Thursday, 29 December 2011

Fuck the Olympics!


Fuck the Olympics!

Driven out of home of this unusually funny circumstance, greed takes over and manifests itself early on. The revelry isn't even here until six months or so. Funny how individuals anticipate the eagerness of money in it. I so happen to live quite literally just across the stadium and now these said individuals (and agencies, for that matter) are pushing me away to make money off of it. I'll have none of this. I have little care for this event as I am not a man driven of other people's sheer hype nor does patriotism have anything to do with it. I was just fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to live somewhere very close to where the event takes place and where it also happens that my workplace is but a walking distance away from where I am (3 Mills Studios). 

I pay 600£ a month. Too much for even I myself, alone, to pay. Now they're asking for a walloping price of 8,000£ for just two months due to this Olympic thing that I dare not bother. Holy shit! Something there just isn't right, I know. So much for the holiday spirit. I come home only to find out that I need to vacate the place for some people who are financially willing to shell out that much amount of money. If I had the resources I would pay the individual responsible for this whole fiasco that same amount of money just so I could literally shove it up his or her ass afterwards.

Now, utterly homeless, plagued by thoughts on where to begin rebuilding, I just had to vent out this silliness for others to hear. I admit I didn't argue much my cause as there is no need to see fit as to where I stand in this whole issue. I know either way I'd still lose one way or another. It's just pathetic how everything went the way it did. Yes, they didn't give me an ultimatum to leave until March or June but I don't intend to stay short-term knowing I'd still have to go eventually, I might as well just leave as soon as possible. They're still squeezing money off of me no matter what actions I take, and the longer I stay, the longer this frustration continues. It baffles my mind to no extent, and I blame nothing but the Olympics event for all of this. Not that they're the ones to blame, but only because it grievously causes ripples of misfortune to innocent people who are within its boundaries where it should not overstep.

And I was the one person who was months ago so proud of this place, only to be shoved away like a non-contributing zero of the population, divided only by money and circumstance and of ulterior motives by corporate greed ultimately caught unawares.

Friday, 23 December 2011

So I May Bury Myself In You

They speak praises of your illness, the warning signs of decay overshadowing my carcinogens, a full frontal view of your wonderful countenance. Not I, where was I, there I was, clueless, known to self as the Unabomber, plotting nothing for our fateful beginning. Poverty is neither crime nor vice, an old man falling in love. Forgive the child in the woman, the woman is a child. Her smile, her unique ability, her magical sensitivities, at a ripe age for humour and my kiss. Here waiting, never letting go, smiling for tomorrow's carols, a snowless escapade in a wonderland of dreams. Her face undeniably persistent, whispers, disavows.

Seasons greetings pass, but the fucks I give amount to a variable of none. She is the one, the only light in the manger, the solitary north star together alone. We strive to push boundaries, a cabaret night full of merriment, imbibing throughout the darkness of day, the gloom streets of London town on a middle day noon. Our victory will signal a relationship, bound by our insecurities, separate to the world and separation from everythingness. We signal our time to shine, our moment to bask in our glories, together as one, greater than any sexual urges of the carnal. This, my time, as it wills it burns anew, flanked by the pursuit of greatness, as a smoke-filled air envelops our dreams, riding on to our faith. My hands wrapped around your breasts, gripped tight, as yours hug my head tightly beneath the warmth of our embrace.

We woke up in the silence of everyday. This forest is now our home. We lost our willingness to parade, and instead accepts our oneness to the soil, so that I may bury myself in you, and you to I.

Monday, 19 December 2011

Kim Jong-Il


North Korea is no longer Best Korea. Good night sweet prince.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

Hypostandard

The mother stares at the television, tsk-ing and saddened by the sudden flood on an old memory of a city from the mother country. His husband of many years sits by beside her, tentatively watching the sad news himself, purposefully denying any allegations of sympathy. Like the son. Totally annoyed by seeing his mother's unfounded empathy. She continually yells from the room, converting the mood around, bidding mournful shrieks of helplessness. The lingering smell of boiling vegetable oil does not make things easier, in fact. The son's schadenfreude ticks itself off. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself, while his mother prays for things to become better. The old folks were supposed to go to church that evening, only halted by the undying sweat of cold from the bitter air. The son hates it all. He would have none of it. Exasperated by his mother's lame philanthropic ideals, poor as they are, troubled a family as they are. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself again, as he crawls towards his sister's bed as music blares off from his laptop computer overlapping the voices of the news from the telly. He drowns himself completely unawares. He takes a peek, try not as he might; death toll rises to a half-thousand. 'Fuck that,' he thinks. 'Fuck it all.'

The mother walks away and comes across a sachet of instant coffee from a table. 'Whose is this?' Nobody responds. She sets it aside and goes out, disappearing from the son's periphery. Silence, at long last, soliloquy from the son. But not long after she returns bearing a cup of hot water.

'Do you work on Christmas?' asks the mother.

'I do not know,' the father replies. 'Maybe. But the cold'll kill me.'

She grabs the sachet of coffee from where she left it and tears it open, mixes it up with the hot water she held in her cup. Slowly the positive aroma fills the ugly stench of the room.

'It's not like before,' tiptoeing towards her bed. 'It's only bad when the air hits your face hard.'

The son remains indifferent, drowned in his own sea of thoughts. The father never answered.

Then the news changes its tone to a more comedic turn. She stares at it with hard intent and full of contentment, speaking to herself as she does, even in her sleep. She mocks at the celebrity shown on the screen, and unbeknownst to the outside world, completely destroys the integrity of her opinion from her previous comment five minutes ago. The son looks on, brimming with confused delight, while the father takes a nap, all tired and weary.

