Lazy from C-Z

Roxi

There is nothing more that can ruin a man's night than a missed kiss. A kiss so close you lean for it and then her head just moves away like an infant who wanted nothing to do with food. It plagued my night and day and the following night and day again. I am clearly not meant for this task. For what it is worth, it is high time for me to ruin my life further and detach and dissociate myself from the rest of the outside world for the third time, further destroying my faith and sanity on my own self and the entire humanity. Regardless of what has been said, I do not condone this and I have yet to feel a dysfunction creep right through me.

Roxana found herself outside my doorsteps unexpectedly. I did not even have the time to react. It was the shittiest time she could shown herself there, and now I reap what I have sown. Of course, I wish it was under better circumstances that we found ourselves swimming over. When I opened the door, she had a fag in her gabber and I just stood there lifeless and gutted, feigning for a hug. Was I the one that influenced her the error of my ways? She had always appeared tired whenever she graced herself in presence. Her face was slightly red, swollen by fatigue, the pores on her cheeks form tiny craters side by side. Her golden hair, ruined by the wind and rain's wicked howl, was missing a slight tint. She had centaur thighs after walking all day, and she had not a single penny for god knows why or how. But there I stood across her body that reeked of toxic air, seducing this woman with my lacklustre charm. It was a shitshow, that one, clearly, but we were making the most out...

Much has been done but very little in fact Such is the state of the man whose heart remains intact When it should have leapt the risk of being broken When the night was whiskful and both of us downtrodden I was a foolish man to think that it was fine In fact it hurt a lot It was such a selfish act Please give me one more chance

I think it was the colour of her melon-shaped face that turned me completely off. She was so photogenic though. When she -- a stranger to me back then -- had asked me whether or not she could stay at my place for a few days or so, who was I to say no? She had captivated me fully with a photograph, and all I could do was to submit my faith fully. Just this one time , I remember whispering to myself. And then never again . But I was obviously lying to myself. There was another thing already lined up even before this transaction with a stranger was finalised. There she was, standing in a corner, waiting for me. The first thing that I had noticed was her hair. It was unkempt, sort of untidy, very unlike the one in her photograph. Did she deceive me? was my initial reaction. When I had glanced at her face for the first time, she seemed totally different than was expected and yet somehow still uncannily familiar. She looked exactly like the woman that I had shared intimate time...

Little did she know that the moment she walked into the door she had submitted herself at the mercy of his manipulative ways. What remained of her freedom was outed as a mere illusion and her future rests in his inability to organise his own. She was as helpless as tofu is alternative to pork. She could not have foreseen the error of her ways so soon. Well, she learned now and learned she did. Whenever he used her body as if it was a tool of possession used only to be discarded again and again, she would always turn a blind eye. She had convinced herself that her soul was loosely detached from the physical aspect of her being, and that whatever cruelty and violence he inflicted upon her sexuality would only be but a scratch to the core of her humanity. He was not a thoroughly deplorable person, and she at times found herself at the other end of a blissful climax as well as falling into the disappointment of not being able to fully satisfy their own. The mechanics of the body i...

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before It is always so fucking exhausting when the body anticipates waking up before the alarm is able to. Feels as if your entire physical will crumble on you at any time during the day without a moment's hesitation. Clearly I have had no rest. But that's hardly the truth. I do in reality had enough of rest. The problem is when the time of rest doesn't even abide by any schedule and you wake up late at night not knowing what to do afterwards. My schedule was to head to Brighton. After all these fuckingly retarded years. Iceland instigated all of this, and I am yet in the same bind; cash was scarce and nobody was there to lift me back up to save me from myself. It is a sad state of affairs indeed; now I comtemplate whether the plan to visit Sabrina in Wien was a good idea. There is nothing here for me in London but an unlimited supply of restarts, after all. I had arrived in Euston with enough time to roam abou...

What a day! What a lovely day! Some days you develop a nagging intuition that a particular day was destined to be epic, storied, and one to treasure to heart only to end up being just the total opposite. Saturday was one of these days. A couple of days prior to this monumental disappointment, I had inquired of Iceland's condition through Facebook after he disappeared without a trace on our last night out to Shoreditch. He responded with, " I was running for half an hour totalky [sic] drunk ." He was trying to catch the last train to Watford. To tell the truth, he was quite the troublesome sod that night. All the women in our group were bothered by his unkindly behaviour; Eva, Monica, Bruna, Erica, Susana, and another Brazilian whose name escapes me (probably rhymes with Ferefa or Fafala or Falala, whatever other common Portuguese-sounding name derivative it was), were somewhat livid. Me and Eva happen to be wiggl...

She had some sort of wicked mystery to her; the kind that suffocates a man with temptation and desire. One that I wanted no part of, and yet here I stand ranting about her effects on my character, as if a mouse allured by the music of a pied piper. Fitting that the aforementioned woman here is from Vienna, where music plays a vital role in its culture. Where symphonies and orchestras, balls and whatnot, intertwine to form a cavalcade of passion, decadence, and other posh leanings. Suffice to say I am intrigued by the prospect of a short visit in her motherland, if also only to see Sabrina in all her glory. It had been such a long time since we last shared the same air and space, and eager to create new crooked smiles and tragic mishaps. However, this woman in question is not Sabrina. She is of a different flavour and context; she is fire when Sabrina is ice; she is work when Sabrina is play; she is ambition when Sabrina is happiness. One whos...

