Saturday, 26 February 2011


The vanilla sky signified a whole new direction for longing. The despair of humanity against the severe oppression of natural science was at an imminently pending doom. The only hope of salvation lies in the form of mechanical science. But a mere mention of such suggestion only irks the majority, they who lead the masses to survival, saying it only represents a slight tinge of hope and success, even an abashed surrender, in simile, like clashing bonfire to wildfire. There are no winners, only death and suffering, more oppression and inequality including amongst themselves.

The planet has melted into chaos, a globe which was once round now became crescent from depletion. It is no longer a safe haven like once before. The word 'animal' ceased to exist, there only is an 'organism' which hardly takes up all living matters in general in scope. Only the ribald mind of a schizophrenic can this everlasting pain be minimised, an involuntary escapism to the horror attributed to the greed for ultimate truth of the 'organism' itself. From afar it seems like limbo to the hypothetical eye in the stars.

But the cry of help that echoed all throughout is finally heard.

The eye of the stars behind the shadow of a dark galaxy glided along with an army of a thousand ships headed straight for the condemned planet where an invasion overlaps another invasion. Mystery arises as to whom carries the burden of a paladin.

The sudden course which ended in self-destruction or the silent whisper in the clouds with a fist full of glimmering false hope? 

Wake up

I am awake but you're dead inside
I'm lost in your soul
I know the pain when it burns inside
It digs in my bone

Run, run, run
Suffocate me

Fable of the ant that once was

I saw an ant leading a swarm of bees into oblivion. He would reign upon them as would their queen do the same damn thing. It began what seemed like an endless road to dystopia down to a narrow path of birthright. Thus the ant proved worthy of title despite of its diminutive size. Because the lackeys knew the lust for power is tantamount to infinite potential that even the most bigoted seem to nod heads upon.

But an ant proved futile for long-term aspirations as they realised, its fragile longevity struggles to remain afloat. Power proved too ambitious for such a lowly creature. Invertebrates find reason to survive and maintain the cycle of life and death. They are neither nihilists nor existentialists, they live not for themselves but for the greater good of more convincing predators like gigantic fowls or sharp-toothed reptiles. They live to make ends meet for others, the flora and fauna, and the different types of matter and energy, and decomposition of life in general. Insects defined as pests, none fit to rule as tyrants nor slaves. They belong to a greater disposition agnostic of desire and creator.

Thus the ant's demise was largely ignored. And when the pig stood up in its place, everyone immediately noticed for a pig has a definitive reputation, a mark in creation, a visibility in animal kingdom being the only creature to prove that wit and charm caters not to the measurement of one's waist but of intellect and whim.

The ant served its purpose and faded in history, not even marked by any nor acknowledged.


Cobblestones by Cil Rand ©

Friday, 25 February 2011

Verwirrung, Ode to Friday

No expectations or regret in my shoulders. Every chaos is routine, every routine is inevitable, every complaint petty in nature. It was a blast from the realisation of the fact that the overbearing magnitude of pomposities are kept well-maintained and warm in the loving caress of fuckheads that know nothing of dedication.

My weight was heavy as I traversed on the rocky edges of the street on to a narrow pathway on the side of a bridge. The unsightly appearance of arrogance already filled the vibrant air, the stench of the dangers ahead aroused, the ignorance of the clueless abound. This world was not built for positive enthusiasm.

The weight made it more difficult to balance, my perseverance lacking inspiration searching for ways of excuse itself. I whispered to myself to calm down the sensitive nerves. All those trapped within began circulating around the circumference. There was no way out now. The spherical globe revolved around something deep and profound, in a way kind of magical but sincerely naturalistic. There was no doubt of its involvement by the way it stretches itself out into the wide, open area. I picked my feet up and arranged to speak with myself after the light dissipated, when darkness began looming in, tiptoeing from one point to another within a given set of range. Little did I know that the light was in fact darkness in sheep's clothing. A metaphorical fluke of a never-ending cycle of self-penetrating torture. I stabbed myself because of myself, because my self is no longer my self but of its' self. More discouraging I found when I realised how much the yellow colours began losing its vibrancy. Then it all began fading out and fading into black, fading into an abyss of loathing.

