Friday, 11 May 2012

Time to stop wondering and redirect everything instead of counting sheep in hope for far-fetched dreams

I met a brick wall today and it told me tons of things I would have never ever dreamt about.

It told me some mundane ideas of where to go, what to do, and things to accomplish. It's like a wisdom wall or something, all old and knowing, solitary and tranquil, guileless and green. It spoke to me on a harsh bass voice that vibrated throughout the space. It told me things about the spirit and how the spirits are nothing more than shallow machinations of the psyche. It told me things about archetypes and how these castings seem to attach itself to the benevolent creator. I could not respond to the complexities of its choice of words. They were much to deep for someone as fragile as my sensitivities. All I did was nod to everything it said, down to the questionable and to the stuff that sort of made sense. I squat on the floor and listened to it speak for some hours straight, moving incessantly here and there to stretch those wobbly joints. It spoke about politics, it spoke about truth, it spoke about fidelity, it spoke about redemption, it spoke about love.

In the end I'd have none of it. I've been to stubborn all my life to accept now the gifts of grace. So I shut my mind down into a vegetative state, smashing my medulla oblongata head-first into it. The impact exposed the creases that came with age and down came the sodding brick system. It gazed at me with its solid, red eyes and I felt as though it aimed to curse me upon realisation, but it came to my senses that walls have sensitivities too. So I apologised, and apologised sincerely at that. I asked the thing, what are you doing? It said it was gathering its wits and that I should gather what's left of mine as well. I told it, there are no wits to be found here. It replied, 'Then clearly you're missing the point.' I didn't know what to say back, and so I asked myself what it meant about the point. What is the point? More importantly, what is a point?

My friend left without saying a single word. It just tiptoed its way towards the other side. I could hear loud footsteps coming from its Wellington boots. I've seen these types squander around trying to convince others to do the same, speaking in pseudo-philosophical tones, saying pseudo-rational things, doing pseudo-mechanical movements to prove the point.

I needed to catch the train of passion so I moved sluggishly towards the station. I saw a dung beetle beating the shit out of a roach. I could hear my thoughts say, what a nasty world we live in. It saw me as I was passing by and it asked me where its carapace was. I claimed, out of whim, to have seen it two kilometres down the lane as I was walking by. It smiled and gave me a word of thanks and left. The roach looked at me with intent, its antennae wiggling like a worm. I looked away and moved forward. I could still feel its sights burning through my neck and spine, but I told myself, it's just a fucking cockroach. It can't do much to harm me anyway so why should I bother. I reached the station and reached for my oyster card. It says I still have a total of £2.30 in that account, enough for one trip to go to Bullhorn, where I knew I'm going to find my answer. The answer to the question of what the point was. To me that was all that mattered for this day and nothing else. A guy in blue with a funny-looking moustache eyeing me from the corner was suspicious of my actions so I decided to move quickly. I turned back and saw the roach queueing from behind, still looking at me with its mischievous stare. At that moment I wanted to stick a blade into its fat pincers. But that is not my true nature. I nodded at him and moved on yet again.

The guy in blue walks straight towards me. I didn't know what to do so I paused, pretending to search for something inside my pocket for something I've forgotten. This guy draws closer and closer. I find a funny-shaped pen-like thing inside my left pocket so I drew it out and aimed it at the guy, begging and warning him to stand back. He held his arms up and asks me to lay it low. How can I lay low with this constant distraction abusing my freedom? All of a sudden, the cockroach leaps at me from behind and pins me hard to the ground, locking my arms and feet with its slimy appendages, secreting a seemingly unlimited supply of glue-like goo from my spine down to my ankles. The last thing I remembered before passing out was a roundhouse kick to the head by the guy in blue. He did it while my face was sucking a dry gum off the ground. I would have been impressed, if it wasn't me who was at the receiving end of that blow.

When I came to senses I woke up beside a park. There was a sign that said, S15 Pilkington. What the fuck was I doing in Pilkington? I grabbed my pocket for my mobile phone but it wasn't there. Someone must have taken it while I was out cold. My oyster card, my mollusc card, my nipple list included. So I waited and waited for hours under the night light staring at a star. Just one star. Which was staring right back at me from the sky. It tried to communicate but I declined the enticing offer. I was too depressed to engage in some form of conversation right now. These imbeciles never understand the concept of privacy. Instead I told it to wake me up at first light. It replied, in a snarky tone, 'But you'll never see me during the day.' I felt like smashing my head on to the sign post. Do not be that stupid, I said. 'I'm not being,' it replied. I don't have to see you for you to wake me up! I completely snapped at it.

