Tuesday, 31 May 2011


Dirt plagues me. Here, there, everywhere. Dirt is ubiquitous and resilient. A little bit of grooming is unnecessary, drastic measures call for drastic solutions. And the stink. Oh shit, not the stink. Everything but the stink. Fatality.

Friday, 27 May 2011

Pants or prizes

The sixty-pence Dr. Pepper can in the table was cold and half-empty, and a loud barking of a mutt echoes somewhere in the cafeteria. Funny thing to happen indoors. It's as if they wanted to scare the people eating, resting, working, and having conversations in the tables. I paid no mind. I continued on with what little I was doing. Questioning my methods of learning has been quite pedantic and unnecessary really. The Tesco bag that stares at me beside this portable computer mocks my every thought. It is aware and self-reliant. It needs not worry about life and hunger and love and shit. Its only goal is to be used for bagging, putting groceries like the Hovis I bought earlier today and that German salami that's perfect to go with it, add in extra cheese for flavour and filling and you got yourself a half-decent meal. But now its purpose is done there is no more reason for it to exist. Whatever it serves to offer me as its legal owner is up to me now. I drag it closer to me for no apparent reason. The salami has already been consumed in its entirety and drips of cheese pours its way to the table noticeably on the process of melting. My face squirms in disgust, and trepidation greets my aghast look open-heartedly, as if it desires it, appreciates the beauty within the madness. I then notice the screenplay documents on the right side that wants to communicate with my intentions, while the more it demands from my energy, the more I procrastinate, yet there is that subtle craving, and it erupts like a volcano in agony, and I'm teleported to another place and time.


When I wake up nothing changed. When I uttered a single word, nothing answered. When I lift my left arm, no one answered. The sixty-pence Dr. Pepper can was empty though, and the bag was gone. I didn't even finish the Hovis. Such a nasty world we live in. 

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Crab Mentality

Two less angry persons in the room decide to set aside their arguments for the sake of the group dynamics. One sets aside his emotions and stands quite far away from the other as possible. There was a cacophony of silent awkwardness in the air as the two continued to exhibit their infallible tantrums. The group moves on with their work and decides to come up with ideas to unite each other and compromise. Neither of the two spoke to each other all the way through the discussion. They formulated individual proposals that vary in topics but never discussed anything that involved one another, and so none of them actually came with a conclusion considering there were too many proposals thrown into the space. They decided to leave it be for that day and come back the day after to think things through. Everyone agrees and went on their separate ways.

The next day, one of the two persons arguing yesterday did not show up. Neither did she leave any sort of indication of not coming. Everyone reckoned to just move on and continue with the work with or without her.

Work came smooth as the week passes by, but none of it really came to a resolute decision. There were many uneasy challenges along the way but nobody complained nor fought despite the minor disagreements. Despite the woman whom he argued with still was nowhere in sight, he stood his ground and kept his cool, shrugging off constant and persistent questions by his peers about the woman's condition and his involvement with her disappearance. It annoyed him to no end. He was left with little choice until he was driven to worry and his conscience getting the best of him in the long run.

The performance night came and everybody performed well enough for the audience to applaud. As it ended, with arms high above his head and his chest outwards to the stage, he gives out an infectious, confident grin of satisfaction that showed the sincerity of his play, and everyone that performed along with him soon followed, and everyone bowed down with joyous victory, prepped for another night of salutations and merriment. But he could not destroy the image of the woman that disappeared. And his grin faded quickly as he turned his back from the audience and into the backstage. He would not imbibe and celebrate that night with the others.

Four months in, first day of the second year of his life. He meets his peers once again and embraced them tighter than a sack of rice. The kisses went on for awhile before it was time for the actual learning. On the stage where he left and performed was a pen that he used a few months ago to write all the necessary actions for the proposals they introduced. He used it often, but it wasn't actually his. It was again the woman's.

He turned to find an old acquaintance that knew that woman well and asked about her. He found out that she became a well-renowned auteur in her country. In that short span of time, she has made three short documentaries by her own and in her own budget. Her opinions resonated well upon those that listened to her openly. Her adroit meticulousness that even he was aware of proved quite useful in her success. He was, of course, immediately baffled. The acquaintance showed him a website in his laptop about her recent activities, but neither of which really stood out to actually make him care. His was a hard-boiled mind, and opinions like his' came like voices from prophets singing verses of raptures and armageddon. He could not foresee and find rationale in what was happening. The sudden news of her success struck him as insulting, and in many ways, for him, such a waste of (no) talent and time. His thoughts of worriment soon became thoughts of mischief. He developed a sense of schadenfreude.

