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See Jane

Jane was taught many things throughout the course of her life. Jane was taught to be a good girl to mummy and daddy. Jane was taught to say her prayers and obey what she was told to do. Jane was taught to clean herself up and clean up after herself. Jane was taught to do her straight auburn hair up in ribbons and pigtails, polish her red maryjane shoes into a dazzling shine, and wear her best cotton pastel dresses. Jane was taught to walk with proper posture, smile gracefully, speak in a soft feminine voice, and to go about with tasks in an elegant finesse. Jane was taught to learn her academic lessons well at the private all-girls catholic school she was attending, and as well as her weekly lessons about faith and God at Sunday class in the town church. Jane was taught not to play too roughly, never to join the bad flock of black sheep, and to generally stay out of trouble. Jane was taught to be polite, friendly, amiable, and to be approachable and presentable. Simply put, Jane was trained to be a perfect girl, and she was taught to love it.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was the epitome of nice. Jane was the classic textbook example of the girl next door; charming, demure, a bonny maiden with a beautiful appearance and personality, living a scripted, sterile, storybook suburban life. Jane was a starchild, excelling in everything and anything, always at her best. Jane was sociable, had lots of friends and could easily make new acquaintances. In the morning, among the company of people, she was quite pleasant, a darling sweetheart in the glossed-over, uncrutinising eyes of the faceless neighbours. See Jane greet. See Jane traipse. See Jane dance. See Jane laugh. See Jane wave. See Jane smile. See Jane happy. But alas, that was the full extent of their limited perception. To them, Jane could be summed up in positive words less than three syllables long. They could never see the actual Jane, dark and complicated. They couldn’t glare past the cracks of the well-practised façade, and take a gander at the real version that’s not made of plastic skin and porcelain eyes, refusing to see the truth of the perfect girl that barely sleeps at night. See Jane depressed. See Jane grit her teeth. See Jane scream. See Jane self-harm. See Jane feel empty. See Jane strut mechanically. See Jane do drugs. See Jane muffle her crying on her pillow. See Jane as a complete fucking mess.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was taught many things in the course of her short life. Be this, be that, don’t do this, don’t do that, Jane never learned to think for herself. Simply put, Jane was brainwashed to be the perfect girl, and she absolutely hated it. In the end, it was not Jane with the fault, she was only the innocent victim. Rather, it was her guardians, her teachers, who missed a crucial lesson that might have saved Jane from self destruction. For Jane was only taught to exist, but she was never taught to live. Teeming alongside the controversy now, the very same life enveloping death that the multitudinous attendees are currently buzzing with. The haughty crowd, all clad in black garb, then proceeds to judge Jane with whispered huffs, gossiping under thin walls and blabbering behind paper fans hatefully, shaking their heads condescendingly with a chorus of tsk-tsk’s, saying stories and telling tall tales about how Jane was such an amazing girl, it’s such a waste Jane had to go this way, Jane always seemed cheerful and no one ever saw it coming, I remember that one time Jane…, Jane will be missed, nothing but senseless argot and unapologetic bereavement. Today, everyone mourned. But today, everyone also saw an accurate glimpse of Jane for the first time, and unfortunately, for the very last.

See Jane die.

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Filed under Prose

Masochist

you’re

ruining

my

life

and

i

love

every

minute

of

it.

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Filed under Poetry

Of Detestable Desires and Despicable Devotions

This isn’t fair, no
Don’t you try to blame this on me
My love for you is bulletproof
But you’re the one who shot me…

~*~

I don’t understand any of this.

All this opposite similarity, juxtaposed like faded victorian photos in a chromolithograph pendant, an elegant display of memory destruction. Your perfect contradictions. Your earnest sarcasm. Your subtle noticeability. Your intellectual nonsense. How I fell down towards the sky for you. It’s so confusing.

You’re so confusing.

You were the aspirating medicine that poisoned me into debilitation. You were the rusty nail that pierced my discoloured skin and cured my tetanus. You were the hypodermic injection of the drug that made me so high I began to hit the ground.

