Lazy from C-Z

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 tr...

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 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 behi...

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 .

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

The Sanctum did little to alleviate my anxieties. I woke up half-baked feeling like a nugget hanging off a frying pan. Say farewell acrobatics! Fool such as I does little to merit such clean-shaven madness. So my day goes on the usual. And when I say usual, I mean usually bad. At least it's not halfway through. But I've been here long enough to know what it is that I know.

To go on the record I would like to say clairvoyance has particularly been a neglected, unresolved issue that concerns me. For whatever it's worth, I fear for my gullible self, for I believe not in such things, yet I am obliged to be wary of not underestimating such a powerful, enigmatic, undefinable force. When I was younger I hated wearing shoes due to the fear of cockroaches living inside one of them. I've never even for a second experienced such a thing let alone heard anyone experiencing this sort of absurd and paranoid idea. One day it just happened. Just like that. I put on my shoes -- and as fast as I could flick my finger -- this tiny cunt flew out of my Nike, crashed at my carpals and oozed its way from there to the radius and almost to the clavicle before it leapt to its doom to the ground where my mighty Nike awaits. I've never been so equally grossed out and bloodthirsty at the same time in my life. But this moment proved mightily a lesson for I.  ...

I told her nothing of relevance; only minor details, precautions, sweet impulses to show my passive aggression. This woman is as thick as a rock. Wishing I could penetrate through her blue barriers. My reputation had been salvaged to a point of no return. The eyes of peers pierce through me even without direct contact. This is no exaggeration. The fact of the matter is that she just doesn't give two shits about me. This isn't the low self-esteem talking either. I know. You just know. You just fucking know when to stop. And I clearly should before it consumes me whole. Now someone told me my mind is not me. I wholeheartedly agree. Even an inch of my mind's machinations, I find, are barely coherent, although manageably flexible, meticulous, and smart. The person that stares back at the mirror, on the other hand, is indecisive, immature, incompetent, bipolar, and nihilistic. Two completely separates entities both drawn together by the same neurotransmitters. Quite Jun...

In my dream I witnessed bridges torn asunder by the wrath of my own hands. Swaying and swaying and swaying, back and forth, left and right, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, and swaying. The sky was dark by the smoke with which the torches breathe, and on the following minute an explosion so devastating the world experienced a monumental crash. All by my doing and everyone staring at me from below with vile and intent. They rebel against the cause by which their lives were put upon. But there was no cause. Destruction is neither my salvation nor theirs. Neither my entertainment nor theirs. There are things that least require comprehension. There are things that just go out of the way of their course and into new velvet. An elevator, when my best friend fell from the topmost part crevice, woke me up to a deep, dark breathlessness in bed, confused without relief. The blanket comforts from my trapezius up to the ankles, all except the toes. The bridges I tore a...

Infiltrators crushing in at every angle flanking at all corners We stood at the edge of the world's mightiest battle The conduit rose from its blue mystic light Illuminating the heavens with its cold, beaming might Shattering all forms of life as they please The morning comes with an early breeze But the night's shadow looms the sun still The planet's doom was all that seems to kindle In the eyes of a forgotten moccasin While a child burns feet first on dreams upon dreams Indoctrination, subjugation, limitation, dreams Rise mighty monarch and harvest Show us what it means to be alive Show us our hopes and dreams Show us, show us your power Power through domination Power through destruction

Not sure about LISPA anymore. Three more months to go and yet here I am ready and willing to finally just let go. Or maybe not. The fun is no longer there. The quality of feedback diminishes quicker than we can finish the Tragic Chorus. It’s hopeless. There is no right amount of justification for what is about to transpire. All I hope is that for all the things that were left high and dry to help me carry on beyond the works of this putrid environment I am at now. The very term ‘physical theatre’ sounds like a very enticing prospect for one such as me, who’s about (or already had) to venture into an unknown abyss of art and creation. But as I have learned the hard way, it contradicts itself with its own label. The aspects which can be traced easily to the core of the definition; the ‘physical’ aspect and the ‘theatre’ aspect. Whichever way you’re looking at it, it doesn’t have to make sense. For many artists, or for the self-proclaimed ones, the subjective point of view in all a...

Something, or someone, inexplicable whispers vague and ambiguous words and exclamations inside me, unabridged and longing, enigmatic and supercilious in nature. There is something needed to be done, and is to be done by me alone. These whispers, somewhat incoherent, resonate a resounding translation that even though and despite the confusion, it remains adamant, optimistic, confident, as if I were involved in some sort of serendipitous conspiracy that is bound to deliver, bound to occur. Then I took a step forward in order to test this imposing force, and sighed, at the very relief of having still that freedom to think that I am able to think if indeed there was that possibility to step forward. My mind, as proof of this experiment, is still mine and mine alone. But this thing desires one thing, and only one thing, and it wants me to discover this, to find out for myself what it most likely means to be completely free. Very free. Maybe a million miles away but still free. I say my nam...

Time never stood still as I would have wanted. Even for a second a huge difference it may incur. The mornings stay stagnant, lazy, and unwilling cooperation lingers like oil in water. The music enlightens the view, Man Gave Name To All The Animals, too much relaxation and not much effort pushed. Still on the buff, and strong smell clogging the nostrils from the gamma radiations. Typical Thursday, no. Unwashed dishes from the night before, bones and plastic glass, not a sign of productivity. Noises from the window beside me tickle, as if they drew me into the equation, into the madness of what's beyond that. What is beyond that is the goal. Two ways. Love or life. The salty tears from her masturbating finger drip from her vibrating Mr. Pinkie. She shows me her smile again, then her breasts, and she touches them, and shakes them manically. Turns around to show her ass cheeks. Where the fuck is my erection? She smiles and turns towards me, making funny fac...

In her chubby face the shadow looms Tomorrow is something to reminisce However improbable or true Decadence serves like penance For those whose egos are sharp as thorns Double penetration One for the touchdown The other an anal cucumber A woman of a slut of a face There is that light It never faded out And love blooms

There is a severe lack of snowfall for supposedly winter nights recently that I find it hard to take this cold seriously, I opined in order to make a point-blank decision for footwear preferences. It's always difficult to make choices based on others miserable sense of entitlement, that certain way of telling you that you are no longer in tip-top shape as you were, that you are out of their league of fashion, and that your social life is impeded by how you choose to look or act in a certain, even if peculiar, way.

By Steel and Blood: Chance Encounter I could almost feel my hard-hitting aggressor closing in on me from behind those bushes, intently eyeing me with devious intent, waiting for the right circumstance to attack, beefing up its strategy to catch me off-guard. In a sense I pity this creature in that I am always one step ahead of it. To think that it actually and instinctively believes that it has already etched my demise, it boosts my great pleasure to know I would not think twice of cutting its breath off its lungs. My dagger alone would make swift action of it and I'd spare it of the pain, just because I'm feeling a bit giving as of lately. This bonfire in front of me is at its twigs' end, and once it loses its luminance then I'm pretty sure the wily creature would flank me from behind. Three minutes in, fire struggles for breath, and it begins to drizzle, killing off the very last one. My enemy steps out of the bush, drool dripping from its sharp, murderous fang...

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. Ho...

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 relat...

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

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 ...