Thursday, 30 June 2011

Canary Wharf

Staring blankly at the highway from the eighth floor balcony of my room at midnight invokes a lot of untapped emotions, of frustrations, of regret, and of love. The highway of chance. I could use a cigarette at that just to blow the breath out, exhale the foul vibrations away, keep the soul burning like a whelp as I am. My eyes flutter, as if dosed and mesmerised, barely given any fortune to see the beauty of the yellow lights below. I can see life from here. Nothing more than an imagery of hedonism, a symbol of undeserved luxury. As I faint to the chair behind, everything moved on its own, drifting from left to right including the unstarred night sky. I look down exactly vertically below to feel my prick squirm and my heart increasingly alert. The sounds of London are ever so relaxing, including the imaginative next-door bickering, the smell of poison and wax, and the anticlimactic twist of a man unmoved, guilty by association.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

The Intolerable Heights of Human Desire, A Florilegium of Fetishisms, Solitude and Concupiscence


Now as the guilt consumes the gullible, so too will the conscience. Some people are not made to survive harsh environments where shame and sexualities merge. When the hour strikes that the man already is under the illusion of the woman's grasp, then it becomes a solid victory for the nudist in stage. The neophyte can no longer blame anyone but himself. His actions mark his indiscretions, his flaws and his newfound shamelessness. The ink that haunts him from the back of the succubus' spine is now instilled into his thoughts, haunting him for days before he finally realises the error that was the shame.

He begins to scour for the memories hoping to bring back the ecstasy, browsing through his personal files of that night that does not seem to forget him, or he forget it. Through media and every possible way, he searches, and searches some more, until his body and mind perceives the inadequacies of a still photograph. What would suffice to him would be the actual, solid thing, and now there lies the addiction. The slithering start for a dark metamorphosis of a man in need. His penile machinations fluctuate at every masturbation, his appetite for food driven by his sexual desires to achieve the lust that he once lost. He searches for any possible clue, including a name, a venue, and a date, that he would never have any use for. He suffers and will suffer more. Once time cures the taunting by his mind, he begins to care lesser and lesser, but his soul would always be somewhat incomplete.

The music, the makeup, the cloth she tore apart willingly, the tattoos, whips and cream, those are the things that are negligible at best. But not to this man. A man who has just realised his fetishes considers this sacred and untouchable, and not just by the breasts and the asses that he oh so craved. He dreams of an archetypal hero with a maiden similar to that of his memories. He, of course, is the hero, a compensation for his inability to adjust to the reality. His own personal revenge against himself and against those that inflicted him pleasurable hardships. He traps himself inside his room, a hikikomori, and plans his next move that he doubtfully would comply.  He dwells on the guilt of his actions without blaming himself; he considers himself innocent. It was his actions that contributed to his demise. That is the broken man's often-claimed rationale, his defensive manoeuvre. He dwells in wait beneath the shadows with pangs of sorrow. He mysteriously writes, often times poetry about the mistreatments of life in general, and then throws himself into the fray. When the time comes when he steps out that door, he becomes a placeboed man, thinking that he has been cured of all the wrong desires. The man speaks to friends normally and without any cause for attention, but his heart still aches for that moment. Why fool himself? One should ask. Because it is the general consensus of a human to conform to norms, and to stray away from that would be disastrous, doubling up the shame. Man is most individualistic as he is selfish.

When the neophyte finally meets a woman worthy of love, it finally blooms into something else. He sets aside his ghoulish thoughts for the sake of their survival. And he goes on living as living could be, full of warmth, joy and butterflies.But twilight skies give him a reason to reconsider, the bedroom floor cringes at his shaky breath, his teeth gnashes, his hands roll to a fist. The hour of sex that he once deemed so worthy comes to him as a surprise instigator of pain, and he relives the assertive sorrows all over again.

Tuesday, 28 June 2011

The Desire of Work

Half the darkness away from the windows drench the room with sober emotions and this one lies in the middle of the room thinking of possible ways to pass the time. A stinking bum complies to the task when a hard-lighted flash crept out of nowhere, like a shot of well-endowed camera in view. This one partakes to the folly, and the sky grew misery out of its thick, gray spine growling as hungry as it was. Light borne out from the east whilst drizzles into the balcony of an open window. Jack as knives and served as fondue. Rain gave this one light which illuminated everything around him, including the darkest pits of melancholy and six-months' wine. Suffice to say none bear witness to the tragic notes of the melody, yesterday was a quarter view, today was a half view, tomorrow a full view. Kicking a habit, biting blankets, cooking for lunch and lifting a ton. Shame on the highest sky when blue and red demands a why. This one's eyes can see it all behind the illumination of the light that surpasses even the soul piercing throughout the core of humanity. Build and wield and shield and field, but never ever yield. She smiles, from a distance, with the death of a loved one. This one scratches its head in astonishment. Whatever lies beyond this grotesque serves as an disingenuous allegory of sorts, fondling the breasts of the sour furries. The head, the only head, thinks. The hand, both hands touch. The foot, twins by birth, steps. Then the light, disillusioned, dissipated into the wide-open space.