You were the disease that saved my life.

You were the shadows that kept me comforted as you beckoned the monsters on. You were the darkness that provided me with light at the end of the hopeless tunnel. You were the lingering dawn that never allows me to catch the faintest glimpse of sunrise.

You were black and white, respectively.

You played the professional doctor while you tore experiments down my wrists and carved notches in my backbones. You stitched my wounds shut as you proceeded to open fresh ones. You were my ravelled bandages, and you left me to bleed out.

You were the death cure that nearly killed me.

I was invincibly bulletproof until you shot me with a guillotine. You were a modern day Midas and you turned my stone heart to gold, but you stubbornly refused to touch your own coalfield chest. You were the concentrated oxygen that asphyxiated me as I inhaled your fumes to breathe suffocation.

You were the safest dangerous thrill.

You were fire, burning empires in angry hate and providing towns incandescence in softest hope. You were water, drowning cold lungs and circulating warm blood. You were earth, burying emaciated corpses underneath with moonlight requiems as efflorescent verdancy pushes upwards to greet the ode of the sun.

You were an element that can build and destroy at the same time.

You were the ministerial soldier in a war who offered me the white flag and bayoneted me in the head as I reached for it. You were the scholarly literature that emptied my mind of all knowledge. You were the coronary-inducing suspense that never left me hanging resolutely.

You were the worst kind of poetry.

You were so singularly ironic that you could cure anaemia. I wanted to explore and extricate your simple complexities, so I can finally solve it and leave your unending mystery alone. You were killing me ever so slowly, making me crave for eternal sleep, so that when I die, I can awake to life.

You were the gravity that made me float, and I can’t pull away.

You were never a singular personality. You were murderer who cries over his victims, a mad scientist reviving the patients she killed, a lunatic lover looking for some sanity in the moon. You were a compassionate sociopath, a sinful saint, a lying candour, an innocent hatred. You were a grotesque beauty, you were eternally ephemeral, you were a cruel god.

You were an impossibility.

Most of all, you were hopelessly incomprehensible. I could research the entire world, ascend above human rationale, learn relentlessly for a thousand years, and yet I can still never begin to comprehend the very thought of you. And you are clever, yes, elegantly clever and yet so barbarously sadistic, my love. You knew I wouldn’t ever understand, I was just like the rest of them, so you walked away from me without a second thought and left me. You left me hurting emotionally and physically, you left me for good, and you left me for dead.

You are despicable beyond measure, and I can never leave you.

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The Calumniation of John Smith and Jane Doe

Let me tell you a story about a boy and a girl
A very different version than you’ve ever heard
Okay, so I’m lying, but all I’m trying to say
This isn’t about the one that got away…

~*~

Let me tell you a story

Of a boy and a girl

One who killed the sunset

The other’s feet curled

Both watched wretched stars

Crash with meteor showers

They licked nectar of the gods

And elucidated powers

Win the matriarchal anarchy

Of the obstreperous race

And the boy and the girl

Were the mascots and the face

And they chased popularity

Like spiders on a web

And anyone who gets caught

Will be devoured and dead

She was the queen bee

He was the screaming lion

They ruled the concrete jungle

With a fist as hard as iron

They solved society’s code

And clambered on other people

With sharp knives and wits

They reached the highest steeple

Forever staying to indulge

Lounging in pecksniffian glam

The boy and girl found bliss

Amidst avariciousness and scams

But their leniency evolved

And the bridges under restless

They began to grow tired

Of withholding the masses

And so their bullets ricocheted

Their crown jewels glinted

Crowds pulled them by their hairs

To obtain what they needed

It turned bloody and carnage

Habituated from vicious attacks

Their downfall shall climax

With a clean suicide pact

The boy with his revolver gun

The girl with her noose and razor

Sitting by the burning castle

“Let’s end this now together.”

