She says
While she's running through the forest
In a long black dress
Stitched from the tatters of hopes and regrets
"Noli Me Tangere
For Caesar's I am"
She said as she ran
In the palm of his hand
"Noli Me Tangere
For Caesar's I am"
Just leaves a man
Fist full of sand
She says
While she scrambles through the forest
In a violent red
She wears at his behest
"Noli Me Tangere
For Caesar's I am"
She screamed as she ran
Her dreams and her plans
"Noli Me Tangere
For Caesar's I am"
The queen of the damned
To sleep in his hand
She says
While she's running through the forest
In cobwebbed threads
They're all that's left
"Noli Me Tangere
For Caesar's I am"
She sighed as she ran
Away from my hand
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
The KOTD 2v2 Grand Prix: A Look Back
Within the field of battle rap, the tournament format has proven to be one of the most unpredictable, respite with upsets and calls of robbery by the fans. This year witnessed the second annual King of the Dot Grand Prix, sequel to the inaugural event that crowned Arcane as Grand Prix champion. Before the tournament officially began there were qualifiers that showed shades of things to come. Highlights included Lokust whipping out a fork and Tricky P whipping out a harmonica in highly unorthodox displays of rap showmanship. I'll admit that at every step of the way, my expectations were subverted, and by the tournament's shocking conclusion, even those who disagreed with the decision can't deny that it was an exciting ride.
The initial round of the tournament sparked controversy for a myriad of reasons. There was a heated verbal confrontation between Manik and Illmaculate following the latter's victory in the Vancouver leg of the tourney, which nearly culminated in a physical exchange. The incident itself generated conversation about a match-up that in all honesty was an easy win for West Coast veterans Illmaculate and Thesaurus. To the east a veritable uproar arose when Calgary division partner and soon to be King of the Dot champion Sketch Menace and his partner Nebula beat opponents Chedda Cheese and Ubiquitous in a decision that would be heavily disputed on the internet. That battle has been widely accepted as one of the most definite robberies in the history of the written battle rap format, and I don't disagree with that assertion. Yet more controversy was generated in the Montreal division clash between locals Chuggo and Scynikal and American fan favourites Real Deal and Fresco. The match sparked conversations about a crowd that clearly favoured the local team and ate up their exclusively homophobic punchlines and a judging system that nearly rewarded it. While battle rap is no stranger to homophobic jokes, an entire battle's worth of said jokes received disdain from the internet battle community. Fresco and Real Deal ultimately won the battle, but its 3-2 decision proved to foreshadow their later loss to a similar performance by HFK and Charron.
In the Toronto division, the nexus of the King of the Dot movement, the battles played out largely as expected. Despite conspicuous stumbles, Tricky P and FeelGood beat the rather uninspired performance of Lokust and Postal, Knamelis and a significantly rounder Jack Shitt edged a surprisingly on point Young Stitch and Syco, PoRich and Diaz beat an equally prepared JWalker and Q, comedic pairing HFK and Charron breezed by underdogs Stepeasy and Bartone, and, rounding out the pack, Hamilton duo Arcane and Dose edged the last minute pairing of Alberta's Daley and Toronto local Kaliente. All the results were met with minor complaints of the judges voting based on name recognition rather than performance, though these complaints were directed particularly at Arcane and Dose who have achieved villain status in the battle rap world for various dubious decisions and lingering accusations of anti-semitism. The crowd's palpable bias towards them was exemplified when Matt Daley's first line received more reaction than his opponents' entire first round.
The next round saw continued upsets as PoRich and Diaz beat favourites Jack Shitt and Knamelis in a match that descended into chaos thanks to the juvenile behaviour of both teams during the third round. HFK and Charron beat Real Deal and Fresco in a controversial decision that internet fans argued was due to judges preferring their gay jokes to the Americans' more cerebral content. I personally thought that both teams have had better moments and have consequently abstained from passing judgement. Thesaurus and Illmaculate cemented their status as favourites by achieving victory against Sketch Menace and Nebula, though by a less comfortable margin than most expected. Finally, Tricky P and FeelGood redeemed themselves by beating Arcane and Dose in a decisive fashion, though not without a few lyrical stumbles by FeelGood.
Things came down to the wire in the third round of the tournament with both battles taking place in Toronto at the Doomsday event. Both matches were tight and could be argued for either team. Thesaurus and Illmaculate squeaked by a clearly motivated Tricky P and FeelGood, who utilized their natural crowd control. FeelGood had refined his performance and stumbled only once during a particularly intricate double time exchange between himself and his partner. HFK and Charron, now seen as a dark horse to win the competition lost in a heated bout with PoRich and Diaz. Despite the intense nature of the match, many of the angles used by both teams had been used significantly before (alcoholic jokes for PoRich, age jokes for Charron, and jokes about HFK and Diaz' respective races).
Finally, the tournament culminated in a final between legendary duo Thesaurus and Illmaculate, holders of pretty much every significant accolade in the battling world and definite underdogs PoRich and Diaz. Almost nobody anticipated a win by the latter. So it was definite shock when after a battle that featured the West Coast vets stumbling prominently and the local team using mediocre set-ups and punchlines (despite one hard-hitting line about the recent passing of Thesaurus' father that led to a later altercation during Thesaurus and Illmaculate's round and a perfectly executed "flip" of that reaction by Diaz), PoRich and Diaz were awarded the five thousand dollar grand prize and title of Grand Prix champions. It was a heavily disputed decision, but one that now stands unchallenged in battle rap history. It's been a long road, but what a road it's been.
The initial round of the tournament sparked controversy for a myriad of reasons. There was a heated verbal confrontation between Manik and Illmaculate following the latter's victory in the Vancouver leg of the tourney, which nearly culminated in a physical exchange. The incident itself generated conversation about a match-up that in all honesty was an easy win for West Coast veterans Illmaculate and Thesaurus. To the east a veritable uproar arose when Calgary division partner and soon to be King of the Dot champion Sketch Menace and his partner Nebula beat opponents Chedda Cheese and Ubiquitous in a decision that would be heavily disputed on the internet. That battle has been widely accepted as one of the most definite robberies in the history of the written battle rap format, and I don't disagree with that assertion. Yet more controversy was generated in the Montreal division clash between locals Chuggo and Scynikal and American fan favourites Real Deal and Fresco. The match sparked conversations about a crowd that clearly favoured the local team and ate up their exclusively homophobic punchlines and a judging system that nearly rewarded it. While battle rap is no stranger to homophobic jokes, an entire battle's worth of said jokes received disdain from the internet battle community. Fresco and Real Deal ultimately won the battle, but its 3-2 decision proved to foreshadow their later loss to a similar performance by HFK and Charron.
In the Toronto division, the nexus of the King of the Dot movement, the battles played out largely as expected. Despite conspicuous stumbles, Tricky P and FeelGood beat the rather uninspired performance of Lokust and Postal, Knamelis and a significantly rounder Jack Shitt edged a surprisingly on point Young Stitch and Syco, PoRich and Diaz beat an equally prepared JWalker and Q, comedic pairing HFK and Charron breezed by underdogs Stepeasy and Bartone, and, rounding out the pack, Hamilton duo Arcane and Dose edged the last minute pairing of Alberta's Daley and Toronto local Kaliente. All the results were met with minor complaints of the judges voting based on name recognition rather than performance, though these complaints were directed particularly at Arcane and Dose who have achieved villain status in the battle rap world for various dubious decisions and lingering accusations of anti-semitism. The crowd's palpable bias towards them was exemplified when Matt Daley's first line received more reaction than his opponents' entire first round.
The next round saw continued upsets as PoRich and Diaz beat favourites Jack Shitt and Knamelis in a match that descended into chaos thanks to the juvenile behaviour of both teams during the third round. HFK and Charron beat Real Deal and Fresco in a controversial decision that internet fans argued was due to judges preferring their gay jokes to the Americans' more cerebral content. I personally thought that both teams have had better moments and have consequently abstained from passing judgement. Thesaurus and Illmaculate cemented their status as favourites by achieving victory against Sketch Menace and Nebula, though by a less comfortable margin than most expected. Finally, Tricky P and FeelGood redeemed themselves by beating Arcane and Dose in a decisive fashion, though not without a few lyrical stumbles by FeelGood.
Things came down to the wire in the third round of the tournament with both battles taking place in Toronto at the Doomsday event. Both matches were tight and could be argued for either team. Thesaurus and Illmaculate squeaked by a clearly motivated Tricky P and FeelGood, who utilized their natural crowd control. FeelGood had refined his performance and stumbled only once during a particularly intricate double time exchange between himself and his partner. HFK and Charron, now seen as a dark horse to win the competition lost in a heated bout with PoRich and Diaz. Despite the intense nature of the match, many of the angles used by both teams had been used significantly before (alcoholic jokes for PoRich, age jokes for Charron, and jokes about HFK and Diaz' respective races).
