreptitiously again

Impatient risks and one-sided grumbling wars

.

I could feel my heartbeat like a dulled knife

Chiseling my heart with a steady thump thump thump

Until all that’s left to carve away is ivory spine

Break the barricade with silencers and loaded guns

.

The imbibed bourbon as heavy as indebted money

And the cold turns into an unyielding freeze

Fingers tapped, reduced to painting bloody nibs

From trite entertainment that’s built on a transient lease

.

Distractions won’t sideswipe the prior chagrins

Vanilla ice cream is tasted again and again until it’s boring

And the sweetness turns my grimacing teeth numb

Suffocating on shaky breaths and nitrogen, I’ll succumb

.

Despite the ringing laughter, something still feels rather off

I shouldn’t be aching, I shouldn’t be alienated, I should be better

But instead I feel like a small plastic toy piece on the board

And before I know it, the cards are flipped, it’s game over, and I lost.

~*~

Into the nothing, faded and weary
I won’t leave and let you fall behind
Live for the dying, heaven hear me
I know we can make it out alive…

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Static Sessions

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive…

~*~

It’s rather strange and desensitisingly nerve-wracking, standing up there with shivering knees, under the judgment of glaring spotlights and hanging magenta lamps, and past the scrutinising pupils of a million watching stars. I do not feel like my own concrete entity, merely a disheveled apparition trapped in a foreign body. The amp screeches—jeeringly, it seems. I momentarily blanch. What the hell am I doing?

Perspiring profusely, trembling hands holding the gibberish lyrics to an unfamiliar forgotten song and an impatient crackling microphone, the beginning intro of the acoustic guitar sounds like a banshee’s scream that’s prompting my knotted larynx to begin making even an inkling of a noise. Quivering, quivering, quivering; dreadful hesitation and a near-death anxiety that wrings the delirious butterflies out of my stomach in an icy-cold freeze. An infinitesimal moment of silence. A skip of a heartbeat. A suffocating breath held until it coagulates. A spill of acherontic reluctance spilled down catatonic spines before one jolts and realises in shock that, surprise surprise, my parched mouth is actually producing sound!

Thus the song proceeds, with or without me. It’s up to me to chase after it’s vivacious footsteps. My voice is no longer my own, simply a phantom illusion; I barely feel it rising up and down, strumming the musical bars to the best of its abilities. Everything tastes like stereo static; clapping and cheering amid guitar and tambourine amid the anxious symphonies I relayed. The quaint scenario tangibly intensifies into a steady culmination, vertical horizons alighting into spontaneous combustion. Steadfast certainty underhandedly replaces the oscillating nervousness within me, pastel assurance slowly seeping in my ticking aegan-washed bones and strengthening every fibre of my abandoned sensibilities.

I find myself closing my eyes and loosening my grip, my driftwood soul getting pulled in the undertows of the euphoric moment. I can barely hear my own voice anymore, and I do not hear the crowd at all. Soprano, baritone, octaves, trebles, notes and rhythms and senselessness and song, they’re all that envelops me right now, my solitary company in this madness of a world. Raging fire burns in my emotions, thawing the glaciated blood in my veins, warming up the frostbitten angels barely holding my terse heartstrings together, bringing oxygen back to my perforating pulmonary flow; and nothing else matters anymore, only me and the music, the music and I.

The interlude swells into a deafening crescendo, and my frizzling neurons go off like fourth of July fireworks, showering the sky with brilliant sparks. It’s infinity on repeat, infinity in my teeth, infinity rushing low, infinity on an all-time high. This feels fucking amazing. What was there to be afraid of? Why had I been terrified all this time of such a ludicrous notion? Perhaps if I had steeled myself sooner, my brillo-pad songs would be less abrasive, and the ticking clock would’ve been on my side. But no matter, for I shall not dwell on the resentment of the past that keeps me embrangled within incarcerating doubt and merciless agony. Rather, I will focus on the now. This is me, doing what I never dared to do, doing what I’ve always wanted to do. I’m doing this for them, my beautiful divine motivations, though more importantly, I’m doing this for me, and for me alone.

The set comes to a slowing halt, the prospect tinging me with hints of sorrowful melancholy, and the audience bursts into polite applause, but the enraptured sensations linger still; and as I amble off the stage, I still find a soft lone melody humming whimsically at the back of my mellowing incandescent mind. It’s over, I sigh out to my palpitating lungs, to my shaky footing, to my disbelieving mind, attempting to calm my frantic pulse back into a metronome lullaby. But it will never be quite over, wouldn’t it? I ponder with a secret smile. I finally found my voice. I only hope I don’t lose it again. And I can only hope so hard it hurts that I don’t keep it to myself anymore.