Monday, 20 June 2011

Perks

I will not pay a fucking penny! Fools take pleasure to crass indulgences. Fallacies form ideologies leading to counter-errors. How do you counter a counter-error? Do you...... ?

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Solitary People

Some people are so used to solitude with themselves that they never compare themselves to others, but spin forth their monologue of a life in a calm, joyous mood, holding good conversations with themselves, even laughing. But if they are made to compare themselves with others, they tend to a brooding underestimation of their selves; so that they have to be forced to learn again from others to have a good, fair opinion of themselves. And even from this learned opinion they will always want to detract or reduce something.

Thus one must grant certain men their solitude, and not be silly enough, as often happens, to pity them for it.

Profundo, a haiku

Sometimes I wonder
Will this ever be enough?
I could die for you

Tune in June

Heartfelt songs jump in and out of the balcony: Silence, awkward, unease.

She makes me feel like I've lost it all and the perfume of her eyes. Not now. I'm a dying man. In my deathbed shall yours sprinkle me with that perfume eyes of yours.

The sky stares back at the anger. There is no light. At the end of the journey, there is only blackness. I can count the sunsets. I can make you feel them. Why worry now? The pristine glass earns a scratch from the crooked hands that touched them.

You are so special. A special day of disarray. I will never be lonely again. Stand by me now. Spend my time. Recalling the past that won't last. Whatever. Keep our love alive. Yes, I am special everyday.

Red guns drawn. Father, stop this. I will end it. I help create the hate the world deserves. The lies feed me, hurt me, move me, stop me. You have people talking legacy. What legacy? No legacy. Black mark in time. I have read the revelations but there is no time. I am stronger than before.

There I was an empty piece of a shell. Bring me out of the shell! Today, tomorrow, and forever. When evening comes we'll be making love.

Love Begins With One Hello

She never fails to send a hello every single day, with or without a response from a lazier me. And I continue on deluding myself it's over. That we've moved on. That I've moved on. But there's always that hello, and suddenly, we go back to that realisation it's far from finished. That there's still a lingering scent of hope. And I push it far away knowing that the pain is one inch closer once more. I expected too much from the beginning, and now it's too much for me to manage. There is that cacophonous ringing in my head telling me things I would not have thought about. It tells me nice things, cheesy and so unlike me, and to share them to someone. There she is, waiting for me to say hi in return.

The hardest part is yet to come.

Monday, 13 June 2011

Heian Shodan

'No,' he said to the woman, with his head intact and his body erect. His hands should have been trembling at the sight of horror that greeted him at that moment, but he remained shockingly persistent. He will not be denied. 'Take me to your yellow balcony now.'

It seemed as though that the fear that engulfed them awhile ago just dissipated out of nowhere, perhaps out of the curiosity of the lingering scent of courage that dead people unwittingly share to its witnesses. Whatever their intentions are, it has served its key and now serves as a beacon of hope to those who seem lost and weary and without a friend to cling on to.

The yellow balcony shined as these people stepped on its edge, and no lights were needed actually, as the neon colours of yellow bounced off glimmering luminance all throughout. 

'What do we do now?' asks the African, hints of fright coming back to him at the realisation of loss of light.

'Beats me brother,' replied the middle-aged Caucasian with a beard as powerful as any gun could be. 'I bet my ass we're down under them sewers judging by the smell.'

The lady with a knack for taking the lead steps forward. 'Does anyone of you have a torch?'

The Caucasian man smirks, 'Torch. What are you? British?'

'Indeed I am,' answered the lady.

'Well, here in the good old US of A, we call them flashlights, so you better learn our ways 'chap' or you'll be swingin' them sexy booty of yours down these rotten sewers. Damn British bastards,' he spat on the ground as if the words left a sour taste in his tongue.

'Whatever you do, don't stray away from me, okay?' said the African to his girlfriend with hands tightly gripped on his shirt, clueless and nervous.

'O-okay,' she replied.

'When one of them bastards appear, shoot them straight in their brainspidoodle!' yells the Caucasian.

They march on until they reached a point where the illuminating power of the balcony colour ceases to take effect. They were now deeper into the cavernous place than they realised. Their eyesights were getting blurrier the more they take a step and water begins to rise up at their feet causing intense claustrophobia for the African.