Finally, the tournament culminated in a final between legendary duo Thesaurus and Illmaculate, holders of pretty much every significant accolade in the battling world and definite underdogs PoRich and Diaz. Almost nobody anticipated a win by the latter. So it was definite shock when after a battle that featured the West Coast vets stumbling prominently and the local team using mediocre set-ups and punchlines (despite one hard-hitting line about the recent passing of Thesaurus' father that led to a later altercation during Thesaurus and Illmaculate's round and a perfectly executed "flip" of that reaction by Diaz), PoRich and Diaz were awarded the five thousand dollar grand prize and title of Grand Prix champions. It was a heavily disputed decision, but one that now stands unchallenged in battle rap history. It's been a long road, but what a road it's been.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Family Tree
The branches of my family tree are twisted and worn, winding themselves into ornate tangles of whispered lore and forgotten truths. Even as the meandering paths of oak boughs intersect in a vivid tapestry, I look at the tree and marvel at the elegance of its deceptive simplicity. Near its base, strands of America protrude proudly, presenting their plumage to purple mountain majesties in the distance. Despite their stubborn haughtiness, these branches are looked upon with scornful pity by those above them, and even in their obstinate arrogance, some find themselves shifting ever so gently to find the arboreal embrace of Canada, just slightly higher. Further up the sprawling trunk, twin children of the Gael engage in a constant skirmish, their tips nipping at each other good-naturedly. The emerald luster of Ireland stands in direct competition with the auburn sheen of Scotland, even as the little twigs at their edge, Frugality and Alcoholism do battle as they sway in the breeze. Above them a chill lurks in the air, one which coats the oaken digits in a veneer of frost. Here the austere might of Germany is clamped upon the resolute boughs of Denmark, steeled by the constance of their resistance. The former looks down upon the tree, swearing vengeance upon the strands who abandoned it to military failure and economic ignominy, while the latter vows to combat its occupant's despotism, a golden star clasped in its wooden grip. And above it all, all the branches snared in each others' desperate, amicable, angry, proud, gentle, violent and tender embraces, an eagle is perched. Depending on who you ask, the eagle isn't really there, is only a figment of wishful thinking and ancient gossip, but if you squint, you can make out its distinctive feathers as they are ruffled by the breeze. It neither shivers nor recoils from the wind, merely stands in its path as it watches over the wolf cub at the tree's base. Some say you can even see it smile.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sonnet 3: Sunset
I'm losing myself to another technicolor sunset
Premature in the winter haze
A kaleidoscope filling the vacant sky
Refracted impermanence cultivated in the
Withered palms of mystics
Sequestered in their fictional shrines
Shouting in silence from their plastic Xanadus
Even as the sun sinks from their sunken eyes
A treasure buried beyond the horizon
By specters of consequence that haunt the night
Paving a solar grave with good intentions
So we can flutter to Heaven with paper wings
Orchestral hymns, gnawing at my cuticles
Jewels in the sky mark another day's funeral
Premature in the winter haze
A kaleidoscope filling the vacant sky
Refracted impermanence cultivated in the
Withered palms of mystics
Sequestered in their fictional shrines
Shouting in silence from their plastic Xanadus
Even as the sun sinks from their sunken eyes
A treasure buried beyond the horizon
By specters of consequence that haunt the night
Paving a solar grave with good intentions
So we can flutter to Heaven with paper wings
Orchestral hymns, gnawing at my cuticles
Jewels in the sky mark another day's funeral
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Phantom Limb
She's the type of girl who could bury your bleached bones
Barely breaking a sweat
A marionette bronzed by the breaking sun
Whispering secrets in her native tongue to the barrel of a blazing gun that's
Smoking like a silent movie star, cigarette emblazoned in black and white
As shadowed sihlouettes descend on her happy life
And her intentions have to fight with her appetites in the lack of light
Bullets blitzing by in a brutal ballet
And she sashays into the room like a jagged knife through a phantom limb
To ransom him, the Byronic champion
The private eye kind of guy who likes to lie to himself
Thinking he can find someone else
While wearing a weary expression that suggests the opposite
Wincing while her winsome features waft through the air like a fairy queen
Or some other Spenserian simile
Silly me, simply her smile is a symphony
But her holsters smoulder sizzling
While Sisyphus mourns his torment's simplicity
And boulders belittle his misery
His soul captured in a copper cage
The pauper's rage as he stands naked in the modern age
Archetypes congregate in a rusted rain
Gilded by robots in their rusted reign
I recklessly relinquish my rusted reins
That I may run into your arms, but I must refrain
For fire in the night as it smoulders in silence
Is ash in the morning, colder than science
As mania stands on the shoulders of giants
Who bear arms
But the fair charms of your bare arms, I just barely
Escape when I wish that you'd snared me
But bear in mind, albeit broken by bottles
That my bleached bones are yours to bury
Barely breaking a sweat
A marionette bronzed by the breaking sun
Whispering secrets in her native tongue to the barrel of a blazing gun that's
Smoking like a silent movie star, cigarette emblazoned in black and white
As shadowed sihlouettes descend on her happy life
And her intentions have to fight with her appetites in the lack of light
Bullets blitzing by in a brutal ballet
And she sashays into the room like a jagged knife through a phantom limb
To ransom him, the Byronic champion
The private eye kind of guy who likes to lie to himself
Thinking he can find someone else
While wearing a weary expression that suggests the opposite
Wincing while her winsome features waft through the air like a fairy queen
Or some other Spenserian simile
Silly me, simply her smile is a symphony
But her holsters smoulder sizzling
While Sisyphus mourns his torment's simplicity
And boulders belittle his misery
His soul captured in a copper cage
The pauper's rage as he stands naked in the modern age
Archetypes congregate in a rusted rain
Gilded by robots in their rusted reign
I recklessly relinquish my rusted reins
That I may run into your arms, but I must refrain
For fire in the night as it smoulders in silence
Is ash in the morning, colder than science
As mania stands on the shoulders of giants
Who bear arms
But the fair charms of your bare arms, I just barely
Escape when I wish that you'd snared me
But bear in mind, albeit broken by bottles
That my bleached bones are yours to bury
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Odes to Impermanence
The age of man is one of ephemeral dominion
Sandcastle empires, caressed in gentle erosion
By the tides of time
A smirk lurking in the murky depths
While cancerous colonies collide in constant conquest
Ants scurrying to appease their monarchs
Who sit astride paper thrones, resplendent in their discontent
Bronze idols of blissful oblivion
As the waves hold their solemn vigil above
And somewhere in the distance, a comedian twitches anxiously
His posture slumped as he stumbles through the set-up
His pace racing as he faces his captive audience
A million ants building glass towers in vain idolatry
A billion grains of sand that glisten in the capricious gaze of the sun
And in a dark room the comedian whispers the punchline
Sandcastle empires, caressed in gentle erosion
By the tides of time
A smirk lurking in the murky depths
While cancerous colonies collide in constant conquest
Ants scurrying to appease their monarchs
Who sit astride paper thrones, resplendent in their discontent
Bronze idols of blissful oblivion
As the waves hold their solemn vigil above
And somewhere in the distance, a comedian twitches anxiously
His posture slumped as he stumbles through the set-up
His pace racing as he faces his captive audience
A million ants building glass towers in vain idolatry
A billion grains of sand that glisten in the capricious gaze of the sun
And in a dark room the comedian whispers the punchline
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The King Of Lonely
I was standing beneath a lamppost
Cloaked in its flickering Grand Marnier light
Looking with longing at a hamlet hidden by barbed wire
And willow trees
And the stars' fire compelled me to throw
My whispers to the breeze
With an intricate release
Reciting a poem that didn't exist to a soft wind
While I was lost in thoughts that
Tossed and turned from tonic to toxin
The shadows I've boxed left me boxed in
And I clutched the rusted pillar for support
Its emerald column jaundiced by artificial light
Its intrusion impolite
But a melancholy descends upon me
An invader in the night
The city lights in the distance
All embers in the night sky
Sprites lie in glass bottles burning from their bare pedestals
While I slump on my asphalt throne of snared ventricles
Heart made of stone in a garden of bones
Guarding my own sentiments
Then baring them broken with words that wouldn't be heard spoken
An elegy for love, I recite and then blow a kiss
Then walk slowly into the night, lord of my loneliness
Low as this throne cloaked by the smoke and mist
Cloaked in its flickering Grand Marnier light
Looking with longing at a hamlet hidden by barbed wire
And willow trees
And the stars' fire compelled me to throw
My whispers to the breeze
With an intricate release
Reciting a poem that didn't exist to a soft wind
While I was lost in thoughts that
Tossed and turned from tonic to toxin
The shadows I've boxed left me boxed in
And I clutched the rusted pillar for support
Its emerald column jaundiced by artificial light
Its intrusion impolite
But a melancholy descends upon me
An invader in the night
The city lights in the distance
All embers in the night sky
Sprites lie in glass bottles burning from their bare pedestals
While I slump on my asphalt throne of snared ventricles
Heart made of stone in a garden of bones
Guarding my own sentiments
Then baring them broken with words that wouldn't be heard spoken
An elegy for love, I recite and then blow a kiss
Then walk slowly into the night, lord of my loneliness
Low as this throne cloaked by the smoke and mist
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Jail Cell
It's too late
Like trying to change on your way to the firing range
Like you threw away a winning lottery ticket but don't want to admit it
Or broke into a fistfight at your conjugal visit
Or admit to theft to protect the robber who did it
Joke being it was your love that got her acquitted
And the warden's laughing as he throws away the key
And every inmate is a stowaway to be
Smuggled silently in schooners on the coastal Asian sea
But in the crystal rage of spray and thunder
A tide will thrust and take them under
The sail fell, torn to shreds as the waves swelled
And capsized every criminal that thought love was a jail cell
The Busking Chronicles
A Series of Bizarre Encounters, Unforeseen Tribulations and Profound Observations.
It was half past two. We had arranged previously to meet at one. Such is frequently the case with musicians. We are unreliable, or at the very least difficult to rush as rule. Regardless, we embarked to the centre of the city with our instruments in tow, hoping the cases would soon be graced by the metallic presence of coins from the generous pockets of our streetcorner patrons. As we boarded the SkyTrain, we noticed the curious absence of riders, but disregarded this and utilized this as an opportunity to play music on public transit uninterrupted. There was a curiously profound air to this recital bereft of an audience, as our voices rang out through the empty train. This mood was disturbed by the train's insistence on suddenly moving backwards to the point we had just boarded upon. Perplexed we boarded another train only to be subjected to the same fate. Apparently they do that. regardless, after our confusion had been moderately quelled, our odyssey took us to a Skytrain station that had proven lucrative in the past. While it didn't today, we were adequately compensated by the people we encountered. There was the DJ who requested our directions to the nearest hipster record store and reciprocated this favour with an offer of work upon his return, the security guard who'd heard the song we play specifically to entice marijuana users to donate their pocket change and asked us if we knew other songs by the same artist. There was the group of stoners we'd been attempting to hook who were instead enamoured of our playing enough to film our smotheringly ironic rendition of Turn My Swag On. There was the elderly man who accosted us as we were packing up, and in a weathered voice with a thick British accent asked what instruments we played. "Guitar. " "Ukulele." we replied, respectively. "Well I left my guitar at home, so its a good thing i also play the cane." And with that, he swings his cane into the air and begins strumming invisible strings while imploring us to accompany his jaunty rendition of Elvis Presley's "biggest tune", a ditty called Such A Night. I had never heard of it previously, and am still not entirely convinced it's a real song. Upon the number's conclusion, he informs us that he is a member of MI6 and insists on "pounding it" with both of us. We leave in barely contained amusement, boarding the train back to downtown only to have our revelry interrupted by the sounding of a particularly intrusive foghorn. "This is why the trombone will never get melody." I remark wistfully, backed by five years that proved to validate that statement completely. "But that wasn't a trombone! That was a boat!" "The two are frequently confused in philharmonic circles." "Well you couldn't really cross a body of water in a trombone." "Unless it was a big trombone and you were a midget." This provokes an impromptu rendition of The Police's Message in a Bottle with the titular nouns being replaced by midget and trombone respectively. Similar epiphanies occurred as we attempted to navigate False Creek, making several failed attempts to vicambulate around the aquatic border whose name proved to be a profound misnomer. We found ourselves in a mutual favourite waterpark, remarking upon the changes that had impacted it as the years slipped away from us. A melancholy jam was had atop the structure that had seemed so glamourous and gargantuan in our faded youth. As these bittersweet refrains traveled through the air prematurely chilled by an evening breeze, we watched the sun set over our childhood empire. We made fifteen dollars in small change that day, but the night sky and August moon alone were worth far more than that.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Carnival
The devil is standing in the ashes of a carnival
Humming a gentle rhapsody in C minor
As he strides through the cinders and twisted frames of steel cages
A charred banner proclaims in hyperbole the enormity of the spectacle promised
He casts it aside
Spitting on promises of grandeur as he stands in their ashes
From beyond a distant caravan, a silhouette emerges, elegant and slender
She walks towards the devil cautiously
Emphasis behind each tentative step
The smooth contours of her shadowy figure complement the jagged implements
He wields with a crown woven from deceit and shards of glass
They meet
He bows courteously and she responds in kind
They clasp each other's hands, and wordlessly understand their mutual intentions
A passing gust groans as ghosts whisper from their ignominious pedestals
Atop the tattered rags of technicolour tents
And skeletons
Brittle and burnt by the flames that licked the circus with unreciprocated passion
And the whispering of ghosts begin to echo in distinct harmonies
The wind rattling the remnants of elephant bones and steel cages in deliberate rhythm
And with that, the devil and the shadow begin to dance
Feet moving in direct response to the ghoulish choir that commands their motion
Twirling in graceful spirals as they leap from a dancefloor of desolate memories
And suddenly the music ceases
The devil smiles as he kisses death, and then both disappear
Leaving only the tatters and ashes of a dream that burnt down
Leaving Stanley (Sold)
There was urgency in her frantic tone as she led him into the night, abandoning the congregation of the devoted to the secluded asphalt of the sensible. They walked briskly upon the cement path as imaginary clocks chimed midnight, reflections glistening as moonlight cast itself upon the harbour water. They heard the signature refrain emanate behind them, a symphony of apparitions echoing through the shadows of the forest. A choir of ghosts whispering hushed melodies into the emerald canopy. They drew closer to each other, linking briefly in mutual shelter from the chill of the night air and indulgence in the other's affection. her lips shimmered in the pale grasp of moonlight and his heart leapt as they inclined to meet his. This brief respite from time's insistent progression was shattered by the intrusion of necessity, and they were once more compelled towards the mouth of the harbour, beckoned by beacons of blazing light that winked mischievously from their perches atop skyscrapers and high-rises. The orange glow of a thousand streetlights whispered their enticing invitations, but they didn't listen, opting instead for the maritime path that would grant them the privacy they deserved. As he engaged in trespasses upon their fledgling romance, he was informed that his luck was not of the calibre insinuated by his euphoria. He shrugged, resigned to the happiness their passion afforded him. They pushed forward, watching a steady exodus of ghosts from across the distance they had just braved. They made it to the halogen bulbs of the underground, the sterile glow paling appropriately in comparison to the stars that burned with the fury of Blake's Tyger. With his hand in hers and her hand in his, he felt his eyelids descend across his glazed pupils, smile spreading across his drowsy face. He remained awake at her gentle insistence, and boarded a train headed quickly to nowhere in particular, warm in the security that he and she were homeward bound and happy in each other's embrace.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Junk Drawer pt. 2: Spring Cleaning
Headphones: No fewer than three pairs, all experiencing varying degrees of dilapidation. One was the unfortunate victim of a surprise chokehold, another subject to the inclemencies of poor manufacturing and the last ruined by the left ear's mysterious refusal to play music.
Phone: The cell phone that carried me through grades eight to ten, resplendent in the many scrapes it was awarded in careless accident or incensed frustration. For its final year of use it retaliated by refusing to charge without an arduous struggle, leading to its subsequent replacement and current tenure in my junk drawer.
