Tag Archives: voice

california soul

stay young

and keep your hands on the gun

don’t move along

and stay for the night

for the dark night that bleeds

in drunken colours

away from everything else

in the picasso paintings we called home

before we calmed down

and stopped severing our songs

so break me down

break down the better parts

that make us scream in the backseat

of crashing red cars

and i won’t run this time

so run me over

i’ll tally up the torques

torture me with tiring promenades

and hand grenades

and alcoholic stories that leave my cheeks numb

and when i pass the fuck out

carry me to my door

like you never promised me before

and i’ll leave you to stare

at the closed windows

throwing brick walls to play fair

just don’t bother with praying

don’t bother me

if the burning sun persists to remind you

don’t listen to the rain

listen to the suffocating hallways

give me what you can take

and if you still think you’ll be sorry

darling, your voice is keeping me awake

so what if i forget regret?

by then i wrote all these apologies

a thousand fucking times now

until i could taste the wounds on my tongue

until my hands are dragged into the ocean

until i don’t know what it means to be alive

what does it mean to breathe?

you lacerated my lungs

and monopolised my oxygen

so i guess i asked the wrong person

and i would do it again

until you love every broken bone in my body

but do you even give a fuck

that it’s cold outside

and all my mutated veins are frozen over

into dismembered accidents

of a lifeless smile?

don’t keep haunting me, darling

texas may be forever but california isn’t

and we could only wish to swim

against inferno summers and dishwater hurricanes

parched throats like a pyromaniac

before we crash on the rocks

and end up losing our bedrooms in the sky

did you fall away?

heaven is yours to plot my demise

when we’re stumbling over west coast clubs

and deadlocked in socal lies

i make the best mistakes to choose

when you’re wearing my lipstick and i’m in your shoes

crying until the lemon groves grow

and turn our memories of encino holidays sour

desecrating sacrilegious in santa cruz

saint anna has nothing left to lose

and los angeles is chanting ooh, la la la

the walk of fame is tipsy

the stars don’t remember their fame

hollywood is getting far too busy

and we’re covered in blood in san francisco

standing by the earthquake’s fault line

trying desperately to find out

which of us pushed the other one

but i’ll remember all the disasters forever

like how we convulsed with laughter

dissecting, exploring our decaying anatomies

relapsing into recovery

dancing circles around the hospital

and never even asking what’s happening to us

as we’re dragged under hispanic dust

dizzying in spin the bottles and betting hack money

ferris wheels and carousels and vomit

confusion reassuring with promises full of shit

the happiest place on earth feels sorry

disneyland’s just a ride away

watching movies at anaheim driveways

falling asleep at the rolling credits

diving into high tide currents of long beach

until one of us drowns deep

and we hid away in sulphur kisses

poignant in mission bay high

crushing red cups in san diego backyards

digging crowns and graves in clairemont for the day we die

so hold your mouth, we’ll be fine

i’ll tell you you’ll be okay, but i would be lying

for romance, for a chance

to entrance the devils pumping blood

for a nonexistent god

for you, for me, for loveless mercy

for love and everything that’s bad in this world

you whisper “baby, i’d kill for you”

oh honey, don’t you see? i’d fucking kill you

i’d count the sugar on your lips

i’d count the stars that collide all over your skin

i’d count all the chemicals that saturate me

when you count the sand on the shore like sweeter sins

soaking me in

breaking me down

until i’m wasted on your voice

until the wine tastes cheap

and until we’re entangled

like grey cobwebs and red tapes

and starving friends preaching eloquence

like our elusive selfish escapes

so please shatter your mirrored soul for me

and i’ll paint them over in stained glass

for the hollow cathedral

we’ll murder our lusted vows in

we both knew this moment would never last

cause i loved your shameless destruction

and that was a fucking mistake

i should’ve loved everything else in your dying eyes, darling

because that was all it would ever take.

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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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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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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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sound of a ghost

Well, you know I’m a ghost 
Pull the note out of my throat 
And leave me alone 
But it’s all for you, all for you and more 
He won’t take her anymore…

~*~

a phantom voice

of chandeliers

and sugar crystals

i drink all of it in

in red and white wine

and emptied sighs

and let the starry shards

lodged in my pharynx

pierce my scream

i’ll cough out blood

and fail to speak again

for your bandaged songs

and let piano strings

marionette my appendages

until it cuts into my skin

for the sound that crashes

in a pelagic resonance

and past isles and glaciers

you’re a phantom voice

from a million pieces

of diamonds in the sky

bury the music in nightmares

and fashion a parvenu

to melt away my reveries.

~*~

Come back to my heart (I don’t care)
Come back to my heart (I don’t care)
Come back tonight, tonight…

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Disasterology 305: Dial D-E-A-T-H For Disaster

Can we create something beautiful
And destroy it?
Nobody knows I dream about it
This is my imagination…
If every living thing dies alone
What am I doing here?