The caricaturisation of the human images began slipping in and then everything blurred as if there was a vortex that spoke in my behalf.  Even so my control over it remained absent. The faces were as pompous as they were without the caricatures. The humour injected on it was weak, there lies the fault of the sinner, the beginner, the winner. In fear of rejection I was rejected. They moved on and moved slow, the progress, no matter how shallow, was nevertheless part of his bearing. I demanded it back, his involvement with it will be his curse if not found the counterpart. I, in the form of another element, swam into my own thoughts giving life to what was missing, the imagination. Not a single drop of liquid remained, sucked dry, I was. My efforts were hardly given much attention. It was then that I reiterated the fact that I have held on for quite some time. The selfishness will always find steps into this vile excuse.

Striking with a force stronger than my own will the ground bear mark of my labour. Debris of disrespect fell from what they called the Verwirrung. Everyone was doing their own thing except me. It's always me that is the exception. None of them bear the mark of secrecy. Theirs was of a different recall, and then there was nothing, and then punting.

It didn't budge at all as I discovered for myself firsthand. It was over before it even began. The edifice locked itself from the outside world despite not having respected the decision made by the heroes. To them they were holier than thy, and thy was I, and I was belittled.

There was no provocation whatsoever but what followed ahead was their desire to inflict pressure into my gut. The self-harbouring angst began sucking away the bravura like an empty carapace without any amphibious lifeform that remained. I became a test subject for all their humorous purposes, and followed suit as normally do. There was no say in it, a visitor, I only was. Therefore, when I accidentally tore my appendage there was not a single fuck given that moment. My steady building desire brought forth inequality amongst the faceless voids. This was not an exercise, not an option to redo the faults, not an excuse to remain pedalled by the jester in mask. This belittlement caused me great harm internally, and I would have them burned for blasphemy in return, or fucked in the ass by an ox tenfold. These nuggets are the same faulty-wired numbnuts devoid of talent, a fault only unmasked through the absence of gab and presence of turmoil. The first opportunity of retribution was a soft bite that did not even hurt, although tiny damage has been proven at the very least. Potential was irreversible. Yesteryear was blank compared to this. There was a world of learning in full speed. The hardest way possible could be the only redeeming point in this whole charade. To learn and to suffer at the same time proved fatal, my normal balance became light in the process.

Pulled a wooden apparatus to my corner and diverted all my senses back to my mind once again. For hours on end began thinking of ways to enrich my salvation. Solace was on the form of architectural diagrams derived from aerodynamic solid matter. So then working on it more than I began working with the soul tracks of locomotion. The left leg began cracking up and mobility became more limited than ever. Notwithstanding the pain and suffering I punched through wood and paper, carefully assessing through meticulous details the centimetres and inches.

That was not my cup of sex. No more of this folly demanded from my chest down to the knee. It was time for some good old-fashioned masochistic whipping. With undergarments and shame on the line, there was no point in looking back at things now. Everything seemed dark and pink, like daze and sadness engaging in communion. It took a while to merge, and when it did it broke away into small pieces. My time was short and ended abruptly just like that. All the reasons flowing through my thick skull bounced back and forth like niggers and corncobs, unicorns and peach-mango trees.

I had to escape from this asylum. Refuge and gather enough strength to fight another day. Halted midway through the bridge, returned to whence I came. Gave rise to camaraderie for a short while. Plastic faces overlapped the previous. Every nuggets, mules, fuckheads, druggies, sluts and saints, including the faux intellectual, attended the ceremonious spectacle of nothingness.

I was there, but never there, and then wasn't there.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Cup of hate

While the lands and wind ungoverned by rooftops and warmth stay colder than sharp ice, the struggle held on by the young boy ventured on while continually suppressing his inner desires to break free from the clutches of barbed relationships. Every morning he normally wakes up as any consistent student would do to brush his teeth and take a shower in preparation for class.

His life is as meaningless as a rock on solid ground. His earnestness is penetrative but weak and dull. His idea of a utopia is absurdly disjointed. His mark in the world has already been charred black in history, never to be talked about and remembered. A convoluted memory of mystical propaganda.