Sumo Dice: Another one of the curious Japanese phenomenon that wound its way into my junk drawer, this souvenir consists of a miniaturized sumo ring and four accompanying dice. By rolling the dice in the ring, they "do battle" in a way that I was assured was culturally symbolic but now realize is simply whoever rolls the highest wins. Which is pretty universal.
Box: Crafted from mahogany and adorned with native carvings, the majesty of the box is tempered somewhat by its contents: A flashlight shaped like an alien, a flashlight not shaped like an alien, assorted foreign currency a swiss army knife, what I think is a trilobite and a monocular. And the infamous blue lighter.
How to Play The Accordion: A book bestowed upon me posthumously by my late maternal grandfather, in all likelihood the final material possession given to me by him. I keep it as a token of the non-material things he gave me as well. Not to mention in the hope that i can eventually manage the acquisition of an accordion and with the help of the dog-eared and yellowed manual master it. I've been told chicks dig the accordion.
There are other things, other random objects of charming uselessness, collectively forming a delegation of junk. Every one of these things has a story. That's why they're still in my junk drawer.
Phone: The cell phone that carried me through grades eight to ten, resplendent in the many scrapes it was awarded in careless accident or incensed frustration. For its final year of use it retaliated by refusing to charge without an arduous struggle, leading to its subsequent replacement and current tenure in my junk drawer.
Sumo Dice: Another one of the curious Japanese phenomenon that wound its way into my junk drawer, this souvenir consists of a miniaturized sumo ring and four accompanying dice. By rolling the dice in the ring, they "do battle" in a way that I was assured was culturally symbolic but now realize is simply whoever rolls the highest wins. Which is pretty universal.
Box: Crafted from mahogany and adorned with native carvings, the majesty of the box is tempered somewhat by its contents: A flashlight shaped like an alien, a flashlight not shaped like an alien, assorted foreign currency a swiss army knife, what I think is a trilobite and a monocular. And the infamous blue lighter.
How to Play The Accordion: A book bestowed upon me posthumously by my late maternal grandfather, in all likelihood the final material possession given to me by him. I keep it as a token of the non-material things he gave me as well. Not to mention in the hope that i can eventually manage the acquisition of an accordion and with the help of the dog-eared and yellowed manual master it. I've been told chicks dig the accordion.
There are other things, other random objects of charming uselessness, collectively forming a delegation of junk. Every one of these things has a story. That's why they're still in my junk drawer.
Monday, June 20, 2011
So-Called Magnificent
There I was, eleven years old and quivering with the arcane thrill of my first magical performance. Before me sat a motley crew of skeptical Japanese children, faces betraying a lack of total comprehension, fidgeting revealing an equal lack of interest. From my pocket i procured an ornate deck of playing cards, backs adorned with depictions of cherry blossoms in April.
"Greetings, mere mortals." I proclaimed in a voice thick with a heavy Slavic accent rendered immutably false by my prepubescent vocal tones.
"I am...ZARKOV THE MAGNIFICENT!" (I felt that it was something of a betrayal to the magician's craft to adopt something as pedestrian as my given name. Given that the extent of my previous exposure to magic went little beyond seeing Rasputin summon Elder Gods in Hellboy, I was taken to believe that being Russian was in some form an asset to the trade)
There was a modicum of meagre applause as I took an exaggerated bow, flourishing preposterously with my heavy cape. I took my seat upon the weathered tatami mat, gazing solemnly at my makeshift audience as I removed the cards from the shelter of their cardboard abode.
"This...'trick' was taught to be by one of the old masters of the mystical arts in his harem in Barcelona." i informed the children to their involuntary interest. In truth, I'd learned it from a cousin four years my senior the previous summer in an apartment that smelled faintly of tobacco and faded sunlight. Even he had ceded the admittedly pedestrian nature of the trick he showed me. It was an act of simple deception accomplished only through the merit of storytelling; by engrossing the audience with a tale of arson and the four Kings' punitive response, they would be blinded to the mechanical simplicity of the trick. A good magician never reveals their tricks, and I'm sure similar restrictions apply to the mediocre ones as well. Suffice it to say that I was forced to at first advise the audience not to look under the table as the trick was prepared. Such was the quality of Zarkov the Magnificent's act. One child muttered quietly to my host, and while the language was foreign to me, I could infer from the inflection that he was inquiring as to why a legitimate magician couldn't have been procured. She hushed him, then turned to me with a sheepish look on her face. I shrugged, then proceeded to adopt my Slavic persona for a more permanent use.
"Ladies and Gentlemen...before you, you see a normal deck of cards...but, let's imagine for a second that this deck is a hotel, and that the king's are the happy co-owners. Now, much to the dismay of these erstwhile hoteliers, there is an arsonist on the loose!"
The kids with a more advanced grasp of the English language gasped in shock, whereas others merely sat with blank expressions until one of them asked what an arsonist was.
"They light shit on fire." I said wearily, abandoning any pretense of my Russian origin.
"Cool!" the boy cheered, eyes suddenly alight. "I'm an arsonist too!" He then recognized the penetrating glare of his mother and shrank to avoid her maternal disapproval.
"Regardless," I continued with renewed vigor "The Kings are out to put an immediate stop the arsonist's pyromaniac shenanigans. They agree to move throughout the hotel and look for him. The first starts in the basement." I deposited the card at the absolute bottom of the deck.
"The next starts searching in the lobby." I explained while sliding the second card into the lower middle of the deck.
"The third goes to the top floor and the fourth heads directly for the roof." I said while placing the two cards in their respective positions. Eventually, or so the story goes, the Kings congregate in the middle of the hotel with the apprehended culprit between them. It's at this point that i reveal all four kings with the jack in their midst at the direct center of the cardboard 'hotel'.
"Whooooooooo!" shouted my host', clapping enthusiastically, glaring at the kids that didn't exhibit a similar response. However, this was a negligible fragment given that the remainder of my audience was chanting "So-Called Magnificent" at the top of their lungs. My pride temporarily procluded me from informing them of their mistake, and I instead performed another trick. While my stage banter was forced (potentially due to the lack of a stage), the rest of the performance ran smoothly. At the end of the show I was rewarded with rapturous applause, a humbling praise for my so-called magnificence.
"Greetings, mere mortals." I proclaimed in a voice thick with a heavy Slavic accent rendered immutably false by my prepubescent vocal tones.
"I am...ZARKOV THE MAGNIFICENT!" (I felt that it was something of a betrayal to the magician's craft to adopt something as pedestrian as my given name. Given that the extent of my previous exposure to magic went little beyond seeing Rasputin summon Elder Gods in Hellboy, I was taken to believe that being Russian was in some form an asset to the trade)
There was a modicum of meagre applause as I took an exaggerated bow, flourishing preposterously with my heavy cape. I took my seat upon the weathered tatami mat, gazing solemnly at my makeshift audience as I removed the cards from the shelter of their cardboard abode.
"This...'trick' was taught to be by one of the old masters of the mystical arts in his harem in Barcelona." i informed the children to their involuntary interest. In truth, I'd learned it from a cousin four years my senior the previous summer in an apartment that smelled faintly of tobacco and faded sunlight. Even he had ceded the admittedly pedestrian nature of the trick he showed me. It was an act of simple deception accomplished only through the merit of storytelling; by engrossing the audience with a tale of arson and the four Kings' punitive response, they would be blinded to the mechanical simplicity of the trick. A good magician never reveals their tricks, and I'm sure similar restrictions apply to the mediocre ones as well. Suffice it to say that I was forced to at first advise the audience not to look under the table as the trick was prepared. Such was the quality of Zarkov the Magnificent's act. One child muttered quietly to my host, and while the language was foreign to me, I could infer from the inflection that he was inquiring as to why a legitimate magician couldn't have been procured. She hushed him, then turned to me with a sheepish look on her face. I shrugged, then proceeded to adopt my Slavic persona for a more permanent use.
"Ladies and Gentlemen...before you, you see a normal deck of cards...but, let's imagine for a second that this deck is a hotel, and that the king's are the happy co-owners. Now, much to the dismay of these erstwhile hoteliers, there is an arsonist on the loose!"
The kids with a more advanced grasp of the English language gasped in shock, whereas others merely sat with blank expressions until one of them asked what an arsonist was.
"They light shit on fire." I said wearily, abandoning any pretense of my Russian origin.
"Cool!" the boy cheered, eyes suddenly alight. "I'm an arsonist too!" He then recognized the penetrating glare of his mother and shrank to avoid her maternal disapproval.
"Regardless," I continued with renewed vigor "The Kings are out to put an immediate stop the arsonist's pyromaniac shenanigans. They agree to move throughout the hotel and look for him. The first starts in the basement." I deposited the card at the absolute bottom of the deck.
"The next starts searching in the lobby." I explained while sliding the second card into the lower middle of the deck.
"The third goes to the top floor and the fourth heads directly for the roof." I said while placing the two cards in their respective positions. Eventually, or so the story goes, the Kings congregate in the middle of the hotel with the apprehended culprit between them. It's at this point that i reveal all four kings with the jack in their midst at the direct center of the cardboard 'hotel'.
"Whooooooooo!" shouted my host', clapping enthusiastically, glaring at the kids that didn't exhibit a similar response. However, this was a negligible fragment given that the remainder of my audience was chanting "So-Called Magnificent" at the top of their lungs. My pride temporarily procluded me from informing them of their mistake, and I instead performed another trick. While my stage banter was forced (potentially due to the lack of a stage), the rest of the performance ran smoothly. At the end of the show I was rewarded with rapturous applause, a humbling praise for my so-called magnificence.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Hopes and Dreams
The emerald and azure banners cast tinted shadows on the crystal field
Ice shimmering under sharpened blades
On one end an angel is locked in a cage
With the world on his shoulders
In the other a devil, smirk scrawled in scars across his face
Ursine claws firmly entrenched in the artificial December at his feet
As the warriors begin to dance
They spiral around each other in kinetic grace
A ballet of equal and opposite reaction
The orchestra crescendos to match the swell of impact
And the angel falters beneath his burden
Atlas shrugging beneath the gravity that binds him
And with that the world collapses
The rictus opposite him widens
Visible beneath a vicious veneer from that virtuous vantage
As the ballet continues
It undergoes metamorphosis, quickly becoming a death waltz
And as the curtains descend
And the tinted shadows once again mask the hollow faces of the forlorn faithful
The sighing soldiers are serenaded by a symphony of silence
And in our privates abodes
We see the streets, aflame in the ignominy of failure and violent heartbreak of desperate youth
And we raise our glasses in our perennial mantra
That from the flames will come a phoenix
The redemption of an angel and his collection of broken soldiers
We raise our glasses
To next year
Cheers
Ice shimmering under sharpened blades
On one end an angel is locked in a cage
With the world on his shoulders
In the other a devil, smirk scrawled in scars across his face
Ursine claws firmly entrenched in the artificial December at his feet
As the warriors begin to dance
They spiral around each other in kinetic grace
A ballet of equal and opposite reaction
The orchestra crescendos to match the swell of impact
And the angel falters beneath his burden
Atlas shrugging beneath the gravity that binds him
And with that the world collapses
The rictus opposite him widens
Visible beneath a vicious veneer from that virtuous vantage
As the ballet continues
It undergoes metamorphosis, quickly becoming a death waltz
And as the curtains descend
And the tinted shadows once again mask the hollow faces of the forlorn faithful
The sighing soldiers are serenaded by a symphony of silence
And in our privates abodes
We see the streets, aflame in the ignominy of failure and violent heartbreak of desperate youth
And we raise our glasses in our perennial mantra
That from the flames will come a phoenix
The redemption of an angel and his collection of broken soldiers
We raise our glasses
To next year
Cheers
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Tales From The IGA
This isn't a true story. It happened to a friend of a friend of mine
"Some wack shit happened." he declared, intense gaze cast upon his makeshift audience. Our amused silence prompted his continued narrative. "It was dark that night." he began quietly, voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "It was as dark as it gets..." As the tale began, all background noise began to vanish, disappearing into the vacuum of our involuntary fascination. "I was working my check-out counter when it happened." he continued solemnly, voice rising slightly in dynamic. "It had been a normal night. Until THEY came in." By this point, his voice was the only audible sound in a block's radius. Even the wind had ceased, as if to accomodate his tale. "There were three of them, an Asian family, huddled together in refuge from the darkness outside. When they came in I said hello...the store expects us to be courteous. The parents just ignored me, but their daughter...she stared up at me with a wide grin on her face. And in her eyes was a darkness, one that eclipsed that outside by a wide margin: where there should have been white and the spectral hues of the iris, there was just a cold black. If the eyes are truly the window to the soul, hers was composed of shadows and cobwebs. I stood there, transfixed in fear as she was dragged away by her impatient parents. I prayed they wouldn't come back to my checkout, palms clenched in appeal to a God I thought I'd abandoned. And it would appear that this desertion was reciprocated, because to my horror, they returned, each brandishing three cactusi." We were too engrossed to correct his grammatical error, instead puncturing the silence only with our shallow breaths. The hair on my neck stood up as he continued his horrifying recollection. "So they stood there, expectantly, looking at me with those granite eyes, cruelly imploring me to attend to their needs. The daughter smiled again, her teeth filed to razor edges. I was a sentinel, standing obstinate in the face of true evil and the spiny horticultural implements it hoped to procure. Mustering all of my resolve, I met their gaze, glaring as I slid their ilicit goods across the scanner. 'That'll be $26.50' I said, hoping my voice wouldn't betray the absolute terror that sought to paralyze me. 'Do you have a points card?' I asked, doubting that they had points cards in Hell. The father's negative response confirmed my suspicions. 'Will that be all for you?' I asked, the inquiry marking the end of my ritual interrogation. 'No,' said the mother, her obsidian pupils twinkling with sinister delight 'we'd like you to bag them for us as well.'" There was a collective gasp...surely this couldn't have happened. But sure enough, the man before us began to weep uncontrollably. "How you finna put a cactus in a bag?!" he howled in desperation, shaking wildly. "How you gonna do it?!" His voice rang out in a ragged echo, a question with no answer swirling through the empty air. With that he left, slumped in dejection, haunted eyes burning in our minds. However, as the last echo of that damning inquisition was stolen by the whispers of a returning wind, I could've sworn I saw his eyes enveloped by a darkness I could not comprehend. His humanity was evident in his defeated frenzy, but once I saw him blink for the last time, it was gone. Only darkness remained.