~*~

If I taught you to dream, would you finally learn to sleep?

I’ll amaze you with the million stars I hide under my bed

Build me a wreck from a beauty I created but I can’t keep

You’re bad for my health, I’ll take one aspirin for my head

.

Catatonic hearts scream, from the energy keeping us awake

And shafts of sunlight beat down harsh on beautiful victims

Another unwritten telegram on the ceiling is all that it takes

For our getaways to run away, as your provenance is sinking

.

Will you pick me up if my mirror starts bleeding phantoms?

It hurts less if I pick up my pieces and drink my own venom

The words are running away from me, should I try to chase?

Clockwork temper with your contagious distractions in place

.

Will you be there when I die? Are you too caught with fame?

Are you just a nightmare? Do you even remember my name?

The acid answer would be the reason that my wineglass falls

I’m tired of waking up to a reality of answering machine calls

.

Buried close together in a shallow grave which was built for only one

These flower wreaths are choking me, cliché roses left for cliché suns

Wounds and bandages tangling, unraveled in farewell of a handshake

For dial tone sessions with your dying voice, I don’t mind staying up late.

~*~

If every living thing dies alone
What am I doing here…?
(Fuck it!) If it’s the end of the world!
If it’s the end of the world!
You and me should spend
The rest of it in love!

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A Mouse in the Kingdom of Lions

All eyes on me, castles falling
Glory, glory, I’ll rise like a one man army
I don’t wanna die without living
I can’t fight without winning
All eyes on me, I’ll rise like a one man army…

~*~

In these destroyed ruins I stand in eulogy, beating the drum

For the voice of dead angels and the harps left unstrummed

Corrupted blood rains down in blizzards of prideful torrents

This efficacious fight’s dishonour gradually refusing to relent

.

So proclaim me wrong, devour this bravery to the starving wolves

For deceit and manipulation is the singular truth I’ll boldly uphold

Attention wrought to the tumultuous voices of the silent anarchists

Uncivil battles engaging against the flames of the contrite arsonists

.

Was thus my gullible sin? Have I persuaded concentric fools yet again?

Dost I have to beg mocking demons just to return to my fallen Heaven?

False, it exists only within old locked towers, behind walls of a fantasy

Hell is a decadent salvation, the final hour’s reverence and only mercy

.

Shards of glass cruelly beleaguering my gregarious scars and wounds

Forgiveness as unforgiving as the darker repasts of the eclipsed moon

The dagger I hold is a facsimile of my humble chivalrous restorations

I’m but another violent visionary rejecting sheer valiance of perdition

.

So reap my damaged soul, for it’s already damned in sacrificial benevolence

And such tempest has defied my will, as it pilfered my crumbling innocence

Yet I shall raise my poisoned sword, nay to my chest, but to my heavy chains

In this kingdom of a wasteland I have created, only the defeated shall remain.

~*~

Even when we’re lost
It doesn’t have to mean we’re losing
I will overcome if I fight now, right now
Never fear, never fall, never giving up
‘Til you give me what I came for
I’m through with all the time I’ve wasted
Battle stations…

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Picnics in Cemetery Weather

And your beautiful boy won’t wait for you
Because he’s busy with the stars and the fame
And I don’t know why I breathe
It’s taking too long for me
Can we speed up the process please?
But show me the one I need…

~*~

Vindicated reveries I swallowed down again

Intervals of distorted depictions that harshly glow

Condescending sensations bruise my heart

Tantialising and reminiscent, yet arrogantly so

Obsequious whims that won’t let me speak

Releasing profanities in a dead language, I seek

Valiance and candour, your voice is but a faint pulse

In which I can never fathom how to exist without

Neurotic spills of pain preventing this blood overflow

Colliding your star-laced firmament with my tenebrific doubt

Emollience of your elegance, almost a kaleidoscopic song

Neverminds I attempted to hazard into a remorseful clandestinity

Truculent tantrums terrifying, as cemetery weather rages on

Forever’s not a problem for you, so I’ll wait for you and listen to eternity.

~*~

I need somebody (somebody)
Somebody crazy enough to tell me
“I will love you ’til we..”
I will love you ’til we are buried
Our bodies (our bodies)
Our bodies buried close together
Cemetery weather…

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Blood Insurrection: A Nightmare Recollection

Please, don’t take this out on me
‘Cause you’re the only thing that’s keeping me alive
And I don’t wanna wait for the down-set date
Cause I would rather end it all tonight
And if I mean anything to you
I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my mind!

~*~

Last night, I dreamed of you.