Embrace, A Cacophonous Murmur

It was a joyous occasion marred only by sentimentality. Everything was going according to an unprecedented plan, an instinctive flow, and then introduced into a world of vivid colours. I was smack-dabbed in the middle of it all, a wayward mobile leading an unknown course. There I found love once more, not once, but twice, but three times. Still I sense there were more to it than just that. But for now I have to settle with just the melancholy, the bitterness of having none at all.

Three loves in one whole day... what a strange sensation. Fuck me for assuming but there it is. For a whole life of waiting this sure feels like a heavy burden to reconsider. I am not alpha nor am I clinquant. I am but a vessel of pure mediocrity and/or suckage. Or maybe I need to work more on my insecurities. Maybe I do, maybe I don't.

Too much of Nietzsche hurts, too little of sunshine burns.

I saw opportunity in the eyes of another. Freddie, is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy? Or is this just stupid serendipity whispering at my thoughts, ejaculating its white ooze all over my mind? No more alcohol for awhile, not even Christmas, nor New Year. But I have to remember the conditions. I must persevere. I must get the answers from that night, whether or not it meant something. Tell me, does the tattletale truth ever hinder somebody else's blanket of night lies? Surely not. That's what's amazing about lies, about pretensions, about being someone else you're not. That's why I'm taking up physical theatre, am I not?

My sleeping mind, which has a heart of its own, is half-awakened now, lethargic from all the boredom and mediocrities encircling all around. I've found something I wouldn't have found a year ago. It is a terrible fate, one whose murderous desires coincide with my belief of nothingness. And Louis would make it clear to me that beliefs are just that: beliefs. Nothing else, nothing more. People love to pretend they feel something for their beliefs. Not me. They're there to keep me warm but it helps so little. Unless an extremist walks into a busy edifice in the middle of Holborn and boom-booms it apart.

So now my priorities lie elsewhere once again. Like I always do, like I always fail to do, that is.

The night belongs to us.

Lost my heart, lost my mind

Funny things happen when least expected, or so is always the case. The call for something good breathes life off of my kindred spirit and bears some sort of increasing strength. I wouldn't want to assume. I've had similar feelings in the past, only to crash and burn simultaneously on my face and long since forgotten.

It feels good to wake up once more unhindered by time, but so is sadly the case.

The days leading to this always has something naughty up its sleeve. Last year I had an almost identical situation. Whatever this is doing to me now is unfortunately maybe just a fluke.

I need to go back and make sure. Please bring me somewhere concrete. Leave the theatrics on stage, this is my life we are talking now.

First stop: Party Fiesta.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Infatuations Never

Rather no sleep at all than three hours of sleep and eyes droopy as any fuck. Poor old sod. December screams freeze! I turn to find a wailing banshee with self-inflicted tinnitus. One slap and back on my feet. I'm sick and tired of these sacrifices. They laugh, I laugh, every single one of the bodies laugh for reasons unknown. Reach the slums -- only to find it left by itself, to loot and plunder by the vanguard of ideas and proposals. There it is. Her smile, he remembers. But why? I shouldn't. I couldn't. Of all the baddest of bad luck.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Dottore

Transcript for epic fucking fail:

Good day, boytoys and gentlemen! My name is Bruce Danus, a strategist, an obsessive dilettante, and writer of best-selling historiographic metafictions, A Gentle Molestation and A Winner is You.

You can visit my website at www.brucedanus.com for more details.

I am here today to proudly unveil my next greatest lordnovel yet.

Pre-order it now and get a lifetime supply of malfunction which will greatly aid readers who have then suffered from delusions of grandeur!

Before the unveiling I would like to share a little story about something: When I was young I married a woman from a boring country called Brassiere where every day people eat coxinha, horrible food made of elephant turd and monkey meat. She used to feed it to me, her mother, her sister, her sister’s mother’s sister, and every woman in the land. Ever since then I developed a longstanding loathing for women.

My wife eventually left me. I could hardly give a rat’s ass. Although my hatred for womenkind grew more and more.

According to the scriptures, in the beginning God made the Earth and rested. Then God created man and rested. Then God created woman. And ever since then, neither God nor man has rested.

Without further ado, I would like to introduce to all of you the genius that is me: Misogyny Makes Me Happy, a novel for the appreciation of male chauvinism. I’ve always held that belief that real manhood must be earned by merit.

Nature intended women to be our slaves. They are our property. That is a universal fact! It is also an arithmetical fact that women are evil.

According to one of the most clinquant minds of history, a man, Bollock O’Bauer, pioneer and great hero, who single-handedly revolutionised science with his formulation of the theory of relativity and chronosynclastic infundibulum quantum magnum magickum rectum bada boom bada boom biggus dickus philippatosa...

He said:

[white board]

Equality Schmality.

Women will never be equal to men unless they walk down the street with a bald head and beer gut, and still be able to think their sex is on fire.

Hold on a sec... [phone]

Splendid news! I’ve received word that my wife has died in a ‘freak’ accident (FUCK YEAH) and now I must hurry to attend the hearing for her last will and testament. Toodle-oo, bitches!

Thursday, 1 December 2011

Icari (Woebegone)

For a man so free that light encompasses
There with him solace levitating besides his yellow wings
From there it speaks with its harrowing presence
Not a voice nor a sound but only a sightly sign
His freedom brims, his body tucks into itself
For flesh is weak that no freedom shall abide
A prison yet still even including his masticating aileron
An oxymoron, wherever it begins

Anaesthesia

Confidence does not always guarantee a safe passage to anywhere. Your nerves will find a way to break you down, push you further to the hole you dug on to, and bury you along with all your pathetic tears. There's no other nicer ways of putting it, truth be told, and before the clock strikes past quarter to ten, everything begins to illuminate themselves, then you see what it is that truly excites you: rage.

Search and destroy