The security nods at his appearance as he passes the front gate. 'Him again,' his paranoia whispers. He greets him in normal fashion anyway and goes on to the other window and greets the other guard, a typical, grumpy British bloke whom he loathes in some unexplained manner. The guard just nods as if annoyed of having to see this poor fellow's face once again.

He walks on into an area filled with cobblestones. Slightly annoyed at first, he grew out of it immediately after the initial walks. His ways of adapting to certain conditions are quite astounding to say the least. By this time he sprints hastily towards the derelict structure on the near edge of the pathway. Constantly trying to avoid tardiness was his main morning antagonist. There was no other way than procrastinating and adjusting to the behaviour. It was his own personal pet peeve that could have been easily taken care of.

He stayed on that structure for the entire morning. His training is intensive but insubstantial. It takes hardcore dedication to achieve the necessities mandated by the module, although his motivation needs a little bit of boosting so to speak and the bounties are still questionable in nature. He regrets the fact that his ignorance got the better of him and his whim duly appointed.

He exited the high studios with more frustrations than ever before. He is tasked to deal with nincompoops from the inside. The less worst of their kind, fortunately, but nonetheless still horrendous notwithstanding. These are the pretentious types. The ones with the gift of gab with a mind of a blueberry seed. Those that are able to get away with things just because they have the ability to mask away their not-so-blatant idiocy but still idiots nonetheless. The faux intellectual. 'I'm smart because I thought of this, but to be honest I'm only just using rhetorical paradoxes to confuse the fuck out of you, clueless people.'

He was one of the clueless people. Only realising that fact after much review and thinking at home. He knows how deep the flaw of the system was, he was well aware of the fact that no matter how much he resisted it was to no avail. To them, he was the enemy, the obnoxious, misanthropic asshat who enjoys injecting misery upon others.

If only they knew he was more than that and what he was truly capable of. The mysteries lies in the form of broken shards of the future. Only then when reconnected does the ambiguity finally unravel itself.

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Ignore my weakness

Don't ignore me.

Too late for that now. Everyone has made up their minds. It's funny how people handle that sort of rejection and funny too how I react to this. It's not like it's the first time that has ever happened. It's just that I could never figure out for the life of me how such a thing could lead from one point to the next just like that. It baffles me quite deeply. This lifelong experiment has been quite a colossal disappointment for me because experiments are not meant to be done in realtime.

But I did, and I paid the ultimate price. One could say I deserve what I got, but still I can't pinpoint the exact mistake that led to the demise. I now realise how powerful my eyes work in such magical ways that even these alone can sway others' perception just by a spurt of the moment. It's much easier to achieve if the aim of the goal is to fail rather than a positive feedback, much because depending on circumstances it could either be that physical aspect can be a factor, the timing, the relationship, or the intention. All of which are deeply complex and none matches one specific outcome. It all depends on how the reaction of the other person portrays, either positively or negatively.

My intention was for the latter aspect which in turn was too risky for the job. I pushed through and here I am solid as a rock. Word of advice: Do not try to experiment on emotions unless stoic, against sentimentality, accident-prone, and lastly prepared for the worst case scenario.

Or just go with the normal stream of life like dead fishes do.


I know nothing of Adele prior to Saturday, and today is just an hour until Tuesday. All I know is that she pops up in my iTunes every opportunity I open it and quite frankly, it is annoying as all hell. All the advertising an artist can get always gets to me as somewhat deceiving and shallow therefore there was no way in hell I would ever listen to her just because of that simple analogy, that hype always begets disappointment, especially not from the dying music industry where only a few flourish while flooded with mediocrity, mainsteam and indie alike. Mediocre, yes, just like normal, everyday life. 

It was out of a whim that I decided to have Adele's 21 on my playlist which are somewhat getting frustratingly redundant now. I was not expecting much though, not even an idea of what genre she belongs to. It was easy to remove her if the album ever strikes a nerve. I've been disappointed an awful lot in the past that my personal taste in music evolved into a more demanding, boss-like stature. Plus, her uninspired album names didn't help much.