Throughout his lifetime, he would never find solace in his actions without having to contrast it to previous failures. He always finds reason to deny and disapprove. His life of art bears the stigma of misanthropy and died a miserable death to lung cancer with immeasurable years of continued smoking, not to mention the chronic alcoholism as well.

His art would never resonate with the people he showed it to, and he died without a memory of his name.

Monday, 23 May 2011

There will be blood

Broken bones to swingin' pelves
Chants of cults display
Blown up and down towards the ashes
The winds weep with dismay
And cheered I have received
And cheered I wonder how
The eyes may mean not a deceived
Pray tell it to this doubtful brow

Oh sweet, fucking, glorious, immaculate, stupendous, godlike vindication
Adroitly, ask where forth art thou?

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Sunset (un)Limited

Drafting an adaptation of The Sunset Limited in my own style. Somehow I want it to be successful without having to be just a copypasta from the original, which is nice.

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

False Achievements Of Lust In Relation To The Petty Heartaches Rooting From The Slightly Depressive Past And Present Countenances And The Overall Appreciation Of Beauty And Burlesque

Heaven forbid agony befalls a man who enjoys a bit of perversion in between his mediocrities. The challenge presents itself asking the question whether or not morality was part of the question, and if it did, whether it would warrant combat in principles. I myself am a witness of the in between, the purgatory of pleasure and pain, the lovely ecstasy of fleshly merriment. For what is a heterosexual being if not for the glory of the opposite sex? Man serves to please the woman and vice versa. That is a common theme. None of which truly understand the imposed art of the flesh in common, the beauty derived from the pleasures of the body, and the soul hidden beneath the perceived lewdness. And when the most inopportune time finally comes to a stand, would it not matter if an adversary in a form of lingering and bygone depression grabs hold of one’s inability to establish the human warmth of another? What more depression can there already be in an already-established deep depression? Would it not, ultimately, be suicide?

One’s fickle taste of the feminine form like mine is a determinant of exquisite objectivity, as well as being a deterrent to development of satisfaction. There need not be an antagonist to one’s involuntary participation to the otherworldly happenings that surround them, as unawareness is clearly not at fault by a long shot. The grand scheme and design of the natural order of things is inevitable, not by the choice of a higher entity, but of simply natural selection. Just as science tells the story of man originating from primates, scriptures talk about woman originating from the rib of man. So the qualities of the common man are obviously evident in the opposite gender, unless scientific studies provide research that denies so, but in order to avoid that classic impression of a pompous misogynist, one demands that all be equal to the eyes of both men. From then on, it is emotion that develops and separates them, where love and/or hate are given room to flourish as part of natural selection.

When a being of false hope, such as a man with low regard, comes to enlighten himself with the world of maddening beauty that is of burlesque and decides to engage himself a new perspective of interest, then that being of once false hope slowly begins to realise all it is that he has left out after all these wasted years, unwillingly falling into a nostalgic-depressive mood of deaf whispers and silent reveries, unlocking the potential within himself to be of something else worthy and therefore creates the romance that has been missing all along. Suddenly all the woes and the perils of missed opportunities bear the mind and engulfs everything pathetic about his soul, but through this eagerness to live and the romance associated with it, that is if he survives the initial blow, then his resolve evolves into something else much greater, much powerful than ever witnessed, and it paves the way for the higher calling, something inexplicable, something sacred, and it just is. For something that is uniquely absurd, it makes sense and that terrifies the majority because they do not know or understand what to make of it, and somehow that frightening gesture of wanting to understand suffocates them, and leaves them an invisible dusty trail, to lead them nowhere. In fact, to lead them to a different point of view, and then it moves on without them, as if nothing ever happened. That same madness becomes one with the being, and now that desire stalks him like a fowl of prey, becoming a weakness that was always there only now less subtle, looking to be released and in search for something, or someone, to rave.

Through the lens, his eyes are of a different set of spectacles, only seeing what the eyes wanted to, somehow biased by original thought, where one would gladly end his life with the absence of regrets or worries. In every capture of stillness the memory consumes him, whereas if he consumes the memory, his control over the matter is of a different angle and perspective, his urge much less diabolical, much more stoic, yet much less fulfilling. In a way, the pleasure originates from the pain, just as torture benumbs the shame. But the interest is not in his ability to control, for that theory is near impossible to achieve. The rational response would, of course, be to give in. Note the term rational because not everyone agrees the same.

