Tag Archives: silence

Self-Esteemed

Well, I guess I should stick up for myself
But I really think it’s better this way
The more you suffer, the more it shows
You really care, right?

~*~

“I hate myself.”

She proclaims with

A lethal smile that stung

Like poured alcohol

And it burned going down

Her twisted throat just as much

.

“I wish you didn’t.”

Replied no one with

A deadly silence that drowned

Like an empty ocean

And the pressure crushed

Her bleeding lungs just as much.

~*~

Now I know I’m being used
That’s okay, man, ’cause I like the abuse
I know she’s playing with me
That’s okay ’cause I got no self-esteem…

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Causal Events

I will be the vein you’d love to sever

From A to Z and from now to never

Akin to quiet postorgasmic drowsy

So sleep it out and don’t feel sorry

.

I’m not supposed to be the violence

Inside your bones, filled with silence

But the blood still leaves out my eyes

Like an enemy camp abandoning allies

.

I would be this crude cantankerous laugh

Forced out of nowhere, both half and half

They said that fools will never say a thing

But it seems, that’s all that they are doing

.

I could not admit to subaltern abandonment

Venom despising in a twisted-green serpent

Burn the bridges that were never even there

Get rid of the people that are caught unaware

.

I am the derelict heart with no utile functions

In frauds and lies and martyr insubordination

Like a quick temper tantrum, a five dollar sea

Swim inside me so you won’t have to be sorry.

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parroting

silence is a

distant bird

at the back

of my throat

daring to fly away

.

conversation

is a broken

winged dove

wishing to soar

yet never getting away.

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third time’s the charm (when you’re lying to yourself)

finished finished finished

did my unfulfilling day’s work

afternoon reduced to chains and shackles

dragged like fingernails into the dirt

sweating sweating sweating

baseball caps melting in diligence

and left to suffer insufferably

under the severe heat and silence

aching aching aching

temples snap like rubber bands

not in the mood for smiling

i wish my headache would understand

.

static static static

music reduced to scatters

dragging deluded spirits further

into abyssal underwater

pacing pacing pacing

the zebra crossing inch by inch

hoping that screeching tires

would run me over like roadkill

waiting waiting waiting

for the tears that never come

frustrated and sedated

feeling betrayed by the sun

.

tired tired tired

to the very frayed nerves

a day’s worth ticking down the clock

each hour a penitence served

flinching flinching flinching

at the blood that whispers taunts

set me free and let me be

let sharp edges be your miscreant

broken broken broken

by the stress that’s making out

with barbarous depression

and violent-red lies heading south

stop it stop it stop it

but i’m too numb to even protest

i’ll just fall back into a devoid oblivion

and let my weakness take care of the rest.

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Another incident in the darkness

raven hallucinations

take over furtive glimpses

of a wary glinting eye

.

the nightingales are

mournfully weeping as the

crows cackle “someone’s going to die”

.

deathly silence enveloping

thick as the opalescent fog that

obscures the most crepuscular of souls

.

all before a distant scream pierces

the infinite nightmare; and another

wandering entity is devoured whole.

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canyons

an undulating reverie

hangs heavy in the silence

past canyons abundant with sunlight

and dreams made out of cotton

.

there, beyond the intoxicating haze,

you stood.

.

my lips uttered no words

that the universe could decipher

but the midnight tide understood

what i truly meant

.

now, if only you could, ma chérie

.

but the scrupulous colloquy is bound to break

and the stratosphere rewinds again

past divine oculists and obstinate facsimiles

and beyond the desolate valleys

where no sunshine dares to embark

.

and what’s left in the end

at the very edge of such a disenchanting,

morose fantasy

.

is you, and me,

and an undulating reverie.

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cacophony

i am in severe pain

over the bedlam sounds

ringing the devil’s song

in my deafened ears

i hear them again and again

even when i cover myself

all i can ever listen to is

the earsplitting tears

.

i am in severe pain

over the bedlam sounds

echoing hell’s melody

beyond my ears, in my brain

if this is what pure silence

sounds like, then i would

rather be dead than to

have it eternally remain.

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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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A Thousand Footsteps Away

Am I following too close?
Or am I right where I’m supposed to be?
Am I a million miles away?
Or am I so close I can almost reach?
Did I do it to myself?
Or did I really mean what I believe?

~*~

I’d leave a thousand times

And promise secrets I don’t intend to keep

Leave me alone in the valleys of ache

I will sing my drowning demons to sleep

.

I’d leave a thousand times

And swear to god I won’t pray anymore

Let me be to fester in my bloodstains

Like that mattered to you at all

.

I’d leave a thousand times

To retrace what was never there

When home was just a concept

And the white walls were once bare

.

I’d leave a thousand times

And speak about this infinite silence

When the doves come cooing back

I’m motionless in my presence

.

I’d leave a thousand times

And smile a smile that’s all teeth

This isn’t an ordinary cause for celebration

Let’s raise broken glasses at my defeat

.

I’d leave a thousand times

And say the lies I’ll hold to be true

Maybe this time the retreat will be short

And the release would be from me to you

.

I’d leave a thousand times

Just to come find myself again

If the raging undertows pull me under

Who knows what I’ll discover.

~*~

All I ever wanted was the blinding
Because all I ever saw was just a name
And all I ever wanted was to find it
It’s time, I finally know just what it means
To go off the rails, to go off the rails…

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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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