Anyway, I went to try out one of her songs beforehand through Youtube. The first single I heard of her was Rolling In The Deep. She was more robust as I would have imagined looking at her headshot from the album covers. I poke no insults, she was still elegant and clearly talented, she would bite me off the dust; no pun intended. Hesitant as I am, the inner critique in me were looking much for flaws instead of the song itself. I was mildly impressed at first. Yes, she does have a beautiful, deep voice, but I figured it wasn't as distinctive as I'd hope for. Her voice gobbles up the instrumentals, you can barely hear any of it. But it was fierce and with a nice tone to boot. That was all the reason I needed to convince myself of giving her another shot. 'Amaze me, woman,' were the words I remember telling myself of it.

I still listen to soul/blues every now and then. Last one I got was Cee Lo Green. And while that was an honourable mention, the entire album was still slightly disappointing. It was arguably anti-soul/blues.

There was one particularly familiar song in the album, 21. That's Lovesong. While the revival of the classic The Cure song was defended well, a familiar man would find it stale in comparison to 311's own rendition. Even so, it accommodates well to the tea-drinking crowd or the jazz-loving commuter, and that's what matters. It caters to different tastes.

So far the list was underwhelming for the first couple of tracks. Rumour Has It didn't bode well for my ears. Turning Tables wasn't bad, wasn't the best either. The keyboards were noteworthy though. I almost lost all hope after the first ten minutes. I skipped tracks and randomly chose One and Only.

That was it. It struck me like a powerful slap on the face. This five-minute, forty eight-second track instantly made me a believer. No questions asked, forgetting all the flaws from the start. From that first play onwards three hours passed without any signal. The lyrical aspects were as common as that of the next artist's but the deliverance and melody were astounding and marvellous. It fed my barren soul with colour and vigour. For awhile, I could imagine myself in a high while lying on my sofa. I found myself unable to resist listening to it over and over again.

It wasn't the only track I fell in love to, however. Someone Like You struck me in a similar way. The piano ballad gave a strong push to her already powerful vocals, provocative and haunting. It was soothing while empowering at the same time, rarely such a gem cause a tremendous emotional outburst on me except Billie Holiday. It left a bittersweet taste in my palate that I wanted to rid of but asked for it instead. The composition of the lyrics are heartfelt and symmetric. In lots of ways I envied that. It is something I wish to achieve and I am quite aware of the skills needed to do such an amazing piece of art, it is just that to draw inspiration from within one's self is the trickiest part.

Almost all my favourites were on the B-sides ironically. Another track that amazes me to no end is Set Fire to the Rain. A motivational testament to Adele's musical talent. Her bravado engulfs the entire space with her voice.

In courtesy to her own abilities as a singer/songwriter I take back all the clouded judgment earlier. She is the real deal. A legend in the making. And that goes without saying. I've been listening to a lot of crap in recent times that the amount of suck is at a staggering high, and for her to arrive in such a fashionable way just blows me away completely.

The album I got includes a bonus track as well that is of equal note. I Found A Boy is similarly as powerful as its counterparts, equally noteworthy.

The only regret I had was not meeting such a marvel sooner. For what seemed like a deception to turn into something of a greater privilege proves hype is in lots of ways effective on its own whilst still bearing over-the-top sensation in itself. I'd go out on a limb to say that even a hardcore punk could be swayed by her talents as well. Not looking down on other artists, but in comparison to, say, Katy Perry or Justin Bieber or Ke$ha, none should be as deserving of all the bounties as Adele herself.

Looking forward to see her perform sometime here in London. Mayhap, if fate allows it, get a chance to meet her in person and share a lively conversation over a cup of tea and piano.

Monday, 21 February 2011

Slander and discord

The mule held no authority on this given day, everything seemed unbelievably flawless until then.

By the time the curtains opened up for the audience everything seemed translucently clear: my failure was inevitable, my suffering inglorious. What I have foreseen at that particular moment crushed my inner core as if lifeless and all the while frail. My resolve was uncanny but could no longer withstand the ill treatment of indifference from the talentless freaks that accompanied my every step. It is not as if I depend on them on things, but it is really not making things all the more better. I first walked into the studios with wild intentions to succeed and procreate neat ideas for the development of my soul soup. Call me weak and a coward I can deal with that, but frankly my resolve lies somewhere different now. Better divert my senses into somewhere rational in advance than deal with the scrutiny in the future. I besmirch my own potential with my monochromatic imagination. An embarrassment to my pride and even to the dedication and trust given to me by the ones who gave me breath, and to think I had to grind tooth and nail up my own ass just to stand up for my own humanity, or whatever is left of it.