'I can't do this,' says the African, struggling to catch his breath. 'I have terrible affinity for tightly-closed spaces.'

'Man up, you stupid dog,' says the Caucasian, frustrated.

Numerous unknown gunfire erupted from behind not too far from where they stand.

'The fuck is that!' yells the Caucasian.

'They've come here now! We must move on and keep running!' said the lady.

Everyone struggled to walk due to the rising level of water on their feet. The African could not hold on for himself though. He had to find a wall to lean on to and rest. His girlfriend had to yell for help. The lady looks and comes back for the couple.

'What are you still doing?! We must go!'

The African looks as if he is about to faint trying to catch his breath. 'Look, I don't really know you lady. But please take care of her for me.'

'What the hell do you mean?!' asks the panicking girlfriend, as she bursts into frantic tears while gunshots are getting all the more nearer. 'Let's go!!'

'We need to go!!' yells the lady, angrily.

'I can't,' whispers the African. 'I just can't. I think I'm done running for now.'

'You idiot!' The lady grabs his girlfriend and drags her away.

'No!'

Lights now fill the other side from where they came, and inaudible noises of people yelling can also be heard together with the bullets fired from the guns.

'What happened to the other one?' asks the Caucasian.

The lady shoves the girlfriend forward as she continues to punch and kick her way back to his man weeping uncontrollably and furious. The lady replies to his question, 'Delusions of grandeur.'

'Ha! Nice answer. For a second there, I kinda like how you bloody British bastards do it.' He grabs a smoke from his pocket and a lighter in another.

'Let's move on,' says the stoic lady, seemingly unaffected by the horror of their predicament.

Whatever intentions these people may have, they have been brought together by a single purpose. For now, their goal is to remain alive at all costs. 

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Chepooka, a LISPA piece

Final solo presentation piece:


My name is Rupert, messenger son of Robert, of House Penkiller to the kingdom of Mile End. Bearing urgent news to King William of the neighbouring allied kingdom of Stratford, me and my more hesitant companion, Ser Alan Parrish, were attacked in the woods by armed bandits of the notorious Three Mills clan.
[MAS QUE NADA]
Alan: Rupert, will you shut up? The tribesmen in these vast woods might hear you.
Rupert: If I’m going to die, I might as well die with a song in my heart, Alan.
Alan: I should just take your food and leave you here.
Rupert: I’ll starve most likely.
Alan: You don’t think I’d do it, don’t you?
[RUPERT HALTS]
Rupert: What do you want, Alan? Gold? Women? Gold and women? Stick with me and you’ll have them all for as long as I’m around and not a moment longer. But you knew that. That is why you so valiantly took up arms to defend my honour.
Alan: Fair enough. But don’t go looking for me to bend the knee and will lower you every time you take a shit. I’m not your shield and I’m not your friend.
Rupert: Too bad, I would have treasured your friendship. And if the day comes that you will sell me out, know this. Whatever the price, I’ll pay double. I like living and I intend to do just that.

We marched onwards until the end of day. We had to make camp in the middle of nowhere. Alan had to hunt beasts for food while I catch forty winks on the rough floor of the forest earth. I was awakened shortly after by Alan’s nervous whispering of my name.

[SHADY IMAGES IN THE BACKGROUND]
Alan: Rupert! Rupert, wake up!
[RUPERT STANDS IN HORROR]
Rupert: Come, share our fire! Help yourselves to our meat!
[A TALL, DARK FIGURE WALKS UP TO THEM]
Clan Leader: When you meet your gods, tell them Peter Shepherd, son of Judy Shepherd, of the Three Mills, sent you.
Rupert: I am Rupert, son of Robert, of House Penkiller.
Peter: How would you like to die, Rupert, son of Robert?
[RUPERT SMIRKS]
Rupert: In my own bed. At the age of 80. With a belly full of wine and a girl’s mouth around my cock.
[PETER LAUGHS]
Peter: Take the jester and kill the other one.

We were on a dire disadvantage, me and Alan. I knew I had to do something if we were to survive. I had to break free from the shackles that prohibit me my full potential. I have a secret that only a few know. I am left with little choice but to use it. I have with me the sigil of Tesco. The same sigil that hangs around my neck. Crafted by the great, white sorcerer, Ilan, during the War of the Old Kings, it is used to harness one’s inner potentials. In order to release that insurmountable power held within, I must sacrifice and embrace the decimation of life around me. I have no choice. I have no choice.

[TALES OF OLD]

The sigil was burning hot like fire.