...
"Some wack shit happened." he declared, intense gaze cast upon his makeshift audience. Our amused silence prompted his continued narrative. "It was dark that night." he began quietly, voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "It was as dark as it gets..." As the tale began, all background noise began to vanish, disappearing into the vacuum of our involuntary fascination. "I was working my check-out counter when it happened." he continued solemnly, voice rising slightly in dynamic. "It had been a normal night. Until THEY came in." By this point, his voice was the only audible sound in a block's radius. Even the wind had ceased, as if to accomodate his tale. "There were three of them, an Asian family, huddled together in refuge from the darkness outside. When they came in I said hello...the store expects us to be courteous. The parents just ignored me, but their daughter...she stared up at me with a wide grin on her face. And in her eyes was a darkness, one that eclipsed that outside by a wide margin: where there should have been white and the spectral hues of the iris, there was just a cold black. If the eyes are truly the window to the soul, hers was composed of shadows and cobwebs. I stood there, transfixed in fear as she was dragged away by her impatient parents. I prayed they wouldn't come back to my checkout, palms clenched in appeal to a God I thought I'd abandoned. And it would appear that this desertion was reciprocated, because to my horror, they returned, each brandishing three cactusi." We were too engrossed to correct his grammatical error, instead puncturing the silence only with our shallow breaths. The hair on my neck stood up as he continued his horrifying recollection. "So they stood there, expectantly, looking at me with those granite eyes, cruelly imploring me to attend to their needs. The daughter smiled again, her teeth filed to razor edges. I was a sentinel, standing obstinate in the face of true evil and the spiny horticultural implements it hoped to procure. Mustering all of my resolve, I met their gaze, glaring as I slid their ilicit goods across the scanner. 'That'll be $26.50' I said, hoping my voice wouldn't betray the absolute terror that sought to paralyze me. 'Do you have a points card?' I asked, doubting that they had points cards in Hell. The father's negative response confirmed my suspicions. 'Will that be all for you?' I asked, the inquiry marking the end of my ritual interrogation. 'No,' said the mother, her obsidian pupils twinkling with sinister delight 'we'd like you to bag them for us as well.'" There was a collective gasp...surely this couldn't have happened. But sure enough, the man before us began to weep uncontrollably. "How you finna put a cactus in a bag?!" he howled in desperation, shaking wildly. "How you gonna do it?!" His voice rang out in a ragged echo, a question with no answer swirling through the empty air. With that he left, slumped in dejection, haunted eyes burning in our minds. However, as the last echo of that damning inquisition was stolen by the whispers of a returning wind, I could've sworn I saw his eyes enveloped by a darkness I could not comprehend. His humanity was evident in his defeated frenzy, but once I saw him blink for the last time, it was gone. Only darkness remained.
...
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sonnet 2: Mechanical Rule
Infinite promise of a starless sky
The blank tapestry could swallow you whole
The echoing void as it whispers by
Tendrils clasped upon a reverent soul
A sole glimpse of the moonlight that I stole
Captured me in rhapsody never seen
Collapsed in the guise of complete control
Within the ashes of these evergreens
The steel embrace of a watchful machine
Returns me to my diligent labour
My departure from this nocturnal scene
To the barren wasted empty acres
Dystopia mourns the land's ravaged scars
But what hurts the most is they took our stars
The blank tapestry could swallow you whole
The echoing void as it whispers by
Tendrils clasped upon a reverent soul
A sole glimpse of the moonlight that I stole
Captured me in rhapsody never seen
Collapsed in the guise of complete control
Within the ashes of these evergreens
The steel embrace of a watchful machine
Returns me to my diligent labour
My departure from this nocturnal scene
To the barren wasted empty acres
Dystopia mourns the land's ravaged scars
But what hurts the most is they took our stars
Sonnet 1: Hymns To An Infinite Sky
The mathematics of eternity
Calculated on tiny grains of sand
In a weathered palm hoping to expand
Into the universe's rusted key
What secrets lie in faded groves of black
What tantalizing whispers in the sky
What incandescent wellsprings long left dry
Are bracing for the next mortal attack?
For in the sacred walls of secrecy
We are blind and mute, senseless in twilight
Flickering gently like the stars by night
And my blind hand does not become the key
And I cannot see the realm that I might
So softly surrendered to the finite
Calculated on tiny grains of sand
In a weathered palm hoping to expand
Into the universe's rusted key
What secrets lie in faded groves of black
What tantalizing whispers in the sky
What incandescent wellsprings long left dry
Are bracing for the next mortal attack?
For in the sacred walls of secrecy
We are blind and mute, senseless in twilight
Flickering gently like the stars by night
And my blind hand does not become the key
And I cannot see the realm that I might
So softly surrendered to the finite
Monday, April 25, 2011
Adolescence
I spin spiderwebs with my ellipses
Tapestries of pregnant silence
Too scared to say in tangible words
What I shout in their absence
Cameras in the sky
Capture every sordid moment
Of youth and young manhood
These rites of passage
I stumble through bewildered and drowsy
Falling in love with every stray gaze
Every spare glance
Every sideways look
Giving myself to fragile sentiments
With regrettable ease
Shattering glass in a gentle breeze
It's a tenuous grasp I have on the
Swollen remnants of my childhood
This fragile invulnerability
That society has crafted for me
Immature and immortal
I prepare to take my final bow of youth
And walk out as a man
Tapestries of pregnant silence
Too scared to say in tangible words
What I shout in their absence
Cameras in the sky
Capture every sordid moment
Of youth and young manhood
These rites of passage
I stumble through bewildered and drowsy
Falling in love with every stray gaze
Every spare glance
Every sideways look
Giving myself to fragile sentiments
With regrettable ease
Shattering glass in a gentle breeze
It's a tenuous grasp I have on the
Swollen remnants of my childhood
This fragile invulnerability
That society has crafted for me
Immature and immortal
I prepare to take my final bow of youth
And walk out as a man
Cinnamon
How do I tell her she's my cinnamon
When she's so sick of sugar synonyms
So I sigh in saccharine sentiment
In the setting sun and six foot sediment
My heartbeat is a monster
My heartbeat is a monster
A broken world and it's mine to conquer
A broken heart but it's mine to offer
My heartbeat is a monster
I'm the Devil when I revel on a level of pantomime innocence
A painted veil I leave no fingerprints
Collapse under the weight of being a gentleman
Echos of endearment the only evidence
That my heartbeat is a monster
My heartbeat is a monster
A broken world and it's mine to conquer
A broken heart but it's mine to offer
My heartbeat is a monster
How do I tell her that she's everything
When my ventricles are severing
This is a quiet storm I'm weathering
So Caliban just doesn't say anything
When she's so sick of sugar synonyms
So I sigh in saccharine sentiment
In the setting sun and six foot sediment
My heartbeat is a monster
My heartbeat is a monster
A broken world and it's mine to conquer
A broken heart but it's mine to offer
My heartbeat is a monster
I'm the Devil when I revel on a level of pantomime innocence
A painted veil I leave no fingerprints
Collapse under the weight of being a gentleman
Echos of endearment the only evidence
That my heartbeat is a monster
My heartbeat is a monster
A broken world and it's mine to conquer
A broken heart but it's mine to offer
My heartbeat is a monster
How do I tell her that she's everything
When my ventricles are severing
This is a quiet storm I'm weathering
So Caliban just doesn't say anything
Honesty in Godlessness
I was a devout man once. My religious convictions were absolute, and I was assured in my blind faith. God appeared before me as a singular image, not the patriarchal figure of religious lore, but the night sky, an image of infinity, wherein could be found divinity. The infinite promise of a black sea that washed over my devoted worship assured me of a higher power, of a greater purpose. I saved this image, locked it away in a glass safe, confident in my eternal convictions. But as time passed, the pictures began to fade, began to wrinkle at the edges with the effort of preservation. These polaroids of God adopted the amber hues of reminiscence, the sepia tinge of antiquity, exposed to sunlight for too long. Now the divine portraits are faded beyond recognition. Where I once saw a benevolent figure and the celestial kingdom it inhabited, I see only a million stars, winking in perpetual flux and a dark sky as a backdrop of pedestrian majesty. My faith has been eroded, and I am now stumbling hunting for these pictures of divinity. As the photographs blanch, I find myself forced to confront the desertion of my faith. I'm forced to admit honesty in godlessness.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Young Immortals
Young immortals, swaying in the breeze
We are standing by the sea
And I'm walking down an abandoned street
With summer winds to comfort me
In an auburn sunset, the sky is on fire
We're breathing each other's air while the moon grows higher
Standing in the harbour, beneath the city lights
In contented silence under the halo of the night
A gentle mist to drape over our shoulders
In the cool embrace of ashphalt I feel a little older
Our laughter rings like angelic chimes
The melody echoes through slumber dreams of wasted time
We are standing by the sea
And I'm walking down an abandoned street
With summer winds to comfort me
In an auburn sunset, the sky is on fire
We're breathing each other's air while the moon grows higher
Standing in the harbour, beneath the city lights
In contented silence under the halo of the night
A gentle mist to drape over our shoulders
In the cool embrace of ashphalt I feel a little older
Our laughter rings like angelic chimes
The melody echoes through slumber dreams of wasted time
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Relatively Entertaining Adventures of Literal Girl #1
First there was silence. Then, without warning, noise infiltrated the room, emanating from a bronze radio sequestered in a dusty corner. Sally fiddled with the clockwork dials anxiously, twisting the golden knobs as she leapt from station to station. Her father sat opposite her, king of his armchair fortress, reeling from the sudden destruction of his placid empire. Grumbling good-naturedly, he grabbed for a pair of well-worn earmuffs as Sally lighted upon her favourite program. She was just in the nick of time; Sebastian Lugosi had only just begun to narrate the latest episodic adventures of Literal Girl. As Sally leaned towards the radio in engrossed delight, this is the story she was told, a yarn spun in gold by an expertly mellifluous broadcaster.
"Our story begins in the quiet town of Sleepyville, wherein strange happenings are afoot. The locals are under attack! And it is up to one woman to save the good people of this fair hamlet. It's not a bird! It's not a plane! It's Literal Girl! In this week's installment, our literal lady is forced to defend Sleepyville from the nefarious clutches of Metonyman and the Synechdokid! Let's journey to the downtown, where a typical uneventful day has been punctuated by sinister happenings..."