My talents, if I ever had one, waver like charred paper blown off a cliff, never going to see the light of day again. I cower behind the guise of a grin as I normally do on mild occasions, gritting my teeth soonafter. Not a tear or sweat dripped from my head, not a particularly good sign if I was to be asked. Setting fire to the rain is not exactly my God-given gift. I watched my own body quiver in shame, beatboxing in thin air, claws scratching my nose unaware that it starts to bleed and form scratches. The beat slowed down without momentum, it just did. It wasn't supposed to be that way either.

I woke up from the reverie with intentions of kicking it up a notch. The mule was absent in my eyes even though she was up to her own scheming ways once again. Just as Madonna fainted to the ground the beating hearts of loons began to echo throughout the wide-open space. I instigated everything, everyone was taking my lead for once but no one seemed to bother anyway. It was a slight provocation to the mockery, a mercy shot. My built up body bent like hard metal on a hard canvas. Dazed and afloat, I swam like a goose back into my reverie without a care in the world. Everything is different once more and that was going to be the end of that. I slowly close my eyes and opened it immediately once more, a runner taken away from the tracks is what I felt at that curious moment. Disgruntled all the more, the failures walked up and began piling up like pillows of bricks. Not a single reaction from the audience was felt, I did not even bother checking at that moment, that event was preposterous and redundant.

I wanted to hide my face in utter shame and I'm not even shy.

Everyone posed for the flashes but to no avail. The verdict was settled. My head can't even look at the mentors straight in the eye. My own were fixed to the ground, on my own toes, clinching my fist wanting to smash someone else's. There it was. The torturous soothing words of reconciliation. I need not hear such mockery. I intend to want to hear the hearted truth, not the rubbish, 'good', 'great', and 'wonderful'. Those words are as ubiquitous as my self-pity, heeding them actually leads to nowhere.

Wanting to shed a tear to the mockery, chaos once again erupted after the resolution and post-thematic group sequences. Left for dead in the corner the selfish, mindless zombies pushed forth with their brain-eating pomposities. 'I want this,' 'I want that,' 'you're wrong,' and the worst of all, 'that's a bad idea.'

I listened to the market-like banter echo back and forth waiting for someone, anyone, to ask me an opportunity to work with them. None received.

Walked home empty-handed stuck with the frustration of having to deal with both myself and a handful of twitchy buffoons. At least there love awaited for me in the form of Danish salami.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

Art is what you make of it

Not a single spill of sweat was shed that day, only empty words spat out from their uninspired devising.

'We'll get across,' said the four-eyed curly from behind. 'Let's just do our best and we shall push through as usual.'

And as usual, she was despicably worthless in my eyes. Her challenging eyes looked at everyone with strong intent to push her convictions notwithstanding theirs aside. She was selfish as fuck and dumb as a mule. She always spoke highly of feedbacks, do this and do that, that works and this does not, but unbeknownst even to her is that she herself is imprisoned in her own robust mockery she calls flesh. To me it is but chicken stuffed with too much jelly and the blob now struggles to burst forth from her gastric balloon. She speaks with a voice resembling to that of a frightful duck, opposite of shrill and confident, and moves like a penguin deprived of the will to bend the hip and pelvic regions. She loves relaxing while standing up resting her arms on the side of her abdomen, obviously because it was cold and flabby and it made sense since it was the only place in her entire form that her range of motion was most likely uncompromised.

