She’s alright. She’s okay. She’s… gonna be fine.
Thank god.
This time last year, the kissing bandit was happily intoxicated, kissing 60-odd people in wild abandon.
Today, I toasted my friend, and kicked back to sweet music. I’m getting older.
But hope exists. And knowing it does warms my heart.
Categories: Uncategorized
George Michael – Heal The Pain. His lyrics say everything.
———————-
You get what you give.
The nightmares won’t break. So in them I break.
The chilly weather may have a hand in this overwhelming bleakness. Or perhaps, ’tis everything to do with my own wintry landscape, vast and blistering. I don’t know.
I dreamt I was locked in a crystal prison — gargantuan, insolent, as infinitely unyielding as the universe. A coffin with too many angles, too many sham escape routes.
And you were there, your face multiplied million-fold against the myriad lattices, prismatic against its impure planes. You laughed. Then you mouthed, “Break free if you can, sucker.”
I tried. A futile effort, naturally, but I tried anyway. Nails tore as I tried to grasp the slick points, blood streamed freely, painting the walls a hap-hazard crimson. Just as swiftly, this gruesome splatter transformed into butterflies, black and gold, engulfing me in a frenzy. Where their wings smote the skin, gashes appeared. More butterflies.
You merely laughed.
Then they dissipated into ash, blanketing the ground like fine snow.
The body, the soul — converging into a symphony of pain. Always cresting, never subsiding.
I finally made it out. But you weren’t there.
——————–
Irony’s kinda ironic that way.
Just before I received the awful news, before I made the painful trip to the hospital, I’d spent the last few days reading Paul Levinson’s The Consciouusness Plague, a book that explored the ramfications of altering brain chemistry should antibiotics fufill their role too well.
And here I am, stricken with bone-crushing worry, hoping you’d be okay. That you wouldn’t lose your sense of self.
That you’ll be in time to celebrate your birthday next week.
——————
Mad Girl
And you. Never being able to break out of this disease, becoming a pale shadow of yourself. One where rationality has gone to naught, one that is ruled by an imaginary God.
Prisoner of your own mind, stripped of humanity. Rendered child-like, unable to live your life as you ought to.
It’s 11 years since we knew each other. It hurts to see you like this, it hurts knowing I’m not strong enough to shoulder you. I don’t have the resources, I don’t. I don’t.
——————
When the going gets tough, the tough get going
I don’t get going because running away solves nothing. I’ve always maintained that in order to move forward, one has to make her peace with her past.
Which is why I’ve learnt to compartmentalise, to let one part wither and die so that the rest can soldier on.
It’s a survival mechanism, no more no less. But when the people you love are lost in a tidal wave of grief, the gush of empathy eclipses everything else, even the defences you’ve laboriously erected.
And you’re left naked, so completely, irreversibly exposed. Shakened beyond belief.
——————-
What comes is better than what came before
Divided between this succour and another — that’s something I never thought I’d do.
But the survival mechanism must kick in. One part must wither away so the rest can soldier on. The one part that’s bled too fast, too hard, until it was eviscerated.
And I can’t bear to pen it here, so the other must suffice. To contain the raw, untamed yahoo within, the ego that hasn’t stop berating itself over its appalling lack of judgement and pragmatism, the one that will easily disavow faith, if I don’t curb it in time.
Not hiding, but… making peace.
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
Categories: Uncategorized
Third time in the ICU. Still the same unpleasant, cloying, helpless sensation through and through.
I’m numb. and worried. and hopeful. and scared.
Homily, just because I can’t bear to draft my hopes and dreams here anymore, at least, not for the present.
Categories: Uncategorized
been writing. just not here.
Categories: Uncategorized
I give up my eyes which are glass eggs.
I give up my tongue.
I give up my mouth which is the contstant dream of my tongue.
I give up my throat which is the sleeve of my voice.
I give up my heart which is a burning apple.
I give up my lungs which are trees that have never seen the moon.
I give up my smell which is that of a stone traveling through rain.
I give up my hands which are ten wishes.