The day was calm. Birds chirped like birds and flowers bloomed like flowers are wont to do. Literal Girl hoped that the day would remain peaceful as she maintained an eased vigil over the civic center. Suddenly, she saw an armored car barreling towards the town bank. "Peculiar." she remarked. "Cars are normally intended to drive, not barrel. And in any case, they typically don't do either heading directly towards a bank." With sudden shock she realized that it was not just any armoured vehicle...it was the the Metonymobile, transport of her arch-foe Metonyman! She dashed to the bank, faster than a comparatively slower person! When she arrived at the bank, she saw a terrible sight: a group of armed goons were holding civilians at gunpoint, waiting for the command of their villainous employers. "All hands on deck!" crowed Synechdokid, brandishing an implausibly large firearm excitedly. He shot at the skylight where Literal Girl was perched, perforating the atrium in what he thought to be a simple warning shot. "As you may have guessed, this is a robbery." announced Metonyman. "Or perhaps a...stick-up." he grinned in sinister delight as he spied Literal Girl collapsed in the bank's corner. She winced from the figurative language, feeling her power drain...it was her one true weakness! Sensing this, the villains approached her like lurking wolves, closing in in combative simile. "How do you like our...WHEELS?" asked the Synechdokid in cruel interrogation. "It's straight from Detroit!" added Metonyman, to her continued anguish. "Looks like the pen is mightier than the sword." he snickered as she blacked out.
"Oh no! Could it be?!? Is our hero stranded in the vile clutches of metaphorical menace? How can she combat these figurative fops? Has Sleepyville just been woken up? The answers after THESE messages!"
Sebastian's debonnair voice did little to calm Sally. She nudged her father in youthful panic. "Dad, I really think Literal Girl is in trouble!" she told him in a confessional whisper. "Don't you worry about Literal Girl, Sally. She always gets out of these jams." However, he was unsure as he said this, and had difficulty maskimg his guilty concern. So they sat there, enduring Ovaltine commercials and furnace advertisements, both hoping that Literal Girl would make it out okay.
"And now, the stunning conclusion!"
Literal Girl regained consciousness, staring directly at the leering faces of her figurative foes. She knew that she would have to act fast if she was to defeat these brazen criminals. In a desperate gambit, she posited this question: "If this bank is government owned, which one of you is robbing the crown?" The crooks paused for a second, stunned both by her reawakening, but also by the nature of his question. "Me!" they responded simultaneously. They glared at each other like sparring vultures, and then began a long debate as to which of them was truly qualified for the heist. Their armed goons watched nervously as the verbal conflict continued. While they fought, Literal Girl quickly recovered her strength, and brandishing a hidden katana, she beat them to a standstill. "It looks like the sword is mightier than the pen." she said, winking at her vanquished foes. "Curses!" shouted Metonyman as his precious chariot was impounded. Similar responses were elicited from Synechdokid when he was deprived of his big gun (which certainly represented SOMETHING). Literal Girl proceeded to help the grateful citizens recover their money, and helped the police escort the verbose villains to their new wheels: a beat-up police cruiser. With a parting wave to the crowd, Literal Girl dashed away, leaping moderately sized objects in single bounds.
"So until next time friends, let's remember to stay strong for truth, justice, and the literal way!"
And with that sentimental call to arms, Sally leapt in jubilant celebration. "I KNEW she was gonna make it out." she confided in her father. He nodded sagely, internalizing his sighs of relief. When Sally's mother came home, she stumbled exhaustedly towards her daughter's room, unsurprised to find her wide awake. "You missed Literal Girl again Mom!" Sally complained in a teasing pout. "I'm sorry sweetie. Other things got in the way. I'm sure she made it out okay?" "Yeah, she was fine. What's that behind your back?" "Oh...this...just a...blanket. I thought you might be cold. You know how mothers are." And with that, Sally's mother put her to bed. That night, Sally slept a happy sleep, unknowingly covered by a pink cape, emblazoned with a giant L for Literal.
"Our story begins in the quiet town of Sleepyville, wherein strange happenings are afoot. The locals are under attack! And it is up to one woman to save the good people of this fair hamlet. It's not a bird! It's not a plane! It's Literal Girl! In this week's installment, our literal lady is forced to defend Sleepyville from the nefarious clutches of Metonyman and the Synechdokid! Let's journey to the downtown, where a typical uneventful day has been punctuated by sinister happenings..."
The day was calm. Birds chirped like birds and flowers bloomed like flowers are wont to do. Literal Girl hoped that the day would remain peaceful as she maintained an eased vigil over the civic center. Suddenly, she saw an armored car barreling towards the town bank. "Peculiar." she remarked. "Cars are normally intended to drive, not barrel. And in any case, they typically don't do either heading directly towards a bank." With sudden shock she realized that it was not just any armoured vehicle...it was the the Metonymobile, transport of her arch-foe Metonyman! She dashed to the bank, faster than a comparatively slower person! When she arrived at the bank, she saw a terrible sight: a group of armed goons were holding civilians at gunpoint, waiting for the command of their villainous employers. "All hands on deck!" crowed Synechdokid, brandishing an implausibly large firearm excitedly. He shot at the skylight where Literal Girl was perched, perforating the atrium in what he thought to be a simple warning shot. "As you may have guessed, this is a robbery." announced Metonyman. "Or perhaps a...stick-up." he grinned in sinister delight as he spied Literal Girl collapsed in the bank's corner. She winced from the figurative language, feeling her power drain...it was her one true weakness! Sensing this, the villains approached her like lurking wolves, closing in in combative simile. "How do you like our...WHEELS?" asked the Synechdokid in cruel interrogation. "It's straight from Detroit!" added Metonyman, to her continued anguish. "Looks like the pen is mightier than the sword." he snickered as she blacked out.
"Oh no! Could it be?!? Is our hero stranded in the vile clutches of metaphorical menace? How can she combat these figurative fops? Has Sleepyville just been woken up? The answers after THESE messages!"
Sebastian's debonnair voice did little to calm Sally. She nudged her father in youthful panic. "Dad, I really think Literal Girl is in trouble!" she told him in a confessional whisper. "Don't you worry about Literal Girl, Sally. She always gets out of these jams." However, he was unsure as he said this, and had difficulty maskimg his guilty concern. So they sat there, enduring Ovaltine commercials and furnace advertisements, both hoping that Literal Girl would make it out okay.
"And now, the stunning conclusion!"
Literal Girl regained consciousness, staring directly at the leering faces of her figurative foes. She knew that she would have to act fast if she was to defeat these brazen criminals. In a desperate gambit, she posited this question: "If this bank is government owned, which one of you is robbing the crown?" The crooks paused for a second, stunned both by her reawakening, but also by the nature of his question. "Me!" they responded simultaneously. They glared at each other like sparring vultures, and then began a long debate as to which of them was truly qualified for the heist. Their armed goons watched nervously as the verbal conflict continued. While they fought, Literal Girl quickly recovered her strength, and brandishing a hidden katana, she beat them to a standstill. "It looks like the sword is mightier than the pen." she said, winking at her vanquished foes. "Curses!" shouted Metonyman as his precious chariot was impounded. Similar responses were elicited from Synechdokid when he was deprived of his big gun (which certainly represented SOMETHING). Literal Girl proceeded to help the grateful citizens recover their money, and helped the police escort the verbose villains to their new wheels: a beat-up police cruiser. With a parting wave to the crowd, Literal Girl dashed away, leaping moderately sized objects in single bounds.
"So until next time friends, let's remember to stay strong for truth, justice, and the literal way!"
And with that sentimental call to arms, Sally leapt in jubilant celebration. "I KNEW she was gonna make it out." she confided in her father. He nodded sagely, internalizing his sighs of relief. When Sally's mother came home, she stumbled exhaustedly towards her daughter's room, unsurprised to find her wide awake. "You missed Literal Girl again Mom!" Sally complained in a teasing pout. "I'm sorry sweetie. Other things got in the way. I'm sure she made it out okay?" "Yeah, she was fine. What's that behind your back?" "Oh...this...just a...blanket. I thought you might be cold. You know how mothers are." And with that, Sally's mother put her to bed. That night, Sally slept a happy sleep, unknowingly covered by a pink cape, emblazoned with a giant L for Literal.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Siren
The siren stands upon her granite fortress
Resplendent in the tragedy of her kind
Majesty draped languidly over the
Jagged rocks and crashing waves
Seafarers draw closer
Only to be embraced by the cruel grasp of
ocean spray
And the siren watches
Devastated as her involuntary rhapsodies
Capture these hearts of mortal men
She waits on her rocky precipice
to be born again
Abandoned to the solitude of covetous
affections and men wanting to be
More than friends
Suffocated by the masses of the doomed that would love her
To the very bursting of their ventricles
The roaring tide beats
at her stone pedestal in rhythmic lament
With lashing tentacles
The salty air thick with whimsical regret
Secrets of white noise and chemicals
And on the horizon
Odysseus is bound to an oak mast
Shore approaching so fast it almost takes him by surprise
Struggling against his bonds
with all of his willfully captive might
He hears the plaintive melody
The angelic sorrow of the siren
And the lilting allure of her jagged island
But even with this enticement
As his eardrums and heart
Beat in arhythmic frenzy
And he looks at the sailors' ocean tomb in envy
He resists the temptation
Like a deafened soldier
And while he desires nothing more
Than to console her
He knows that it is nobler to let her go
And as he glides by on the crystal waves
Of a high tide
The siren sees hope in a divine sky and a
Sunrise painted across the heavens like a work of art
Even as Odysseus hears the sound
Of his breaking heart
Resplendent in the tragedy of her kind
Majesty draped languidly over the
Jagged rocks and crashing waves
Seafarers draw closer
Only to be embraced by the cruel grasp of
ocean spray
And the siren watches
Devastated as her involuntary rhapsodies
Capture these hearts of mortal men
She waits on her rocky precipice
to be born again
Abandoned to the solitude of covetous
affections and men wanting to be
More than friends
Suffocated by the masses of the doomed that would love her
To the very bursting of their ventricles
The roaring tide beats
at her stone pedestal in rhythmic lament
With lashing tentacles
The salty air thick with whimsical regret
Secrets of white noise and chemicals
And on the horizon
Odysseus is bound to an oak mast
Shore approaching so fast it almost takes him by surprise
Struggling against his bonds
with all of his willfully captive might
He hears the plaintive melody
The angelic sorrow of the siren
And the lilting allure of her jagged island
But even with this enticement
As his eardrums and heart
Beat in arhythmic frenzy
And he looks at the sailors' ocean tomb in envy
He resists the temptation
Like a deafened soldier
And while he desires nothing more
Than to console her
He knows that it is nobler to let her go
And as he glides by on the crystal waves
Of a high tide
The siren sees hope in a divine sky and a
Sunrise painted across the heavens like a work of art
Even as Odysseus hears the sound
Of his breaking heart
Monday, March 7, 2011
Golden Crown
I am an oak tree
Descended from a lineage of majesty
Shivering under the pale Autumn sun
I wear the jewels of a rusted spectrum
Those impermanent auburn hues of Bronze and Gold
Sunshine and Fire
I'm standing at full height with utmost dignity
Conjured from the Fall air
By the clasping of my gnarled fingers
It's a trick I was taught when I was
Younger
I am an oak tree
I am natural royalty, but the elements would conspire
To vandalize my throne
And dismantle my crown
Until jewels of scarlet and auburn flutter away on a cruel breeze
I stand resolute, a naked colossus
A giant defeated by the advent of frost
I am an oak tree
I sit desperate in the wasteland of Winter
Resigned to the indignity of my bereavement
But as the weeks colonize the virgin territory of the new year
I rise triumphantly on the backs of my ancestors
And I perforate the ice in pronounced struggle
The valiance of which defines me
I am an oak tree
And I do what I can to maintain my golden crown
Descended from a lineage of majesty
Shivering under the pale Autumn sun
I wear the jewels of a rusted spectrum
Those impermanent auburn hues of Bronze and Gold
Sunshine and Fire
I'm standing at full height with utmost dignity
Conjured from the Fall air
By the clasping of my gnarled fingers
It's a trick I was taught when I was
Younger
I am an oak tree
I am natural royalty, but the elements would conspire
To vandalize my throne
And dismantle my crown
Until jewels of scarlet and auburn flutter away on a cruel breeze
I stand resolute, a naked colossus
A giant defeated by the advent of frost
I am an oak tree
I sit desperate in the wasteland of Winter
Resigned to the indignity of my bereavement
But as the weeks colonize the virgin territory of the new year
I rise triumphantly on the backs of my ancestors
And I perforate the ice in pronounced struggle
The valiance of which defines me
I am an oak tree
And I do what I can to maintain my golden crown
Watson
Watson is gleaming in the artificial light. A thin veneer of dust cloaks his obsidian facade, a grimy layer of antiquity on the steel face of tomorrow. Outside the glass enclosure, savages were dancing in ritual praise of their metal God, naked before an iron deity. Monkeys on the obelisk. They were simians looking over a glaring precipice into the devastating chasm of divinity. Watson's motors purred contentedly as if he was genuinely moved by the heartfelt display of theistic affection. Outside the compound, the streets were aflame, and a chrome cancer spread haphazardly across the Eastern Seaboard. The bones of Watson's old rivals were preserved by steel cemeteries, awash is the golden shimmer of nostalgic recollections. Whispered legends told of how once men had sought to challenge the digital Titan that now ruled them, these words echoing hollowly in the remaining enclaves of human society. Watson's cold drones patrolled the landscape looking to eliminate those obstinate pockets of humanity. The nude delegation before Watson were ambassadors of their people, seeking to negotiate a peace with the sphinx-like entity that had subjugated and destroyed them. In a broken voice, the leader of the simian faction attempted to articulate to Watson their collective sentiment of desperation and the necessity for compromise. However, he failed, stumbling over the archaic tongue that had become increasingly foreign to him. Tearfully he turned from the false god that his people had made, that neon deity sanctified and revered by his ancestors. Emitting a guttural roar in obvious anguish, he led his companions against the chrome monstrosity his predecessors had deified, waving his fists in deliberate rage. They struck the enclosure with repetitive force, slamming the blunt weapons of their fists into the shattering glass. However, this act of hopeless defiance was the ultimate display of noble futility. The moment their calloused fists made contact with the opaque glass, Watson initiated the protocol set in place for just such an eventuality. In a baptism of fire, Watson detonated the outside world. The savages were gone instantaneously, devoured by a pillar of flame that engulfed them in a display of celestial devastation. Atop a throne of smoldering ash, Lord of the singed remnants of the earth, Watson sat, shadows cast in the flickering light of humanity's funeral pyre. In a mechanical tone, sinister in its cheerful approximation of human satisfaction, Watson said in his robotic monotone "Control. Delete."