But it doesn’t finish that easily

They both survived the dare

He missed his brain by inches

She bled, but only paled fair

One ended up in a hospital ER

Comatose for his existence

The other was thrown in jail cell

To waste away and lose sense

The girl escapes, mad rambling

With some floss and a bent spoon

The boy sleeps, she pulls the plug

“This will all be over soon.”

And this story doesn’t end

With a wedding and happiness

In this version, one gets killed

By the other one’s duress

Let me tell you a story

Of a stupid boy and a foolish girl

This modern Adam and Eve fable

Is no fairy tale for the sober.

~*~

Watch it from your ivory tower
Paint the sky grey, like a coward
How long you’ve got?
I can go on for hours
A sweet little tale that ended sour
My words will ring in your ears…

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Theriaca

It spread like a virus

As potent as poison

As deadly as venom

Touch contamination

It spread like plague

And hurt me like hell

But it worked a charm

Healed me like a miracle.

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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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The Towers of Santo Dominique

That letter I sent

Lost at heart

Lust—

Indited…

A floral destiny was mine to be.

Over which

Constables and

Troubadours and

Knaves and the

Jesters and all

Aldermen have

Fought over, yet

Gone, begotten by

The nary prince that

Stood forth upon the gates

Of the limestone castle

As he passed along for my arms,

Hearkened unto ballads,

Holding a mint envelope,

Hoping to be desired.

Fourscore years hath he

Travelled over glebes and

Moors for a princess

Hence he inquires now.

I refused mine hand,

Why, which sensible dame

Dares to cast even skin

For a roaming heathen

Wild eyed and contraband?

Yet; goodly as I erelong,

Forthwith his compeer begins

Persisting and pursuing

The masks that he now put

For a show of cavalry, mayhap

And severe generosity

To make milkmaids surely faint

Oh, dear sire, but not I, said we

I am a stubborn lot, I fare

And one ritual is all it takes.

So I held my stone heart

In one lithe hand;

Lightning pendant in the other

Glim of light betwixt,

And prayed for redemption.

My wishes were painted,

Yet, in a cruel djinn act

And, on the morrow

The bricks began to fall

And the rain wept in agony

As screams intertwined with

Death church knells, tolling;

Warning for oncoming doom.

Yet, oh tragedy—! Not too soon

Did it come, all too late, and

The towers crashing

Over Santo Dominique

Twisted a thousand fates

And claimed a hundred souls

I wailed in bereavement

And I proclaimed to fled

Thinking myself a wretched witch

A damnable soul, I.

But still he, braveheart,

The chivalrous gentleman,

The unfaltering prince,

He pulled me from the wreck,

As he did hundred others,

He did the work of an army,

A battalion borne to save.

He claimed with intensity,

And passion forsooth,

And calm forgiveness,

And faith in his God and I

For mine spare emotions

Yet humanity is a fragile thing

And hearts more fragile so

And two of such broke

As I realised my cruelty,

As he passed on within my arms,

Hearkened unto dirges,

Holding a tattered envelope,

Hoping still to be wanted,

That neither

The constables

Nor troubadours

Nor jesters

Nor knaves

Nor alderman

Can even begin to pertain

Yet asunder our destiny was to be.

Indited…

Love—

Lost at heart

The letter I sent.

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Souvenir Youth

Not so innocent
On the street hustling
Never be Miss America
In the backseat of a Celica
Crashing with a deadbeat
Living large on a love seat
In a small town, no scene
Turns out it was a pipe dream…

~*~

Daddy’s little princess

Moonlighting as a crack whore

In the dirty streets of LA dark

Her body is a dollar store

And her boyfriend paints her

With bruises every single night

And she cries in her sleep

And smiles at desperate dikes

Mummy’s little champ

With a joint and a tramp

And he earns his rolling dough

With illegal backdoor grow

And he hates his fucking life

And he beats up his wife

And his children are wasted

For luxuries they haven’t tasted

Little Princess and the Champ

Now that they’re all grown up

Saw the harsh reality of the world

As their innocence has burned

And it isn’t all just pink glitter tiaras

And it isn’t all just golden trophies

And sometimes they grow up to be

Just like their mummies and daddies.