I give up my arms which have wanted to leave me anyway.
I give up my legs which are lovers only at night.
I give up my buttocks which are the moons of childhood.
I give up my penis which whispers encouragement to my thighs.
I give up my clothes which are walls that blow in the wind
and I give up the ghost that lives in them.
I give up. I give up.
And you will have none of it because already I am beginning
again without anything.
– Mark Strand
———————————————————————-
So my “usual style” is just about as murky as a piddle of shit and piss? Of equal, or less in value? By saying the inverse, you’ve made your point, and viola! you’ve also perfected the art of delivering sarcasm, drip by drip — nevermind it’s something you counterclaim.
Congratulations. Make do with Mark Strand then. At least he’s been published; therefore he’s at a more advantageous position to invite constructive criticism.
And I, being a gauche wannabe, will cease penning my illiterate hopes and dreams.
From me, you’ve always got what you wanted. A free tool, a play toy, something completely dehumanized to help you get your jollies off.
Except you’ll never sully yourself by walking a bleeding fuckin’ mile in my shoes, will you?
1. Quit playing the fucking victim when I catch you on your hypocrisy by saying “you never fail to make me regret.” That should be my line, innit? What’s yours?
2. Stop twisting the story around so I’m merrily sent on a guilt-trip of your own making.
It’s high time you take bloody responsibility for WHAT YOU WRITE.
I’m past being goaded. I am not a dog for you to throw a bone at, and expect to come grovelling at your dainty princess feet. Whatever made you think that INSULTS are perfectly fine as compliments?
As you wish. My overdrawn, loquacious ramblings will no longer be an eyesore for your literary eye. As. you. wish
Take my photographs off wherever they’ve been posted. Is that clear enough? Please do not force me issue a cease and desist. By disowning them I do not sign them over to you.
Categories: Uncategorized
through the interval
breath escapes,
in swift pursuit, light.
a blank expanse folds into
itself in longing.
blanket your eyes.
they must learn to cry
in the disappointment
of light. too little, too much.
upon the cold pale sneer
of moonlight
raise your cheek,
drink the rain like cold beer,
dagger your stomach
like a half-blooded hangover.
faces decaled on colourless
acrylic. pinched, pallid.
these are shadows undiscarded
when you exit stage left.
tomorrow another coat
leaves the rack,
entwines itself around you.
supple as a lie,
warmer than desire.
in spite of its soft cheek
you plaster hope
on battle-scarred gravel,
each scrape wishing it would catch.
————————-
Load of the day:
The Innocence Mission – Edelweiss
Categories: Uncategorized
any call is better than none.
what can’t be killed in a week
is easily strangled in a month
pop the champagne.
break out the glasses.
congratulations.
————–
When trust is broken, all you’re left with is biding time. you should be feelin’ real full of yourself. for once, inaction proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
and no one should ever deserved to be treated like shit.
Categories: Uncategorized
undo whatever that
has tied immortality
to agitated yearning;
let imagination run courageous,
from this mist, this canyon’s twists.
Categories: Uncategorized
through the interval
breath escapes,
in swift pursuit, light.
a blank expanse folds into
itself in longing.
blanket your eyes.
they must learn to cry
in the disappointment
of light. too little, too much.
upon the cold pale sneer
of moonlight
raise your cheek,
drink the rain like cold beer,
dagger your stomach
like a half-blooded hangover.
faces decaled on colourless
acrylic. pinched, pallid.
these are shadows undiscarded
when you exit stage left.
tomorrow another coat
leaves the rack,
encases itself around you.
supple as a lie,
warmer than desire.
in spite of its soft cheek
you plaster hope
on battle-scarred gravel,
each scrape wishing it would catch.
————-
happily intoxicated, at the balcony of a retrofitted shophouse turned bar slash club, wondering if you’re dreaming of me.
[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]
Categories: Uncategorized
and I shall not be afraid.
Christmas Covers! (a repost)
El Vez – Feliz Navidad
The Rubber Band – Last Christmas
Categories: Uncategorized