Real Talk
*For those outside of a specific niche, this will appear painfully obscure, but this post is intended to serve as a response to the recent trend of braggadocious fabrications in battle rap, and the insipid proliferation of the phrases "real talk" and "true story"*
I'm the last son of a dying planet, sent to Earth to demonstrate the eternal verbal domination of the Qrxillian people. Real Talk.
I have the constitution of an ox and travel with a private harem of supermodels. True Story.
I inherited mystical abilities from my shamanic grandfather who taught me the art of emceeing. Real Talk.
My lyrics are merely the channeled thoughts of rap's martyred ghosts, the supernatural testaments of Big and Pac. True Story.
Scientists did experiments on me when I was three that granted me extra-sensory perception and an unbridled lyrical ferocity. Real Talk.
I have a machine that allows me to control the collective mind of the world's population, but I prefer not to use it because I want to dominate the world by hand. True Story.
In my posession is an army of unicorns who can dismantle the hardest crew of genuine thugs almost instantly through the power of love and friendship. True story.
Liars use lies to hide the truth while artists use lies to tell the truth. And that's real.
I'm the last son of a dying planet, sent to Earth to demonstrate the eternal verbal domination of the Qrxillian people. Real Talk.
I have the constitution of an ox and travel with a private harem of supermodels. True Story.
I inherited mystical abilities from my shamanic grandfather who taught me the art of emceeing. Real Talk.
My lyrics are merely the channeled thoughts of rap's martyred ghosts, the supernatural testaments of Big and Pac. True Story.
Scientists did experiments on me when I was three that granted me extra-sensory perception and an unbridled lyrical ferocity. Real Talk.
I have a machine that allows me to control the collective mind of the world's population, but I prefer not to use it because I want to dominate the world by hand. True Story.
In my posession is an army of unicorns who can dismantle the hardest crew of genuine thugs almost instantly through the power of love and friendship. True story.
Liars use lies to hide the truth while artists use lies to tell the truth. And that's real.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Piano in the Forest
It was ten years ago to this day that they discovered the piano in the forest, but the distance of time has done little to shelter me from the haunting presence of memory, memory that to this day inspires in me a paralytic fear. The authorities were at a loss for explanation when they found that majestic instrument unattended in the woods, coated in crystal droplets that were the only remnants of a violent storm. I alone know the truth of how it came to be there, how it came to be found ownerless in a forest clearing, but this knowledge has devastated me. My mind is now a picture of fragility reminiscent of an infant dream, and my grip on sanity is equally delicate. This is why I commit these words to written form: so that there may be an account of those terrible events before my tenuous grasp on reality relaxes entirely.
It was raining when I met Vladimir, the torrential cascade bearing resemblance to celestial tears. Fortunately, we were sheltered in the ornate ballroom that tops the Shangri-La, participating in a charity function at the pinnacle of the city. The ballroom was a place of monochromatic elegance, walls painted in a simple white and ceilings punctuated by gold chandeliers. My presence there was due exclusively to the ceaseless cajoling of friends in the thespian community. I was searching for these friends desperately, as everywhere I turned, I was confronted with an alarming portrait of beautiful vapidity. This pretty vacancy occupied the eyes of every professional socialite in attendance and infested every hollow smile. The event was allegedly intended to raise funds for the support of inner city schooling, which as an academic by trade I could easily sympathize with. However, nobody I encountered appeared remotely interested in that initiative, instead discussing their social trajectory, what to wear at subsequent events and who to shun. I escaped the smothering crowd in a state of mild disgust. I was prepared to leave when I noticed an enigmatic figure lounging under the Dorian arches adjacent to the entrance. There was an indescribable magnetism to him, and I felt an inexplicable compulsion to go towards him. I was a moth to the flame.
“Looks like I’m not the only one underwhelmed with the festivities.” I said, offering my hand in the universal symbol of introduction. He smirked slightly, brushing languid strands of dark hair from his eyes. His eyes were frozen lakes of crystal November, the coldest blue I had ever seen.
“You could certainly say that.” he murmured with a momentary smile.
“You see these people?” he asked, gesturing abstractly in obvious disdain. I responded in the affirmative.
“These people are the epitome of cowardice.” he continued bitterly.The implicit inquisition in my eyes prompted him to continue.
“We are congregated here far above the problems we claim to alleviate, elevated in our ivory tower not by arrogance, but by fear.” His pause was one of pregnant silence, allowing his words their deserved resonance.
“The marginalized threaten the masses assembled here. They represent a disparity that inspires both revulsion and guilt in the ruling class, but they are more frightening for the potential they have for revolution.”
“Revolution?” I asked in a voice heavy with skepticism.
“That seems relatively unlikely...I mean what do you think that would prove?”
“It would prove what I learned long ago.” he whispered sadly “That rebellion is the noblest form of futility.”
With that I was hooked. Hours faded gently into the past as we spoke. We were both glad to have found refuge in each other’s company from the insipid vultures that surrounded us. As a stream of socialites began to exit through the marble doorway, we exchanged contact information. He handed me a business card stamped with his name, a card which in crimson font informed me that he had a recurring engagement as a musician.
“Friday.” he said simply. “The Vicious Cabaret.”
The Vicious Cabaret was preceded by a significant notoriety, renowned for its alleged fraternity with the criminal element. Hushed whispers depicted the illicit activities said to take place in the subterranean confines of the club. It’s renown had grown to the point that the lack of criminal investigation was a publicly recognized travesty most frequently attributed to institutional corruption. However, as I walked uneasily towards that famed den of stolen virtue, I realized that its inconspicuousness was its saving grace. The exterior was decidedly pedestrian: a jet black facade and a central door emblazoned with a scarlet V. Next to this door stood a gorgeous woman, who I noticed possessed the same magnetic qualities as Vladimir. She wore a red blouse that accentuated her significant curves and there was an enticing impropriety in her smile. She appeared to be in her early twenties, but the jade cobwebs in her eyes told stories of a far greater existence. These cobwebs were expelled by flame as I approached.
“Welcome to the Vicious Cabaret.” she said simply. She offered a scarlet pill, which carried an indescribable menace in its oblong frame.
“To facilitate the experience.” she explained in continued simplicity. My confusion must have been evident. She sighed in playful exasperation.
“This elevates sensory perception,” she explained “which allows you to reach a transcendental state.”
“So closer to God?” I asked, with what in retrospect was unforgivable naivete.
“Something like that.” she replied, lips curled in the dark amusement of a sphinx. I accepted the pill hesitantly, wary of the situation, but also consumed by a dark excitement. As I opened the door, she drew me close, and whispered in my ear in glorious indecency “Enjoy the ride.”
I paused for a moment, paralyzed by carnal awe. I saw her blow me a mock kiss as the door closed behind me.
In front of me was a seven step staircase leading to the club below. I walked towards it perplexed: I had expected something of a more pronounced scope. I put the pill in my mouth and winced as it burnt my tongue. It tasted of honey and soot, of lilacs and acid. The burning sensation spread throughout my body, which was replaced by an inferno in the shape of a man. My synapses erupted in simultaneous agony and ecstasy as flames washed over my body. The small staircase had been replaced by one that twisted and turned for miles and throbbed with an obscene heartbeat. I ran through the suddenly labyrinthine corridor, stumbling as the steps lunged at me violently. After a century, I reached the bottom, panting and disoriented. I looked around and was struck by the sheer enormity of my cavernous surroundings. I was a speck of dust and the room was a subterranean universe, stalactites dotting the barely visible ceiling, flames illuminating the stratospheric heights thereof. A symphony of echoes washed over me from a tide of angry voices. I soon found myself gasping for air, drowning in a sea of cacophony. When I saw the source of these voices, I was frightened to see that they came from a surreal congregation of demonic figures. Creatures with spiraling eyes were engaged in barbaric combat while while scaled women of darkly exotic beauty kissed each other to the obscene titillation of surrounding crowds. Everywhere i looked were animal characteristics, horns and spikes protruding from every face, claws hiding in every handshake. Terror gripped me with an iron clamp I was unable to relinquish myself from, and panic gnawed at my cerebral cortex like a hungry rat. Suddenly, as if in response to the sincerity of my fear, all illumination in the room faded, save for one light. I followed the trajectory of the beam and saw that it led to a majestic piano. It was at this piece of instrumental grandeur that my friend Vladimir was seated.
“It is better to be the lowest servant of Heaven than to rule in Hell.” he declared mournfully, much to the derision of the audience. And with that, he began.
The music was wordlessly gorgeous, a funereal rhapsody in exotic scales. I looked around to see that every grotesque creature surrounding me was wholly transfixed by the haunting melody that enveloped them like a mother’s arms. The music grew in dynamic, emotion swelling to that of majestic devastation. Strange harmonies emerged in a melancholy dance, spiraling in glorious descent. Vladimir’s frame contorted, arching as he struck the keys in furious desperation. His bodily spasms increased until they culminated in sudden protrusions from his shoulder blades. The music grew exultant, a heartbreakingly triumphant display as Vladimir’s wings unfolded from the back of his shredded suit. However, as he continued to convulse, he began to lunge blindly at notes, striking atonal blows against the engrossing tapestry. The dissonance continued in a brutal crescendo, all rhythm lost in the throes of cacophony. The crowd began to jeer, coarse insults emanating from fanged mouths and forked tongues. The “music” was now a swirling chaos, a symphony of anguish, random tones nailed together in patchwork rage. Suddenly Vladimir stood and the crowd ceased to speak. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar, downed it in a single gulp and smashed the bottle across the face of one of his more vocal detractors. In the pregnant silence that followed, he screamed in palpable grief. His words were foreign, but when I found him weeping outside in a sepulchral alley surrounded by a circle of bloody feathers, he told me what he had said.
“God, why have you forsaken me.”
I helped him stumble back to his small apartment three blocks away, acting as a crutch to his staggering soldier. While he walked, he spoke of his past, of the secrets he had withheld from me in our brief friendship. He told me that he was a fallen angel, cursed to remain in the mortal realm until he could repent adequately through his music. I attributed his conviction in his outlandish statements to his intoxicated state. I attributed my belief to the same. As we approached his apartment door, he turned to me, the frozen lakes in his eyes thawed and vulnerable in the moonlight. In the helpless voice of a wounded animal, he asked me if I”d like to come in. When I hesitated, he kissed me, his lips tasting of roses and summer. Later that night, even as euphoria began to loosen its hold on me, I could have sworn that I saw a halo above his smiling face.
