Tag Archives: trash

Trying to keep busy, bee ba boo bee~


Just a quick little timelapse video with some things I recently made. I know it isn’t the highest quality or a frigging award-winning cinematographic masterpiece or anything of that sort, soz. This was literally filmed with some natural 7 AM lighting, on my phone that was propped up on a haphazard stack of books and held together by a bit of kneaded eraser, and the entire setup was constantly in danger of completely collapsing altogether if I dared so much as to carelessly move my elbow. Which was all too terrifyingly plausible, judging by how fucking cramped this small table is already. And I forgot to lock in the focus before I started, so there’s a lot of dizzying blurry bits in there as well. Lastly, please pardon my fatarse hand constantly getting in the way as I hastily mixed in the colours.

For the artwork, it’s just your run-of-the-mill watercolour painting in my main cartoony style, just a quick scribble of two of my favourite people in the world looking all goofy and stuff. It’s actually a redraw of an old drawing I’ve had pasted in my journal for over a year now, hence why the paper size (btw I’m using Fabriano paper, cold pressed, 25% cotton, 200gsm) is half as small than what I tend to usually work on. Speaking of, I’ve also had my dearest Sakura Koi set for a year now and though a bit stubborn and chalky at times, this thing is still holding up like a true champ despite all the relentless abuse I put it through and I’m rather fond of it ahah. Anywhozzles, this piece is so far away from completely done—there’s still about a thousand layers to go (though not as much as the fancy schmancier portraits thank beelzebub, those ones are honestly a headache and a half smh), but it took me maybe thirty minutes to pencil in the initial sketch and finalise the lineart, and about ten minutes to lay down these initial flat colours. I also didn’t pre-mix my palette beforehand—in usual Allen fashion—and it’s kinda hella messy for now, but it wouldn’t be my art if it wasn’t fuck-all!!! I kinda have half a mind to film the last end stages and timelapse that as well but I guess we’ll see about that…?

As for the track, bloody hell, it took way longer than the actual artwork itself. Like way, way, mikey fuckin waaay longer. Maybe a couple hours, give or take??? So firstly, I threw together a quick lofi beat with a nice looper (i had way too much fun with the filter and gater here can y’all tell), then it came to figuring out what sound bite I wanted to sample (ofc i settled with one from a metal meme video), then extracting the sample from the aforementioned video and setting the right bpm and key. And then I had to arrange the various elements I had and add some effects; first to the vocal samples, then to the additional piano and midi audio, and then finally to the overall track itself. Which also meant that I had to personally customise the fx pedals, which took some fiddling with and figuring out as well since I don’t really know jack shit about music production. But in the end, I settled for a bit of tremolo here and there on the sound bites (but not too much as to be blatantly overpowering), added some slight distortion and spacey reverb for that nice ambience, upped the gain and boosted the bass for an extra vintage ethereal vibe, and included just a smidge of compression to reduce the audio peaks and make it sound a lot more cohesive altogether. Added one last CD quality preset mix for the final mastering and boom, this piece of shit for an end product!! It’s really not the best one I’ve created so far. Or at all, by any other criteria. It’s honestly kindergarten-level simple and very stripped-down compared to my other few WIP projects and I wish I could’ve added just a few more elements to make it truly stand out—but then again, the former took days and days of relentless editing and this was thrown together in about five hours so that has to cut me some slack?? Idk but yo my fire asf mixtape be coming out soon for only $69.69 on bandcamp pls support this starving artist jk

I had no idea how much of that dumb rant even made sense to anyone at all—but long story short, I made some okay art and music thingies, they were really fun to make, I’m quite happy to waste my time with learning cool stuff that maybe doesn’t feel like too much of a waste, and I don’t really have any friends anymore nor nearby people who’ll even give half a damn about my random hyperfixations so I’ll just incessantly overelaborate about it on here instead??? That’s all thanks for coming to my TEDx byeee

Update: seven or eight not-so-quick glazes later, here’s how it looks with the flat colours fully blocked in, and then it’s finally detail and shadow time :’)

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lágrima

i cried

for the first

time in a

long time

today, and

.

the tears

are not for

me, they are

meant for

someone else

.

and the

sadness is

not mine,

only my lack

of control

.

towards them—

i wept, and it hurt,

but i could only

imagine how much

worse it was for you.

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mementos and keepsakes

pieces of you—

scattered on post-it

notes, and cute stickers,

and bright polaroids

grinning at me every time

i have my head buried

beneath my terse hands,

sitting blankly by the table as my

unsteady life starts giving in

to the inexorable collapse…

.

i think it’s killing my mind

.

but i take these little

pieces of you, and i use it

to fill in the missing patches

within me that’s making

me crash and crumble

until they render me whole;

maybe someday i could

finally return them to you, but

not without pieces of me

still clinging on to it—

.

i hope you won’t mind.

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(please never) bloom again

i find myself thinking about it

the tiny pieces that build up

each sleight of anonymity that

outlined the subtle secrets

in your unrelenting stargaze

.

and a watered-down kind of

“i-promise-never-to-tell”

.

a hint; of chamomile attraction

.

but send my best to sunshine state

because i’ll never be there to

share a drink or name with you

i’ll smoke my fantasies out instead

.

so why not just give way, like the

empty ground beneath my feet

my self-esteem tastes of

stale breath mints and no one’s

sloppy seconds, but it looks

fine from a distance—it virtually

looks like nothing next to all

.

of the tiny pieces that you picked

out of your rancid heart and

unknowingly lodged right in between

my throat, just so i would mean it

.

when i promised never to tell.