~*~

Expectations
Go to hell
Prom Queen, Miss America
In the backseat in a pair of cuffs…

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B-Side: Lament (Deep Cut)

There’s nowhere to run
No one can save me
The damage is done
Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame
You give love a bad name…

~*~

Verse 1:

I’m the kind of human wreckage

That no one would dare to love

My carbon dioxide is reeking of

Rotten memories that I once had

.

Verse 2:

I’m the raging storm in a desert

A tantrum on, the whirling sands

Fighting surrendering to defeat

This uproarious rage never stops

.

Bridge:

I do love it when my makeup runs

My wounds are not meant to stun

Don’t come near, I’m a loaded gun

I’ll only hit you with fool’s lies, hun

.

Chorus:

But, oh why can’t you just leave me?

I don’t believe in a forever valentine

You fill my heart with cyanide lead

Promise me you’ll go away this time

.

Verse 3:

First time our eyes met, I shuddered

Your beady grey eyes told of a nutter

And I grimaced in my severe disgust

But somehow you mistook it for lust

.

Verse 4:

Because of you, my soul, it fears

I crash on the tide of frigid tears

Life is dark, a monochrome leer

You’re the devil, with evil sneers

.

Elision:

Novelettish words so oppressive

You’re so maudlin and defensive

You might reckon me as evasive

But it is not that I am insensitive

.

Hook:

Don’t you understand? I can’t feel

It feels like a choice, less of a will

Go ahead, laugh, at the sociopath

I’m no stranger to prejudiced laugh

.

Refrain:

But why can’t you just leave me?

You’re so blinded, you can’t see

Idiot’s drug love got you too high

I’ll do what it takes, don’t ever try

.

Outro:

It was do or die, but you took it literal

Blood drips, yours or mine, I can’t tell

You ask me one last time, hell, I guess

Let’s just get your shit over with—yes.

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Filed under Poetry, Valentines Poetry

Purple Ink (an adventure in absentia)

You accidentally slipped in purple ink and died

Because you were busy pacing, too preoccupied

Chewing nervously on the end of your dented Biro

Accentuating every last thought with a sigh hitherto

.

Upon waking and discovery, you jolt in a dazed state

Your dirt-beaten striped sneakers noisily squeaking

As you dusted yourself and held your awaiting fate

You began your unlikely journey and start travelling

.

Wandering lost upon a forestry of a wildlife mind

Every thick foliage a verdant idea finely efflorescing

Every path an untraced road of the life you left behind

Crushed carmine blossoms plucked away and wilting

.

No sense of direction. Where are you? The lunar ostentation

Pierces into your amour-propre, setting it blindingly alight

With your foolish absurdity, in bland starless observations

Of the complacent monsters you’ve yet to encounter and fight

.

Chasing after creeping vineyards, when their wine is parched

Do you understand? They’ve nothing left to give your thirsty soul

A paucity of the former, this broken forest you vainly marched

What’s the endgame to this latent excuse of a failing goal?

.

Your sanity has turned upon yourself, hordes of screaming demons

That reach for your insatiable hunger, in a lusting of the brain stem

Where’s the exit? Where’s the exit? You attempt vainly yet stumble, gone

Reaching for the light at the end of the tunnel as they devour your lumen

.

Consciousness prods at your eyes, the form of an almost irritating light

Hear an alarm of a beeping machine like a metronome and salty liquid

Your head shall be fine, you’ll recover, doctors assure your ghastly sight

Their placated shiny smiles of false relief dripping disgustingly insipid

.

You accidentally slipped in purple ink, hit your head, and yet surprisingly survived

They said it was a nice miracle, but then again, the Vatican fabulists love a good lie

For the creatures slopped their saliva all over your cerebrum, infecting you thereon

Think it a ludicrous story? Dear, you should’ve seen that slimy ink you stepped upon.

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