Once there came a man of youth who fought for life as if he fought for love; He had no spouse nor child nor pet; only a pen which he grips on to like a moth to a flame. His weapon completes him; it complements his strength as a vagabond. No other tool is more useful than when he seeks the right word, for the right time, and for the right moment. Everything else in the world they stutter but words Words carry a man steadfastly in time Words give value to a man's present in someone else's present in time.

There are lots of things to like about a good night out when you happen to wake up the following afternoon dishevelled and nauseous, ready for another go, and aching to jump back into the fray of that missed opportunity. I played with some woman's heart. In the end, she played mine. She always wins. No matter who this "she" happens to be at any given moment. If you ask me whether or not I do regret these, well, to be honest, sometimes, yes. I never get things right the first time. Repetition is something that is etched into my core that whenever I fail to get the chance to do something all over again, I lose all momentum. That was what happened to Mioseon, and everything else good that happened before or after that. My profession, if you even call it that, has the same conundrum, and now it's buried amongst the long-forgottens. Before Friday night, Angelo asked me to tell Eva to come join his party. She immediately responded, and it was a foolish thing for me to ...

The smell of food attracts the prey. I fell for it, it seems. There was no miracle in my life but the sound of her voice. Hoarse, but oddly comforting. Ugly. Rather enchanting, however, was the habit of having to listen to it every day. The first wind of her morning breath permeating in bed. As foul a smell as turd can be. But I had no cause to complain. Morning sex. She responds, never resists. It was anticlimactic, and how can one reach climax in something like that? Underwhelming, sure. Nauseating, yes. Definitely aversive. But... doesn't it always ,  always , always  seem to go that you never know what you have until it's gone?

Was I ever wrong? About things. Things that influenced me, big or small. Boy, was I ever wrong about things. But I could never tell where it was that I was wrong. About things. Only that I was wrong, and now that I admit that I was wrong I still will be wrong. Over and over. Again and again. And pretend I never was. Even if I am. Because I just know now that I am and will always be wrong. Even if.

Thus began a new chapter in my book of life. Armed with jazz, I move on towards new endeavours. Officially I am now alone. As if I was ever in the company of someone else's. It's hard to assume the best when the worst keep imposing itself upon me. Independence, what do I make of it? I could run off now to who-knows-who and god-knows-where. At least I have some semblance of sanity knowing I can express my thoughts now, if this is what would pass as. I try to be decent. I try to blend in, to actually flow along the tide now. Tomorrow I have a guest at home, and it's been years since the last. Feels like forever. It is forever. The past year or two, a blur. A blur of literal nothingness, no jest, of my own doing. Rebellion of a heart that will forever feel slighted. No voice of reason. No one to calm my wits to tell me all is right. Every single thing is a sham, and now I swim with the shammery and yada-yada. Let's taste the shit that shit will endure. Father,...

I want to walk but not run; Running tires me easily And I still have a long way to go; If for a chance I fall I'll just lie down and rest and keep going when the sun has rested as much as I have

And suddenly I'm wanted It feels nice to be loved Now I feel that strange burden again Holding me back Acting as if love is a crime And I don't deserve it It just would not satisfy No matter what I do I appreciate it I really do But I have been kept in the dark for some time now That any light shining through my eyes Feels ten times as painful So this fear inside me is growing Out of something very beautiful I cannot foresee a happy ending to this I just want to run away But then where do I go from here? Scratch that I have an infinite number of places to go The problem is where to stay

Something dawned on me yesterday. Despite my inner desires to break free but the shackles of my whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, I was never really even that. Subconsciously, it was something else, and I still could not comprehend why deep down what I wanted was never really what I needed. So when Erica invited me to come with them and a new (some at least) group of people, all of a sudden, there was no longer any urge from me to go, but still I did, not out of necessity of whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, but because I want to be in the company of acquaintances I have, in a span of weeks, grown fond of.

A Priori (310715) But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfilment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?

Feels I am dancing mad for sure The birds would sing in unison Where words are gone and feathers undulate The lone rooster then losts in tune And if by chance the hens dominate He gives himself into the disguise There always is one that draws him in Even if none of them fall under the spell So then we act the fool and wait A weeklong agony, a fistful of despair O longing bring the birds back their flair! Give the man a one for heaven's sake It's not every day joy slips into view When as slippery as slime it bleeds mocked Heads will roll and we try again Three hours worth of fantasy in a world where make-believe is an empty endeavour. How can my murder rejoice to this then? Week after week after week Then goodbye, nothing more How droll! Prithee bring me back my hopes and fears!  My tragedies and desires! Nights spent awake in excitement Over joy, over hope, over love, over you.

How long is a week to someone dogged by some unresolved vitality? Not too long perhaps but the feeling is nevertheless torturous. To chase the wind and have it easily swept away in an instance, there is no life ever so lonelier. It becomes sort of a motif in this routine to wake up only wanting to go back to bed and hoping not to break free from a more tantalising fantastical reality wherein my smiles are fully-formed and in actuality more recognised than here in this very plane we are in, where there is more of isolation and ignorance than pleasance. It is simply not right - to chide man for the everyday coincidences of life; this beauty is far more encompassing than ever thought realised. It is then to that reality that a man, even if he or she is one step ahead of every one else, will always remain in this plane of reality unahead; the illusion of their observed advantaged is neither misplpaced nor mistaken, it is simply a matter of perspective.