When the first predator of desire bursts her lips into the open space and smears the atomic particles with artificial scent, everyone agrees that that moment becomes the turning point of understanding. The neophyte starts to ponder, steadily consuming the essence of the vibrant flow, whereas the beauty that stands before the neophyte mocks him through her mesmerising gaze, lulls him like a sea harpy in disguise, drilling through his weakness like a scorned wildebeest that has grown sick and tired of nature’s malevolence. It is that same hypnotic gaze that traps the witnesses into surrender, each finding themselves bending to her every will no matter the disposition. The beauty wraps her elongated arms around the tangible body parts of the audience unwillingly provoking all that feels unwelcome and distant claiming authority amongst the crowd and manipulates the urge as if she herself was one with them. She then draws them an inch closer by the second with every curve of the hip. That diminutive push that almost always happens in a blink of an eye demands strict attention for the simple reason that the attack usually begins from somewhere hardly noticeable, and unknown to its victims, which is venomous in nature that sucks the strength right out of someone immediately and mercilessly on the same spot. The succubus’ intention is not of the desire but the potential that is associated with each instance. The succubus is aware of the pleasures the knaves that stand before her crave, and it is in these habits that the departure of offense most often come from, be it by the form in which the man allows himself to give or by the amount of sadism man is willing to take. Rather than attempting to decipher the message or the intention, actions speak louder than any words can, which is of course usually the case, as I myself have witnessed, and that tiny pouch where my sanity persists no longer mattered, whatever is left of it, because even though I was a spectator in every sense of the word, my relevance to their cause was minimal to none, coupled by the fact that the highly intimidating, defensive aura they seem to have established got the best of me in every step of the way. In other words, once again, my expendable nature was irrelevant to what they would have wanted to achieve, and I could not, for the life of me, aid them in any form of support. Depressing as it may be, perhaps it is better this way, or the imbalance that I would have had developed in me would have been too devastating for the world to digest, and world domination would have simply been at hand, and I could have had made quick work on this dominion over the peasants that kept on uneasily surrounding me. “Complete global saturation,” quoted from the wise words of a fictional villain named Wesker.

And I look at the neophyte as I stare at his now perverted eyes without any response. His was fixated on the goddess that stood across him looking to be dragged down and abused. I avoid smirking at the simple thought that it might induce unwarranted attention, and I continue on with my own purpose, as his purpose was to obviously to drool over the floor like a hound out of its leash.

To witness a wonderfully crafted silk cloth torn apart by the soft touches of the beauty in sight was in some ways devastating. Such a marvel should have been given more respect than it deserves. The distraction of having to expose those voluptuous mammary gifts induced a mild confusion. Only because even though the expectation was to deliberately showcase these fine, joyful breasts for all the men (and women) to see, you take part in what they would like to dub a performance piece, and the concept of theatre now comes into play giving all sorts of artistic gratification for the criticisms withering with the programme somehow. So it is no longer just a piece of eye pornography, it is, by all accounts, a legitimate medium for art. That is why there needs risk of total laceration of fine cloth and some other materials, even expensive ones, for the value of wanting to satisfy the audiences is essential to their own satisfaction, just as the satisfaction of having to commit travesties of the mind by having to justify the lurid thoughts that are being intentionally provoked. Some others would just back away from the truth and instead give a more foolish analogy hoping to stray away from the topic at hand without having to risk one’s character through pointless hypocrisies that they begin to feel, as if they never wanted it in the first place, and that they were being dragged in that particular place and at that particular moment in time out of curiosity and false information. Carnal desires are skilled at bluffing to hide many intentions, but never do they lie. One either likes it or they do not, and if the latter, then you are neither homosexual nor sick, because even both of these equally share the same amount of urgencies as with everyone. Not only do the wardrobes suffer for the sake of the play, as too shall the elements of nature may well be. From what I have witnessed into account, it is hard to tell which ones were being passed out. Certainly the qualifications are there, aesthetic is almost optional, and talent is somehow dodgy, the gimmicks brought to the stage are somewhat farcical, be it intentional or not.

But this is not clown, though a slight parody is included amongst its cause.

It has already been made clear that the purpose from the get-go was to titillate. Looking at the majority of the audience made a clear point of the distinction between giving a damn about the folly and giving more emphasis to the fleshly merriment of the scantily-clad. Whichever way to put it, it has never provided enough satisfaction, not unless something has to give in. Not even to the neophyte armed with spherical lenses. Every moment captured by this character only leaves more to be desired and less to be fulfilled, and even the work associated with his livelihood ceases to mind, and even the mind ceases to care, because everything that happens next lead to the realisation of guilt, one way or another.

Monday, 16 May 2011

BSB: Overview

The mononymous hero, Perdicio, finally takes a hold of the sacred dagger for which he long yearned for, defeating its withstanding guardian, Morrow, in the process. At his frail, battered state, almost lifeless, he could feel its weightlessness and potential, but time grows itself weary of any chance for patience. His intention was not to collect such rare an artifact but merely to use it for something else much greater.