This pathetic excuse for a woman stood still while noticing another woman colleague arriving on the doorstep still with her heavy garments intact. She was tardy yet again, not to mention her absence from the day before. Unlike the stout abomination before her she was anything but. This woman was indeed full of grace and charm, her breasts bosom underneath the sporty tights I saw as she unbuttons her furry sleeve, showing her pale complexion and long legs were alluring and majestic. Her talents evade even her own grasp, although it is highly evident she is aware of that potential. Her imperfections are what make her incredibly attractive attracting even someone like me who is not slightly ranked even in her league. She was younger despite having her countenance deceiving anyone with her highly mature ways of conversing. She was the kindest of all the bunch and would never allow anyone from that group to sway her humanistic reprieve. Contrary to the idiocy of the mule she was more than intellectually capable to handle her own sense of awareness to the understanding of everything that surrounds her. One could very well be surprised to see how amazingly smart she really is if given the opportunity to test her wits and comprehension. She may not be the prettiest of them all, her eyes bulge like blueberries at the most inopportune time, her teeth crooked from the sides to the next, and most of all she has a bloke living with her every single night (curses!), but she ranks highly amongst the chain of women befitting the imagery of the Madonna.

She came up close and listened closely to the discussion as the mule continually spoke as if on a high horse and begging to follow her every command, I could notice the female from beside me snoozing off in a second and quickly awakened by her own loud snoring. The others nodded to her repeatedly but I truly doubt if anyone has fully understood a word she uttered from her rubbish bin of a mouth.

'So that's it,' the mule concluded, thankfully, shrugging as if she herself was puzzled by her own suggestions. 'Let's just try to do it over again and see if something changes.'

Another woman steps forward. 'But you know, we could try something else if this is not working. We can't waste resources and time if this isn't leading anywhere. I mean, I like the idea but it's not as if it's perfect. It's still complicated no matter how many times we think about it.'

I would just like to add that this woman is arguably the most attractive within the group albeit slightly generic and borderline dull.

'I agree, but we need to make sure we keep it simple. We know they'll say "oh, this is so complicated!" but as long as we believe and like what we are proposing then there is no harm done,' said another lovely darling from the corner which I would like to introduce soon.

I figured I should already speak at that moment, people find uncanny yet paranoid ways of understanding my silence. I normally avoid getting involved in all of this since I find any of their suggestions highly irrelevant in the first place. Before getting that urge to speak I normally don't have a clue what to add to the discussion except already repeating what was already said except making it sound a bit better, at times vague. Sometimes I add things that may be out of place and adding confusion to what is already unresolved which leaves me all the more frustrated because everyone just spits away that suggestion without having to listen to everything and allowing me to finish.

The discussions and devising would go on for another hour or so and would keep on going for a week. None of it is really valuable to the understanding because everyone hardly asks for opinion except for a chosen few, and so the development remains stagnant unless one breaks away from the convention, usually my attempts are poor but the intention is there hoping someone catches attention. It is a recyclable convolution of rubbish that is only taken away when an outside element breaks into the party and establishes another rhythm to the group. There begins a moment and never ends, only adding more insult to the uninspired creativity of the same group battling out with each other over and over again trying to avoid comparison with an outside source at the same time taking in whatever it is that has been discovered not by their own volition but still to that of something foreign, thus hypocrites in their own right. Comeuppance and leverage is their sole weapon and the will to impress is what that transpires and conspires in itself. The greed manifested to the soul of the creation and the discord of not having that opportunity to be the centre of attention.

Originality is dead and improvisation is anything but entertaining. It is the behavioural aspects of these human characters where I find my inspiration now, and perhaps my calling as well. The art of performance still has a deep place in my heart but the image of caricature found within these entities are highly amusing to pass up albeit distressing, heartbreaking and gut-wrenching.

Art is what you make of it. 

Thursday, 17 February 2011


Do you still remember the moments of our first meeting? Honestly I no longer retain that memory. It wasn't so long ago when I saw you saw me handing out rude stares at everyone but there you were, not minding a single bit, when I encountered several mismanagements in decision making and picking up fights with female co-workers amongst the workplace because of a stupid argument.

Do you recall our first conversations? Because I don't. But I remember how much you made me feel every single time we did. Me and some other guys mentored you and you ended up teaching me everything more than I needed to know. You adapted well and I was complacent as usual clinging on to that sedentary lifestyle that once was. I could recall asking myself often weighing the option of possibly having you as someone whom I can love, and startlingly I said no to it, thinking about how you were that snotty, little brat with a high-pitched voice and sweet-as-sin, crooked countenance.