I’m haunted by perpetual visions of your flayed skin, your mutilated flesh hanging off your pallid wrists and chest loosely, bloodshot eyes staring at me in a soundless remorseful discourse. Pieces of sempiternal agony peel off your body in shredded sinews and fall intrinsically on the stained floor, crashing in cascades of reverent disdain and charlatan confessions, colliding with concrete, ringing as loud as midnight bells at a funeral, suspended leaks of scarlet contrasting dramatically with your silver ring. Ivory-washed bones prodded itself from out your mangled shoulder blade in painful angles, compassed spine breaking audibly, and your excruciating anguish reverberated throughout the room, suffocating my lungs. You were broken. Injured, damaged and dilapidated at every possible recourse. Was I wrong to think that you looked goddamn beautiful?

Your sepia eyes seemed to suck me in. They hid invisible anathema, as your lightning-stricken lips spoke fervently of an ancient tale, a dawning disambiguation unlike this damned universe has ever strung together. I was overwhelmed by every calculated idea, every lusted bereavement, every betrayed rumination and endowed sensibility that pierced and tortured that exquisitely-lacerated mind of yours, resplendent writings and rancid words accidentally getting caught in the barbed wires of your entangled sable hair and never making it past the graffitied red brick wall, leaving only tattered pieces of a squandered afterthought fluttering like scrap paper or torn body bags, caught up in fences of rusted mesh, languid and waiting patiently to join the rueful waltz of the stubborn wind. Was it my treacherous mistake to try to put them back together, instead of setting them free?

You were screaming. Your swollen metal throat was rising and falling in explosive intonations of imminent detonation and wasteland reveries, sending chills crawling like aggravated insects down my backbone. It was a disastrous sanctuary, your blessed hell perilous below, while heaven enshrouds above us like a stagnant disorientation. Songs of chronic migraines and reconciling nightmares intertwining elaborately made me beg epileptically for more, yet you never surrendered. Your fluid voice appeared to tangibly cut through me like a raging maelstrom of blades and alcohol, each exiling raindrop lethally sharp, stinging, seething, sedating, the striking precipitation more painful than the last. I am admittedly and ashamedly sinful. I have only myself to atone for my scarred mentality. Was I the renegade soldier who pulled the pin from your heart, fettered like a hand grenade between my merciless fingers?

Your calloused hands were bare and flaccid. They held no mellifluous instruments, only dead air and static asthenia. I desperately reached for them, the way I used to reach for unconscious stars but never quite make it past the horizon, yet my trembling nicotine-stained fingertips barely grazed the soles of your feet. Desire intervened with revulsion. Your liquid touch was rueful and bilious, and it clung to my papyrus skin like abrasive brier thorns on a shorn silk wedding dress. Your suspicious tears rose up in suffocating tendrils of pewter smoke, gasoline fluid flirting with pillars of a ravenous fire, and it burned words into my throat that I wouldn’t dare set loose past my tongue. The perdition was adamant and stern, glaring like a shot arrow past and through the ubiquitous veils, slashing horizontal lines and painting calamities all over my past wounds. I’ve fumbled for faith and I lost it. Is there any chance that these cicatrices would fade into discernible reality…is there any hope at all that I would recover at all?

You. You stood there silently in clashing bouts of disenchantment and contrition, staring at me hollowly, frozen in a resolute resignation, overlooking my ruinous devastation like a dystopian entity. I quailed at your omniscient presence as I huddled in cowardice in a corner, failing taciturnly in a blank stupor, vacillating on the verge of an oncoming breakdown. At that moment, time was evasive and irrelevant. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t try to stop me. You never moved. You didn’t merely murmured a sorrowful apology, your soft whisper barely audible against the clamour of the infuriated voices in my head, each interlaced butterfly letter striking me like a full metal jacket bullet and making me drop the blade out of pure shock at the impact; the one I was holding against my pulse so readily, ready to gnash its teeth through my lifeline. Death was kissing my hand flirtatiously, ready to take me in its graceless romance, yet somehow I still drew away unreasonably. My hurtling world is set on a tectonic plate, and it was set to drift apart in a crash collision, yet I’m unable to form undiscovered islands of a new beginning, for my dissolving pangaea is still arbitrarily constricted and tightly tethered to you, veering around your gravity’s reckless orbit. Your vicious disease is my apostle’s remedy, and your existence is a thread strung around my neck, needle embedded in my heart, keeping me hanging on, but barely. I’m shivering madly at your frigid soul. You’re so far away, you’re virtually a parallel dimension, yet you’re only inches away from my stuttering heartbeat. This is…this is arrogant madness. Don’t…please don’t try to save me. Why…why can’t you simply just let me go?

It is morning. I am not yet awake.

~*~

I’ve been having this dream that we can fly
So darling close your eyes
‘Cause you’re about to miss everything!
About to miss everything…

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crazy

you’re the

only voice

in my head

that i still

listen to.

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