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Filed under Poetry

atonal

you’re just

n o i s e

you open

your lips and

monsters

crawl out

vile creatures

while they smile

and daffodils

bloom from

their dimples

a symphony

of synesthesia

those pretty

little strangers

and you’re stuck

singing—or

is it shrieking?—

another out

of tune lie

convince your

throat to try and

convince your

mind to die

you can study

all you want but

if the notes

don’t fit you right

then maybe

an unscholarly

failure is all you

will ever be

because nobody

wants to listen

and no ears

need to bleed

i think your voice

is better off

simply humming

soundlessly, so

that no one

will ever hear.

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Filed under Poetry

Escape Route


Who the hell are you
To make them want to give a damn
Beyond the flowers in your mouth
You’ll never be a better man

So let the burdens in your chest
Escape, you know you’ll never rest
So point the gun up to your roof
And have a taste, it’s just the truth

“Maybe I haven’t been
The best intention to you
I find it’s easier to leave
Than to guess without a clue”

It’s what they always do

You only wanted out
The way that you don’t care’s
Your escape route.


Hello and happy leap day or whatever the hell, here’s a bad song I wrote a long while back when my dumb mind was doing the big sad hurty thing again for no particular reason except that I’m a depressive piece of dirtclod, so we have another shitty unfinished song thing on an untuned guitar because I’m in dire need of some overdue fucking therapy but can’t have some!!! Sans all the nice audio editing this time because my computer wouldn’t let up so it sucks even more. This hurts me more than it hurts anyone else. Or actually both. Everyone will suffer. That’s just existence. Will I ever finish any of these??? Probably also friggin’ not. That’s also just existence. No wonder everyone absolutely hates my guts now pfft. Anyway. My lemon green tea’s getting cold so I have to go now.

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Filed under Other stuff

Dear Mexican Bean :^)

Voice like an angel wandering lost in hell

Indelible words that cut beyond the teeth

Classic candidness, gentle grin left to tell

Thorns and trickery, twisting tines sweet

Over and past, your chase makes me well

Reprised recovery to sing me back to sleep

.

Feathers and caramel skin clash in shades

Underwater elegance, a bitter promenade

Every story you tell staunches the bleeding

Nevermind forever, momentum is fleeting

To every faded reminiscence we shall cheer

Enamoured by your honesty, a soul worn clear

Stay heartfelt honey, may the tides keep you near.

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Filed under Poetry

Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from your own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combination my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, yet invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Keep It Going, We’re Nearly Out

Least I’ve been looking
Real-faced on my side
Still don’t know how
To be all in the mind
All in my mind
It’s what you would want…

~*~

You’re bringing me down

But enough is enough

I’ve got some good rounds

Now I’ll call out your bluff

.

Spit a tooth and some lungs

Minutes before it’s all over

Say they call me high-strung

But I always blow my cover

.

Just to win their way to lose

Just to dance around the noose

Just to decorate another bruise

And leave the coroners confused

.

I’ll bring myself down now

It’s a game of its own entirely

You’ve had your sadistic fun, now

It’s time for that bland apology

.

Because it’s just only fair for us

To keep our busted bones locked

When it’s all over and overdone

There’d be no space left for a gun.

~*~

Looking real spaced in my eyes
I don’t know how to be
Here all the time
You know that I was
I was ready to be alone…

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Jouska (pointless monologue)

Closed doors, locked in, no keys
Keeping my feelings hidden
There is no ease, I need it to stop
And I want to be able to open up but
My feelings are fatal…

~*~

This much, I know, we will never be alone together.

I couldn’t ever bring myself to attempt to catch up

With you; quietly fearing this trembling uncertainty of

Completely tiring myself down with the futile chase

Only to find out that I arrived in dead-set last place,

So I’ll just allow you to leave me behind instead, as it is.

It just feels like the more happiness you’re getting,

The less of you I could have for myself—and though

I can’t and won’t deprive you of the things you’ve fully

Well deserved for a long time, I also can’t stop

Myself from being such a selfish machine, stupidly

Begging for something far beyond my taut reach,

Inadvertently trapping myself and wailing in anguish

When I have to chew at my own leg just to get out of it—

I just can’t stop myself from giving a damn about you.

But I guess that’s fine. You will never find me out anyway, and

Even if short-lived and shortsighted, I still dearly cherish

What little euphoric glimpses I had of your attention, even

If it meant nothing, I only wish nothing but the very best for you,

And I could only hope that this teaches me a final lesson;

One last acrid pill to swallow, hope I don’t choke this time,

No more. I could only ever endure too much. Please. Not anymore.

The more you feel alive, the more I slowly wither away inside,

But I couldn’t hate you for that. I could never hate you at all…

It’s not your fault I keep fucking losing control of myself.

~*~

How many times must I keep it inside
I need to let go and I swear that I’ve tried
But opening up means trusting others
And that’s just too much, I don’t want to bother
So I’ll keep it inside and bury it deep
I know it’s not healthy, but you won’t hear a peep…

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Filed under Poetry