The bittersweet calm came to me like a flash of lightning on a vulnerable metal rod serving as a conductor of pain and suffering to that lingering idea which I longed for since the moment it snapped its fingers at me a few years back, the intention of isolation at the first moment of desire to break away from the lifeless companionship of the flesh and blood. All was lost except the insanity that kept me company for the days to come feeding on my irreconcilable cup of asshole. The same asshole that stood by me when I was but a phantom of my own unwilling ambitions, the same misconception of evil that long before introduced me to this so-called ideal life. A voyeuristic point of view which sparks no particular interest among many, but one that struggles on and on.

Nothing but something, something not everything, everything for nothing.

Reminiscent of the old days the man known to a few as a jester or a jerk now kneels in shame asking for another chance even in vain and discord. Not everyone has second chances, undaunted by the risks involved, stumbles forward and the crotch above their heads willingly swell at the sight of this man's misfortune. 

Square cycle

Stood apart from all the rest
Can't even find a moment to
All I stand for, all I am
But a reverie of self-satisfying egomania

Tried to make amends
But there really is no reassurance
Nobody can and is interested

No matter how much the effort it always ends the same
Life and fame, everything's a game

Monday, 14 February 2011


I run but my legs can only take me so far
It's beating me down
It's tearing me down

Well tonight, I'm feeling emotional
Lonely tonight
It's not helping me at all

Sunday, 13 February 2011


The first morning of the rest of my life brought for an outbreath tenfolds better than any orgasm can procure. The mist outside the window was a steady, shallow breeze awoken only by my own faults of not knowing how to turn the heater on and not being able to provide my chamber with a much-deserved bedding. My objective for today is to finalise my cleaning and arrangements and to hopefully bring an end to all my bedside needs. The two women I am with are both so pleasing, accommodating and elegantly beautiful that it is slightly difficult to concentrate without having to be distracted by their constant moving to and fro. This is turning out to be one of the very best things happening in my life as of this moment and might as well cherish the fact that this would not have been made possible if not for the suppressed guilt and blatant shamelessness I exhibited a little over a few weeks back. I treasure the faults as much as I value my gifts, this is what I have learned to achieve in this tiny bit of offering and now I will make up for it with the same amount of joy and anger in return.


Liberation, finally, is at hand.

There was a time in my life where I thought about giving up and wanting  to cause harm to others constantly, but now all that has torn asunder. My moment of peace has bear fruition and effect and starting today all that will remain constant and dynamic, an everlasting bliss filled with hope and vindication. I can finally concentrate more on my personal development without the cause of alarm of having to bear stressful and inhumane lifestyles of the poor and lazy. Indeed the year of the rabbit, my year of the rabbit (born 1987), is turning out to be consistently good. In any case, I need not be complacent or slip into obscure, irrational procrastination. I must remain steadfast in my desire to succeed. My vigilance to pursue this plan of action is going stronger. I have never felt so jubilant since the moment they all left me to rot in my old country. Reclaim what is meant to be mine, such is my next feat. Failure is not an option. It never stood a chance despite its best efforts to do so, and my heart will remain burning with desire throughout the weeks to come. Nothing will stand against me, nothing anymore. 

Friday, 11 February 2011


Tomorrow, I'm finally moving out.

A day I've waited ever since I stepped into the soil of England. That was my first apparent goal. It has been quite a rough patch. I haven't even packed enough things yet for tomorrow's event and hardly anyone even bothers to care. Everyone's so pathetically indifferent to my pain. Yet I feel fine and couldn't care a penny less. Destination: High Street near Bow. Walking distance from Three Mills Studio where my workplace currently is. I had to procure stitches and burns to achieve this, and I'm paying dearly for my ingratitude. All is fair in hate and destruction, as I would say.