I woke the next morning to see Vladimir beside me, eyes dancing with excitement, oblivious to the December chill that had infiltrated the room. He told me that he had found out how to return to Heaven. I groggily asked him if he still believed what he’d told me about his status as a fallen angel. I was frightened by his affirmative response. He held me and told me that everything he had said was true. And he told me that that Sunday, we would go to the forest and he would perform his masterpiece. The palatial estate of the Oaks would dilate and welcome him back into the divine realm, and God himself would forgive Vladimir his trespasses. I accepted this with the unwitting madness that accompanies the recently woken, and I agreed to meet him in the clearing at noon the next day.
When I arrived, the most beautiful piano I had ever seen, ebony lacquer and spotless ivory keys, was sitting in the middle of the clearing. Vladimir had given me explicit instructions on how to get there, how to avoid the brambles and how to sneak through the impossibly dense clutches of birches and elms. He was seated at the bench, slender figures rested upon the keys in amorous anticipation. He gave me a scarlet pill, which I ingested with great trepidation, knowing how much havoc one of its brethren had inflicted upon my mind. As it dissolved in my mouth, I found myself surprisingly engulfed in a sea of tranquility, ready for Vladimir’s performance. He began, gently caressing the keys at his ivory fingertips, coaxing out melodies that were alternately mournful and jubilant. Flying through modes and scales, he hunched over, striking notes with relaxed ease, wincing slightly as his wings once more perforated the dark fabric of his suit. The air grew warmer and flowers began to bloom around us, and the sun beat down in cheerful optimism. Then the unthinkable happened. God emerged from the sun, his face contorted in rage. Vladimir trembled, but continued to construct his rhapsody, weaving a sonata of gold from a fabric of sound. With a deafening bellow God ceased Vladimir’s recital, and with a swift display of vengeance, he banished Vladimir from existence, leaving nothing but torn silk in his stead. Then he whispered in my ear, his voice a tempest of unabashed fury.
The authorities found me, trembling and curled at the foot of the piano. I’ve been told I was weeping uncontrollably, though I couldn’t tell them why. I can tell you though. You, who have watched me on my rapid journey towards madness, you who have observed the descent I have experienced which has taken me to a precipice on the edge of sanity. My mind has been devastated by the following knowledge. God is real. And he is not happy with us.
. . .
It was raining when I met Vladimir, the torrential cascade bearing resemblance to celestial tears. Fortunately, we were sheltered in the ornate ballroom that tops the Shangri-La, participating in a charity function at the pinnacle of the city. The ballroom was a place of monochromatic elegance, walls painted in a simple white and ceilings punctuated by gold chandeliers. My presence there was due exclusively to the ceaseless cajoling of friends in the thespian community. I was searching for these friends desperately, as everywhere I turned, I was confronted with an alarming portrait of beautiful vapidity. This pretty vacancy occupied the eyes of every professional socialite in attendance and infested every hollow smile. The event was allegedly intended to raise funds for the support of inner city schooling, which as an academic by trade I could easily sympathize with. However, nobody I encountered appeared remotely interested in that initiative, instead discussing their social trajectory, what to wear at subsequent events and who to shun. I escaped the smothering crowd in a state of mild disgust. I was prepared to leave when I noticed an enigmatic figure lounging under the Dorian arches adjacent to the entrance. There was an indescribable magnetism to him, and I felt an inexplicable compulsion to go towards him. I was a moth to the flame.
“Looks like I’m not the only one underwhelmed with the festivities.” I said, offering my hand in the universal symbol of introduction. He smirked slightly, brushing languid strands of dark hair from his eyes. His eyes were frozen lakes of crystal November, the coldest blue I had ever seen.
“You could certainly say that.” he murmured with a momentary smile.
“You see these people?” he asked, gesturing abstractly in obvious disdain. I responded in the affirmative.
“These people are the epitome of cowardice.” he continued bitterly.The implicit inquisition in my eyes prompted him to continue.
“We are congregated here far above the problems we claim to alleviate, elevated in our ivory tower not by arrogance, but by fear.” His pause was one of pregnant silence, allowing his words their deserved resonance.
“The marginalized threaten the masses assembled here. They represent a disparity that inspires both revulsion and guilt in the ruling class, but they are more frightening for the potential they have for revolution.”
“Revolution?” I asked in a voice heavy with skepticism.
“That seems relatively unlikely...I mean what do you think that would prove?”
“It would prove what I learned long ago.” he whispered sadly “That rebellion is the noblest form of futility.”
With that I was hooked. Hours faded gently into the past as we spoke. We were both glad to have found refuge in each other’s company from the insipid vultures that surrounded us. As a stream of socialites began to exit through the marble doorway, we exchanged contact information. He handed me a business card stamped with his name, a card which in crimson font informed me that he had a recurring engagement as a musician.
“Friday.” he said simply. “The Vicious Cabaret.”
The Vicious Cabaret was preceded by a significant notoriety, renowned for its alleged fraternity with the criminal element. Hushed whispers depicted the illicit activities said to take place in the subterranean confines of the club. It’s renown had grown to the point that the lack of criminal investigation was a publicly recognized travesty most frequently attributed to institutional corruption. However, as I walked uneasily towards that famed den of stolen virtue, I realized that its inconspicuousness was its saving grace. The exterior was decidedly pedestrian: a jet black facade and a central door emblazoned with a scarlet V. Next to this door stood a gorgeous woman, who I noticed possessed the same magnetic qualities as Vladimir. She wore a red blouse that accentuated her significant curves and there was an enticing impropriety in her smile. She appeared to be in her early twenties, but the jade cobwebs in her eyes told stories of a far greater existence. These cobwebs were expelled by flame as I approached.
“Welcome to the Vicious Cabaret.” she said simply. She offered a scarlet pill, which carried an indescribable menace in its oblong frame.
“To facilitate the experience.” she explained in continued simplicity. My confusion must have been evident. She sighed in playful exasperation.
“This elevates sensory perception,” she explained “which allows you to reach a transcendental state.”
“So closer to God?” I asked, with what in retrospect was unforgivable naivete.
“Something like that.” she replied, lips curled in the dark amusement of a sphinx. I accepted the pill hesitantly, wary of the situation, but also consumed by a dark excitement. As I opened the door, she drew me close, and whispered in my ear in glorious indecency “Enjoy the ride.”
I paused for a moment, paralyzed by carnal awe. I saw her blow me a mock kiss as the door closed behind me.
In front of me was a seven step staircase leading to the club below. I walked towards it perplexed: I had expected something of a more pronounced scope. I put the pill in my mouth and winced as it burnt my tongue. It tasted of honey and soot, of lilacs and acid. The burning sensation spread throughout my body, which was replaced by an inferno in the shape of a man. My synapses erupted in simultaneous agony and ecstasy as flames washed over my body. The small staircase had been replaced by one that twisted and turned for miles and throbbed with an obscene heartbeat. I ran through the suddenly labyrinthine corridor, stumbling as the steps lunged at me violently. After a century, I reached the bottom, panting and disoriented. I looked around and was struck by the sheer enormity of my cavernous surroundings. I was a speck of dust and the room was a subterranean universe, stalactites dotting the barely visible ceiling, flames illuminating the stratospheric heights thereof. A symphony of echoes washed over me from a tide of angry voices. I soon found myself gasping for air, drowning in a sea of cacophony. When I saw the source of these voices, I was frightened to see that they came from a surreal congregation of demonic figures. Creatures with spiraling eyes were engaged in barbaric combat while while scaled women of darkly exotic beauty kissed each other to the obscene titillation of surrounding crowds. Everywhere i looked were animal characteristics, horns and spikes protruding from every face, claws hiding in every handshake. Terror gripped me with an iron clamp I was unable to relinquish myself from, and panic gnawed at my cerebral cortex like a hungry rat. Suddenly, as if in response to the sincerity of my fear, all illumination in the room faded, save for one light. I followed the trajectory of the beam and saw that it led to a majestic piano. It was at this piece of instrumental grandeur that my friend Vladimir was seated.
“It is better to be the lowest servant of Heaven than to rule in Hell.” he declared mournfully, much to the derision of the audience. And with that, he began.
The music was wordlessly gorgeous, a funereal rhapsody in exotic scales. I looked around to see that every grotesque creature surrounding me was wholly transfixed by the haunting melody that enveloped them like a mother’s arms. The music grew in dynamic, emotion swelling to that of majestic devastation. Strange harmonies emerged in a melancholy dance, spiraling in glorious descent. Vladimir’s frame contorted, arching as he struck the keys in furious desperation. His bodily spasms increased until they culminated in sudden protrusions from his shoulder blades. The music grew exultant, a heartbreakingly triumphant display as Vladimir’s wings unfolded from the back of his shredded suit. However, as he continued to convulse, he began to lunge blindly at notes, striking atonal blows against the engrossing tapestry. The dissonance continued in a brutal crescendo, all rhythm lost in the throes of cacophony. The crowd began to jeer, coarse insults emanating from fanged mouths and forked tongues. The “music” was now a swirling chaos, a symphony of anguish, random tones nailed together in patchwork rage. Suddenly Vladimir stood and the crowd ceased to speak. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar, downed it in a single gulp and smashed the bottle across the face of one of his more vocal detractors. In the pregnant silence that followed, he screamed in palpable grief. His words were foreign, but when I found him weeping outside in a sepulchral alley surrounded by a circle of bloody feathers, he told me what he had said.
“God, why have you forsaken me.”
I helped him stumble back to his small apartment three blocks away, acting as a crutch to his staggering soldier. While he walked, he spoke of his past, of the secrets he had withheld from me in our brief friendship. He told me that he was a fallen angel, cursed to remain in the mortal realm until he could repent adequately through his music. I attributed his conviction in his outlandish statements to his intoxicated state. I attributed my belief to the same. As we approached his apartment door, he turned to me, the frozen lakes in his eyes thawed and vulnerable in the moonlight. In the helpless voice of a wounded animal, he asked me if I”d like to come in. When I hesitated, he kissed me, his lips tasting of roses and summer. Later that night, even as euphoria began to loosen its hold on me, I could have sworn that I saw a halo above his smiling face.
I woke the next morning to see Vladimir beside me, eyes dancing with excitement, oblivious to the December chill that had infiltrated the room. He told me that he had found out how to return to Heaven. I groggily asked him if he still believed what he’d told me about his status as a fallen angel. I was frightened by his affirmative response. He held me and told me that everything he had said was true. And he told me that that Sunday, we would go to the forest and he would perform his masterpiece. The palatial estate of the Oaks would dilate and welcome him back into the divine realm, and God himself would forgive Vladimir his trespasses. I accepted this with the unwitting madness that accompanies the recently woken, and I agreed to meet him in the clearing at noon the next day.
When I arrived, the most beautiful piano I had ever seen, ebony lacquer and spotless ivory keys, was sitting in the middle of the clearing. Vladimir had given me explicit instructions on how to get there, how to avoid the brambles and how to sneak through the impossibly dense clutches of birches and elms. He was seated at the bench, slender figures rested upon the keys in amorous anticipation. He gave me a scarlet pill, which I ingested with great trepidation, knowing how much havoc one of its brethren had inflicted upon my mind. As it dissolved in my mouth, I found myself surprisingly engulfed in a sea of tranquility, ready for Vladimir’s performance. He began, gently caressing the keys at his ivory fingertips, coaxing out melodies that were alternately mournful and jubilant. Flying through modes and scales, he hunched over, striking notes with relaxed ease, wincing slightly as his wings once more perforated the dark fabric of his suit. The air grew warmer and flowers began to bloom around us, and the sun beat down in cheerful optimism. Then the unthinkable happened. God emerged from the sun, his face contorted in rage. Vladimir trembled, but continued to construct his rhapsody, weaving a sonata of gold from a fabric of sound. With a deafening bellow God ceased Vladimir’s recital, and with a swift display of vengeance, he banished Vladimir from existence, leaving nothing but torn silk in his stead. Then he whispered in my ear, his voice a tempest of unabashed fury.
The authorities found me, trembling and curled at the foot of the piano. I’ve been told I was weeping uncontrollably, though I couldn’t tell them why. I can tell you though. You, who have watched me on my rapid journey towards madness, you who have observed the descent I have experienced which has taken me to a precipice on the edge of sanity. My mind has been devastated by the following knowledge. God is real. And he is not happy with us.
. . .