It disappeared without saying a word.

I fell into deep sleep. When I woke up, here I am, right now, in search for a sudden way out and a point. The truth is, there really is no point.

I begin to hum the tune and say the words, 'Time to stop wondering and redirect everything instead of counting sheep in hope for far-fetched dreams.'

Thirty days of solitude was all it took for me to realise my mistakes. The lights have turned green, and finally I caught the last train of passion heading home.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Wimbrow, for a day, maybe tomorrow, maybe not

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn't your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgement upon you must pass.
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the guy staring back from the glass.

He's the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.

She said, 'No.' I said, 'Okay.'

She came in gunning for fishes in the sea staring at a dead watch while a crowd of salty marauders looked on. They were all cheering for her success. And this one guy stood with these people. He looked on, chewing on to his fingernails, dancing hard and deep in his own reveries. The lady drops her watch and dives deeper down into the abyss. Everyone yells her name over and over and over again even though she hears not a single word coming out of their mouths. She presses on, he sees her clearly from above; they both knew the risks involved.

He senses something unusual in the distance. A disturbance, a wave, ripples to her direction disrupting all forms of attempt to reach the destination. A hammerhead and its laser-light eyes sparkle within the dark, blue waters rushing ever faster to her location. She learns of the disruption and swims hastily downwards taking more of her breath and air than necessary.

When she could no longer seem to evade the terror that lurks behind her, she drew a last gasp of breath, drawing in bits of liquid into her diminishing lifestream. But recognising the inevitability of her demise, she eventually slows down. The hammerhead draws closer, its sights locked into her spine, and senses the victory it so wrongfully deserves. The people react with gasps and silences as they looked on from above. Her death would mean so little and so big.

She closes her eyes and hard-grasps the watch enduring the fate she faces. And moments later she gives one last thought about the people she disappointed, the same group of marauders that cheered for her name some seconds ago. Neither of them finding the will nor the determination to salvage whatever hope remains for this helpless lass that sees death as natural selection.

These sadism-holics, these masochism-phobics.

Ten seconds past and nothing. Whatever this predator intends, it delays. To savour the moment? Improbable chance. She opens half an eye. The waves seem to decrease in force. The hammerhead is ahead of her instead of behind, swimming towards an opening in the reef, minding its own damned business. The colour of her sight  changes from sky photon to dark grape. The taste is exquisite and heavy. She pushes back up for air.

The roars of the marauders deafen mother earth. She was safe, for the moment.

She turns to the crowd, glancing from left to right. Nothing. Her eyebrows crumple into frustration and still nothing. Her respirations increase, her blood beating warmly to her chest, her teeth gnashing as if thawed ice. The man she is searching for is gone.

The woman dives right back into the water and into the maroon-like area where she left. She finds a severed hand still bleeding being dragged by the undulation. Her disbelief materialises into solid as she grabs the hand and discovers it missing some of its nails.

These entertainment-holics, these boredom-phobics.

She sets the hand aside together with the watch as she swims ever so deeper that the persons watching from above could no longer see her. The final bubbles of her breath comes to a stop. The people cheered none the louder. She would never be seen again.

Wednesday, 2 May 2012


I've always maintained my ignorance. It is my very strength and it will serve its intended purpose as my weapon for success. Twain would have been so proud. He would have walked towards me in my victory party and left me his regards, probably a lifelong advice of more ignorance. His path is now my path. His words are now mine. Every literal translation buried deep into conscious, possibly forgotten even before utility. All I need is confidence. The will to keep my knees on its toes and let perfection slip the moment for once, que sera sera.

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Dance of the centipede

Tonight is the dance of the lonely hearts’ field
Tonight the moon dances while the violent sharkskins burn
Tonight there will be no sadness only pain
For immediate purposes and hasty returns
Tonight the centipede rises and falls to the ground

Search and destroy