[HEIAN SHODAN]

I woke up to the smell of burning flesh. I open my eyes to the wake of destruction that even generations yet unborn would cry out in anguish. Ser Alan himself was a victim of circumstance. Our companionship may have been short-lived but he will live on in memory. Left with but an ounce of energy, I persistently moved on and was able to reach the Regal Opera Houses in Stratford in time to have an immediate audience with the king.

William: I see you’ve already made quick use of what was left of your talents with the sigil of Tesco.

The king was a flambouyant man and one could easily question his sexuality, but none have ever had the audacity to confront him about it.

Rupert: Yes, Your Highness. But I only did what was necessary.
William: We could have used it. But very well, let’s just carry on. I believe you have something to impart.
Rupert: I bring to you the prophecy of Verwirrung.
William: Speak.
[VERWIRRUNG]

Saturday, 11 June 2011

Broken Lips Be Sincere

It saddens me to think that, in a way, I anticipated the inevitable disappointment of the first half of whatever silly excuse it is that I call soul searching. The process has been, for lack of worse words, shallow and dismaying. I take what heartbreaks are there to endure, and allow myself to be battered and abused physically and spiritually without any indication of retaliation, unless it involves something totally out of proportion. But even then I most likely will not have the audacity to act on it. Everything was well within some reasonable failure of mine, sadly. I embraced the blame all to myself, fair or not, and did not ask for anything in return. The joys and sorrows are but mine to revel, now it's high time to sit back and worry more how to achieve the satisfaction of rest. Whatever it is that I need to resolve must have to wait, the first half of my high school comeback has just concluded, and quite frankly, it is all sorts of shit.

Despite the constructive criticisms, I cannot help but think more of the unconventional responses that I received. What a way to end, is it not? That gooey slime and more that ejaculated out of this little whore's mouth. That sparkling, liquid sweat that smelt of dead mice. That awful, shared spit from one mouth to the other, as I woke up unwittingly convinced of the night's alleged merriment. There was more to learn to what I see than what I actually did. This was a cherished moment of my first death, and even so the second half has nothing compared to the actual way of my learning, I will keep pushing on forward, not for any other reasons, not for my colleagues, not for my mentors, not even for myself, but for that ultimate vindication that awaits from some unknown hunch. An invisible wall that bounces the bullets right back. Only then can my broken lips be sincere, and that is all that matters for now.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Pounds of Flesh

The fifth annual London Burlesque Week – running from 26-30 April 2011 – has once again found its way throughout London town with intent to titillate and satisfy the enthusiasts and neophytes alike with erotic performances by top-tier talents found from anywhere around the globe aiming to push the boundaries of the art of the strip and the tease and undoubtedly deliver a truly memorable night that will last for the ages. Spearheaded by none other than the internationally-acclaimed producer, Chaz Royal, and presented by Secrets in Lace, this week-long event serves as a centre stage for the finest burlesque performers aiming to revive the perceived glamour of burlesque as an art. The opening gala was set in HMS President (1918), moored at the Thames with awe-inspiring panoramic views of the capital including a scintillating view of the London Eye just across. 
This event was hosted by the delightfully alluring Ivy Paige who enticed the audience at the beginning of the show with her outrageous yet hilarious banter, carefully introducing the actual performers one by one while putting on a standout performance of her own. Group performers soon began to make way for the stage in order to showcase their dance offerings and to spice up the stage while awaiting for the main course of what was to lay ahead. Soon after that, individual performers with very distinctive styles and diverse backgrounds each found their way on to the stage and presented short, sensual and artistic pieces meant only for the audiences’ amusement. First to break the ice was the beautiful Betty D’Light, who not only performed her piece with extreme precision, but also succeeding to combine grace and sensuality in her piece. Other performers that followed her are: the arousing Diva Desaster; the mystifying Missy Fatale; the sultry Marianne Cheesecake; Pinky & Lennart, who not only gave a surrealistic performance but also a laugh-out-loud moment to cherish; the elegant and unforgettable Siren Stiletto; the stunning Loulou D’Vil, oozing with sensuality and pizazz; the classy Dixie Dynamite, whose slow and steady approach to teasing greatly differs as to when she performs her impressively fast tapdancing; the voluptuous and exotic, Luna Rosa; and the royally quirky, but nevertheless erotic, Ginger Blush. 
The event shortly ended with a thunderous ovation from the crowd while the host reintroduced everyone involved in the production, from the actual performers at the beginning until the end up to the sponsors and managers, the veteran producer, and the technical assistants. 
The official website: http://londonburlesquefest.com/ 
(c) Czen Limbago 30 April 2011
  
http://fringereport.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/pounds-of-flesh/

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Baby Steps

It takes one step to form a legacy wherewith the last one having bear the stigma of failure and/or success.

Search and destroy