Lazy from C-Z

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.

Continuation of: 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 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 me

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 lig

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...... ?

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.

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

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.

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.

'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-age

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 tak

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,

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 outra

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