His gluttonous desire for power now overwhelms him, and in a manic state of panic stabs himself quick in the chest with the dagger, as if whim demands him to do so. The cavernous space fell silent with his sudden demise. Only death and darkness greeted him with dreary fervor, and his blood spilt on the rocky floor slowly making its way towards the light.

It took six days to find his body and the dagger. His name would never be heard again for another century.

Gossips of  colossus being seen from the same area stirs uneasy emotions amongst the nearby townspeople, and the legend of Perdicio is once again brought up, thus beginning a whole new adventure. The kingdom is up in arms with news of unrest, and it strives to keep the fragile peace it feigns to possess.


My head hurts. :) - Cil


Wednesday, 11 May 2011


"I hardly knew you, my love. And quite frankly, the blood that flows within me dictates that I never even loved you in the first place."

He took his cigarette from the ashtray and stared at it long enough to put it out without having to puff on it. The shadows grabbed him from behind and sucked him in. The woman that sat in front of him watched in horror as the darkness beheld him as if it was alive and caressing, like a woman full in vain. Her insufficiencies to counter such scares were next to nothing as she could only watch and tremble from a distance, and in that one moment she watched him dive into obscurity. Regret drowned her eyes, and in despair, they were together.

She stood up and clenched one fist, "There is no denying your insubstantial claim. But lest you forget it, I do this for both our behalf. The stars drag your body elsewhere, while I remain basked in the cold graces of night."

"And you look at me now drenched in darkness while you speak of light overflowing me."

"No. I speak figuratively and not of current events that are supposed to frighten me senseless. And I am, surely, but I cannot allow such a thing to continually pursue my rational thoughts. The shadows that lay behind you are a manifestation of your anger. An anger directed towards me. That fuels you endlessly the more we find each other in sight. Let me be free as you wish, and allow time to kill this memory of ours."

A bodiless arm appeared from his knees and touched the ground blindly creeping its way onward as if in search for something. Meanwhile, he was in no more mood for talking. His eyes glowed red with rage, burning of want to vengeance.

She realizes the thought and preemptively counters the judgment, "You wish me dead, but the whispers in your heart speak something of a different sort. Tell me, what is it that you seek?"

His defensive eyes were blatantly obvious. "I do not seek an 'it' but a 'she'."

"And you seek 'she' dead, is it not?"

His smirk gave a resounding yes. 

"Then do it."

The smirk dissipated in the air as the threat overwhelms his proud spirit. The moment he pushed his chest in the air, he knew he was in for a long ride. But the shadows that counsel his mind were patient, and would rather spend an eternity in wait than be tortured by the concept of loss.

He lifts one leg away from the bodiless arm below and inches closer to the woman in the shade, "You do not mock me, my love. Not anymore, not ever since. Your words are as empty as your soul. You speak of death like a commodity, how do you live bearing that thought? Have you no respect or dignity? What have those stomach of yours been digesting? Were you not aware my emotion is but transient and foolish? Regret does not consume me, nor do the thoughts of us in bed and fucking. My only concern is of your potential, and your potential exceeds far greater than my own desires for your immediate demise. Wake up to the sounds of darkness as guidance. Evil does not dread if the intention is for the greater good, therefore there is not such thing as absolute, because even the worst has worth to make better even better given the circumstances. That is where you come in."

"I do not fully understand. And I do not intend to understand. I know your intentions, and believe you insincere. This folly does not make sense."

"Follies need not make sense. That is the wonderful idea about it. Mirror that mind of yours and see as I see, and learn."


Troubled to even take a stupid shower. How wide is it necessarily to unsee the negativity that takes on a shape of a parasite invisible to the naked eye? And to fathom all the underestimation into a ball of clarity demands no explanation. The ass that sticks to the stool and lingers is more ass as the ass itself.

Red carpet

Hard-pressed to give a fucking damn. Tasted my spit dry up clogging my throat and itching. Curtains from behind close horizontally signalling an end. Curtains made of black and vile red, vampiric and ethereal, smoothly slips in my sight putting my mind at ease, hypnotic. "Close your eyes and slumber," the whisper whispers. "Bring the madness to a halt."

In an amicable way I agreed and completely disregarded the goodwill that will have to follow. I will not be a puppet. The whisper appears to me a phantom, in female form and infatuation. Without any closure in sight, I closed my eyes and fell in deep sleep. "Fulfill my role and end this madness," yes, that is it. The same complaint I have been hearing for long months now. Stand out and be unique, be a powerhouse. 

I emerged a stimulant, and in the days to come my burden becomes more apparent. 

Search and destroy