~*~

And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am…

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Café & Concerto

I need you like the flower needs the rain
You know I need you, guess I’ll start it all again
You know I need you like the winter needs the spring
You know I need you, I need you…

~*~

overwhelming—

the crashing tidal waves

of concerto and palatable

patisserie tastes alike

strummed electric strings

intertwining with bitter

yet dainty chocolate rumble

rough vocals like rough sketches

of rembrandt’s lost art

interlacing and intertwining

in rosaceous thorns like earrings

around my wilting lungs

and caramel macchiato sips

dripping on cherry ink.

beatbox, wind chime, cymbal

symphonies and deep bass

thrumming withing the pulse

of my heart’s sanctity

like the tick of woodblocks

guitars twanging, reverberating

in ceramic sugar jars and

lilliputian silver spoons

placed aesthetically in tables

of a checkered cloth blue

siting under ruby rotund lamps

and incandescent fairy lights

the spill of fountains and tree roots

mellowing down tired eyes that

even the most glaring of

tiny glowing screens cannot

disrupt nor ever distract—

as their helter-skelter classics

bring me back to the past

among decades and centuries

of the good olden days

sixties, seventies, eighties

losing to rustic country music

losing track of time

losing sense to the rhythms

losing languorous repasts

losing myself and finding out…

until my drink is lukewarm.

and the sanctuary of the audience

humming, clapping, cheering

in pleasant pleasantries

sweet teeth stuck in a smile

effete tastes and composition turns

crashing and colliding,

disorienting and dizzying,

blinking and blocking;

until the beat of my halcyon heart

is chiseled to the atmosphere

of that whimsical place

and i feel like i completely belong…

overwhelmed.

~*~

And every day, I’d laugh the hours away
Just knowing you were thinking of me
And then it came that I was put to blame
For every story told about me, about me…

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northern headaches

The August sky will then bare witness 
To a brand new chapter with torn up pages 
When the planets align, I can feel the gates opening 
To my courage as I proceed to run my fingers through her hair 
And forget everyone who’s jaded, ’cause they don’t matter…

~*~

sometimes i wish

that the northern lights

would disappear

at the tip of my tongue

and fade out into

blustering brushstrokes

of roseate evergreen

as if it was the words

to my seraglio symphony;

the distracting g-clef

submerged under an array

of spinning notes that dance

under the flimsy ebony

spill of the midnight breath

inhaling once, twice…

whispering woes of another

nightingale’s serendipity

bracelets interlacing the velvet

skeins of a dream that i once

lost…and i’m still losing…

i wander past vertical fields

and topsy-turvy ravines

until my footsteps are no

longer mine—to keep,

to feel, to trace with the

tip of my quill and ink

and i recede; as the nimble

mimsies that blush a vibrant

pastel on my flushed lips

kiss me a somatic farewell—

sometimes i wish that the

northern lights would never

melt and falter away.

~*~

Brash and hopeful 
That my luck will not perish tonight 
And when the overcast tries to kill me 
It’s your slow motion rain 
That falls warm on my neck that keep me alive…

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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A Trainwreck of Thoughts

My heart is pounding fast, I’m out of gas, it never lasts

Serotonin, oxytocin, we’re built for sins and late for mass

Chemical, mechanical faces, daily races underwater

Looking for god in cabarets and never searching for answers

Am I your jester? Will I entertain her? Is the sense in making sense

For a semblance of humanity, insanity, neuropathy

Endowed in chronic migraines and under castigated lies?

Uncertainties play like a chess piece, checkmate, check please

Asking the waiter for the receipt, but he never comes

It’s sympathetic…pathetic, isn’t it?

The empathy that curls and coils and churns in my esophagus

Screaming until my lungs are bruised, traumatic pain, dramatic recluse

In the throes of a black rose, petals falling in a final calling

For the tears in tantrum storming, where are we now?

Somehow…it never changes, the change rattling ranges in our pockets

Never mean a thing, but there’s a hole in your pants

And your nickels are clattering in your mind; never mind

The respect, don’t expect, crestfallen and swollen eyes, do it thrice

Without fail, without avail, without much ado about the gale

They say love was just a tale written in thorns and photographs,

Polaroids and tongues so crass, washing away the blood on our hands

Burying the body but never saying sorry, you’ll never bury the past!

Here I stand. My heart is pounding fast, I’m out of spare tires and gas

Waiting for the moment to last, waiting for the end to finish the past

Will this sempiternity ever end? Will the medication finally bend?

Will this recluse find the chaos amid the calm, will I take on such a task?

My heart slows down, and I’m waiting silently yet patiently for you to ask,

But you never show your cards, and again…I relapse.

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