Sunday, 6 February 2011


Tiny voices undulate the wall making path to deaf ears on the opposite edge. Head ringing at the buzz of the drum roll aching to ignore the fallaciousness. They began to laugh high notes and shrieking, all the more reason to smash the wooden stick to the colourful, plastic bubble while concentration diverts to the brown bed already, the day was done yet nobody lulls to sleep. Tiptoes can be heard from a short distance, could it be? Improbable. Probability equals to none. It ends when the light shuts up its rotten palate. Faint whispers of Tubthumping in the background, beginning to wallow in disparaging animosity shaking the foundation of nature and discourse. It shallowly disappears for a second. It fades to darkness, fades to black, fades to surreal, evolving and spinning, hardening its carapace. Horns are blown and thorns from roses become tongue in winter solstice. Black is to red and blue is to yellow. Narcotic, neurotic, episodic. The deformed masks found electrolytes in midday, now recharged and bashfully prepared. Black is back and back to back.

Friday, 4 February 2011


Sprained my ankle tendons once again from running. This has become quite a routine during my jogging sessions. When that occurred I decided the best course of action was to instead just walk. After running for two kilometres I wouldn't think of switching to walking. The fulfilment was just not the same as it was when running. The reason people do running is to be exhausted and for their respiration to adapt to the sudden change. When one switches from running to walking there is no effort involved except the pain incurred to the soles of the feet flattening to the earth. Perhaps the same could be said of sexual intercourse, but my mind wanders once more to greater lengths undefined. Vivid imagination run rampant closing the doors to reality and introducing receptacles of perversity and frustrations rolling into one giant ball of wants that fail to materialise into something more artificial. I'm finishing my dinner and wine and now my eyes start to flicker and fingers yawn at the sight of keyboard letters. 

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

CSN Stores

I have been given opportunity to partake in this momentous occasion to deliver to you people the chance to showcase some of the finest home commodities, from bedroom furniture to home and kitchen appliances amongst others, that can only be found within one of the many amazing online stores brought to us by CSN. You have the privilege to choose from a wide variety of top-notch products, conforming either to the artful soul or to that of the contemporary everyday man, not to mention the hassle-free transactions and free delivery for most products. It is the most practical way of shopping for all the aficionados out there wanting a change of scenery or are just curious enough to try new things within their home. It simply has the widest range of products in any given categories. I can personally attest that shopping here has never been more easier, the customer service is highly remarkable, and the site in itself is quick and very easy to navigate. The prices are reasonably great and personal satisfaction is a hundred percent guaranteed.

Try it out and see for yourself.

Aforementioned CSN Stores:

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Still ill

I may have skipped the third day of my insufferable mishap but I am proud to brag that I have conquered it like it was my poodle. Safe in the loving belly of my bed I sleep comfortably once more at night knowing now that I have half-succeeded in attaining that which I have fought for in the first place. It is not without bad karma that I am bed-ridden, lethargic, and vomits every now and then. It was only yesterday when I threw up inside the underground tube much to my dismay, an unfortunate circumstance plagued only by my inability to measure my own weaknesses. Much to my hilarity was the reaction of an old woman running away in disgust seeing me puke blue vomit in my hand. Blue was the colour having drank Powerade earlier that day in Three Mills. In turn, Studio A was unlikely safe from the grasp of my regurgitation terror, had a similar one at the outside rolling bathroom and another in a rubbish bin just at the entrance with unwilling shoes waiting to be contaminated with my blue goo of death. I stopped by Caffè Nero after successfully fulfilling my responsibility of delivering Lisa's heels. I wasn't aware tea mixed with milk made such a huge difference in my stomach. I still had to expel a couple more trapped liquid substances in the bathroom earlier at that place though, but all in all I have found the almost perfect remedy for the common illness. There was a short incident inside that store that filled my mind with fuck. It had something to do with an Italian loon who was pestering me by asking who was the stranger who sent him an anonymous text message. He drove himself bonkers not being able to answer it himself while annoyingly calling me 'My Friend' in front of my face. I made up some things just to relax him a bit which only left him more agitated. Finally, I just had to tell him to go to his mobile carrier, in his case, Orange, and maybe pester them about it, and luckily he left me alone while I return to my monster hunting in the table. Damn, congalala. I went home soonafter shaking my spine off due to the weather as usual. Even my room was dominated by the extreme, negative temperature.

I still was unfortunately ill.

Search and destroy