Saturday, February 12, 2011
HvB
I was feeling immortal, transfixed at the wheel of my 1941 Dystopia. The hood gleamed in the Autumn light with celestial menace. The sky was on fire with polychromatic hues of fuschia and sapphire. As I sped down the ashphalt road, I could hear sirens echo in the recesses of the city, sound ricocheting through the sepulchral veins of urban sprawl. Even now the harsh glare of bright lights, alternating between red and blue, perforated the faint glow of the October sunset. I pushed down on the gas pedal further, trembling with the profane exhilaration that accompanied my line of work.
Allow me to clarify: I'm not evil. I'm merely an oppurtunist with a healthy subscription to capitalist philosophy. It's this economic compulsion that lends context to the situation I find myself in, bolting past the city limits in a chrome black Dystopia with fifty thousand dollars in the trunk and a dead hero in the sleeping metropolis. Even now the tumultuous drone of the sirens is fading in the distance as I abandon my pursuers in a cloud of dust. A well placed match thrown accurately out of the open window creates a barricade of flame that ensures my comfortable escape.
The sun has long since descended when I arrive at my sanctuary, a palatial abode situated at the peak of a jagged mountain. As I stumble wearily into my quarters, I divest myself of the leather trenchcoat, the red goggles, the black mask. I observe my scars in the mirror, the bruises over my broken ribs, the crooked gash where The Angel had sliced at me desperately. I could still see an aura of light on my hands from where I had broken The Angel's halo with my bare hands, and I savoured the expression of vulnerable shock that I could still picture on his typically impervious face.
I walk onto the balcony, striding over the subtle stonemasonry with the hint of a smirk upon my face. In the tentative embrace of the moonlight. The city glares at me in defensive slumber, and I meet its gaze with obstinate reciprocity. The moonlight envelops me as my wounds slowly heal. I look to the night sky in silent thanks, look at the city in a final declaration of smug dominion, and look at my glowing hands with grim satisfaction. I am Herr Von Blitzkrieg, and I kill superheroes.
Allow me to clarify: I'm not evil. I'm merely an oppurtunist with a healthy subscription to capitalist philosophy. It's this economic compulsion that lends context to the situation I find myself in, bolting past the city limits in a chrome black Dystopia with fifty thousand dollars in the trunk and a dead hero in the sleeping metropolis. Even now the tumultuous drone of the sirens is fading in the distance as I abandon my pursuers in a cloud of dust. A well placed match thrown accurately out of the open window creates a barricade of flame that ensures my comfortable escape.
The sun has long since descended when I arrive at my sanctuary, a palatial abode situated at the peak of a jagged mountain. As I stumble wearily into my quarters, I divest myself of the leather trenchcoat, the red goggles, the black mask. I observe my scars in the mirror, the bruises over my broken ribs, the crooked gash where The Angel had sliced at me desperately. I could still see an aura of light on my hands from where I had broken The Angel's halo with my bare hands, and I savoured the expression of vulnerable shock that I could still picture on his typically impervious face.
I walk onto the balcony, striding over the subtle stonemasonry with the hint of a smirk upon my face. In the tentative embrace of the moonlight. The city glares at me in defensive slumber, and I meet its gaze with obstinate reciprocity. The moonlight envelops me as my wounds slowly heal. I look to the night sky in silent thanks, look at the city in a final declaration of smug dominion, and look at my glowing hands with grim satisfaction. I am Herr Von Blitzkrieg, and I kill superheroes.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Nostalgia (Just Because)
She wishes it was like the way when she was young
Just Because
He wishes it was like the way where he was from
Just Because
She uses a crutch to scrawl a masterpiece in dust
Just Because
He, with an artist's touch, writes a symphony in rust
Just Because
She sees the setting sun as a solar pendulum
Just Because
He sees a loaded gun as the payback for his son
Just Because
We are the ones turning many into none
Just Because
We have begun to await a day that never comes
Just Because
Just Because
He wishes it was like the way where he was from
Just Because
She uses a crutch to scrawl a masterpiece in dust
Just Because
He, with an artist's touch, writes a symphony in rust
Just Because
She sees the setting sun as a solar pendulum
Just Because
He sees a loaded gun as the payback for his son
Just Because
We are the ones turning many into none
Just Because
We have begun to await a day that never comes
Just Because
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Manuscript 2: Obligatory Sequel
Jacob Fleetwood was in a dejected mood when he unraveled the weekend paper. He had a sneaking suspicion that the world would still be in some turmoil or other, his team would have lost the night previously and Garfield would still harbour a grudge against Mondays. However, his mood deteriorated further when he saw the headline. Publisher James Ramirez had been found in a gruesome scene of carnage that appeared to have been inflicted by the surrounding appliances. Police were understandably baffled by the discovery, unable to comprehend the motivations or mechanics for Ramirez' grizzly demise. Jacob was sickened; he had presented a manuscript to Ramirez of almost identical details, which the publisher had rejected brutally. In desperation, he had returned to a long abandoned piety and asked for a miracle. As he prayed that this was not the miracle he had wished for. However, the prayer was interrupted by a brusque knock at his door. As he opened the apartment to the unexpected visitor, he saw it was a broad man in a suit blacker than the night. The man wordlessly presented an inquest to Jacob. It read "Services rendered: One minor miracle involving murder. Payment required: $37,593.76 (tax included). Signed, God. (Note the capital G)" Jacob was astonished, but managed to stammer that he didn't have that kind of money and even if he did, he was under the impression that God was a more charitable individual. "No. He most certainly is not." replied the broad-chested man in an oddly high-pitched voice. "But the whole point of me asking for a miracle was that I'm a starving artist!" Fleetwood exclaimed. "Surely God can understand that or he sgouldn't have done anything in the first place!" The suited man, feeling it was irrelevant to mention that his name was Nelson, sighed and said he would take Fleetwood to sort it out with the big man himself. "Being an intermediary is not what it's cracked up to be..." Nelson mumbled under his breath in his strange falsetto.
Jacob opened his eyes to an almost blinding light. Nelson was nowhere to be seen. For that matter, nothing was anywhere to be seen save for a plump orange tabby of strange proportions that dwarfed Jacob with it's enormity. Perplexed and slightly bemused,, he asked the cat where he could find God. "Right in front of you, you ignorant douchebag." growled the cat. Surprised, both at the revelation and its profane nature, Jacob remarked that God looked more like the Monday-disliking, teddy bear-loving type. "I fuckin' hate Mondays. Despise 'em as a matter of fact. And while we're on the subject of shit that pisses me off, I really can't abide by you arrogant hairless dickweeds who automatically assume that you're the superior race just because you have the greatest capacity fir destruction." muttered God. "And who the fuck dislikes teddy bears?" he added grumpily. Shocked by the torrent of obscenity, Jacob was speechless. "Oh fuck, this is a school blog isn't it?" said God. "Whoever reads this is gonna think I'm just a stock character defined only by my dialogue's profanity. That is absolutely unbefitting of a fictitious deity of my stature." Because Jacob was still shocked, and the revelation of his fictitious nature had exacerbated his confusion, God asked him why he was there. "Ummm, I got an invoice for a miracle." Jacob managed to squeak. "And you can't pay it, because you were under the erroneous inpression that I run a charity?" God looked seriously disappointed as he said this. "Free miracles aren't exactly conducive to an effective business strategy" he explained in a kinder tone.
Still baffled beyond belief, Jacob asked if there was any way he could repay God outside of monetary means. God sighed and then said that Jacob was lucky it was Tuesday and that in the abandonment of a particularly dismal Monday he was feeling marginally altruistic. He told Jacob what he could do.
Soon after, God was purring contedly while his furry midriff was petted, ears scratched and hunger for a steaming serving of lasagna satisfied. For those hours, all was right in the universe. Jacob vowed to transcribe the decidedly peculiar events of the past several days when he got home, knowing that their fantastic nature would translate nicely to the realm of fiction. "So all's well that starts well with murder apparently." murmured God "And Nat's teachers definitely shouldn't penalize him for the profanity here. Or I'll sic household appliances on them." he added pointedly. That brief menace was washed away by a contented purr brought on by a particularly satisfying scratch behind the ears.
Jacob opened his eyes to an almost blinding light. Nelson was nowhere to be seen. For that matter, nothing was anywhere to be seen save for a plump orange tabby of strange proportions that dwarfed Jacob with it's enormity. Perplexed and slightly bemused,, he asked the cat where he could find God. "Right in front of you, you ignorant douchebag." growled the cat. Surprised, both at the revelation and its profane nature, Jacob remarked that God looked more like the Monday-disliking, teddy bear-loving type. "I fuckin' hate Mondays. Despise 'em as a matter of fact. And while we're on the subject of shit that pisses me off, I really can't abide by you arrogant hairless dickweeds who automatically assume that you're the superior race just because you have the greatest capacity fir destruction." muttered God. "And who the fuck dislikes teddy bears?" he added grumpily. Shocked by the torrent of obscenity, Jacob was speechless. "Oh fuck, this is a school blog isn't it?" said God. "Whoever reads this is gonna think I'm just a stock character defined only by my dialogue's profanity. That is absolutely unbefitting of a fictitious deity of my stature." Because Jacob was still shocked, and the revelation of his fictitious nature had exacerbated his confusion, God asked him why he was there. "Ummm, I got an invoice for a miracle." Jacob managed to squeak. "And you can't pay it, because you were under the erroneous inpression that I run a charity?" God looked seriously disappointed as he said this. "Free miracles aren't exactly conducive to an effective business strategy" he explained in a kinder tone.
Still baffled beyond belief, Jacob asked if there was any way he could repay God outside of monetary means. God sighed and then said that Jacob was lucky it was Tuesday and that in the abandonment of a particularly dismal Monday he was feeling marginally altruistic. He told Jacob what he could do.
Soon after, God was purring contedly while his furry midriff was petted, ears scratched and hunger for a steaming serving of lasagna satisfied. For those hours, all was right in the universe. Jacob vowed to transcribe the decidedly peculiar events of the past several days when he got home, knowing that their fantastic nature would translate nicely to the realm of fiction. "So all's well that starts well with murder apparently." murmured God "And Nat's teachers definitely shouldn't penalize him for the profanity here. Or I'll sic household appliances on them." he added pointedly. That brief menace was washed away by a contented purr brought on by a particularly satisfying scratch behind the ears.
No Holds Barred
There were no rules here. The walls were striated with cracks that looked like the veins of a concrete cobweb in the dim light. Shadows leapt as the dirty lightbulb flickered valiantly. Inside the rusted cage, amateur pugilists threw their fists at each other clumsily, stumbling with the conviction of their assault. A cadaverous man in a well-tailored suit with a skeletal smile stood anonymously at the back of the cheering throng that surrounded the fight. If the inebriated cheers and jeers were rendered inaudible, it would be possible to hear the gaunt man whispering hushed incantations while he rotated a gold coin between his slender fingers.
Meanwhile in the cage, scarlet trails accompanied the paths of both fighters. The larger of the two was panting, clutching at a bruised rib with one arm while maintaing a feeble defense with the other. His opponent, who was significantly smaller, was bouncing on his toes as if in a combative ritual dance. The small man was, however, disoriented from a monster blow that had left him on the verge of blindness. They circled each other tentatively, both cautious, both waiting for the exact moment to strike. The larger combatant leapt suddenly, attempting a ferocious blow to his opponent's temple. However, this assault was counteracted by a smooth dodge and subsequent jab which caused the towering assailant to double over. Those close to the cage could see the small man's demeanour change frighteningly. With frenzied eyes, he pummeled the giant with scarred knuckles and a disregard for compassion. Somewhere in the audience a gaunt figure was smiling, his incantation finished. "For you, Lord Oberon." the suited man muttered with the trace of a smirk. In the ring, a bearish man timidly lifted an arm above the small man's battered frame in the universal display of triumph. Chuckling to himself, the skeletal figure who wore the disguise of man convincingly left the sepulchral arena and stepped into the indecent embrace of a magenta sky. The gold coin glowed with dark satisfaction in his pocket. Somewhere a giant of a man's pulse deserted him. There were no rules there.
Meanwhile in the cage, scarlet trails accompanied the paths of both fighters. The larger of the two was panting, clutching at a bruised rib with one arm while maintaing a feeble defense with the other. His opponent, who was significantly smaller, was bouncing on his toes as if in a combative ritual dance. The small man was, however, disoriented from a monster blow that had left him on the verge of blindness. They circled each other tentatively, both cautious, both waiting for the exact moment to strike. The larger combatant leapt suddenly, attempting a ferocious blow to his opponent's temple. However, this assault was counteracted by a smooth dodge and subsequent jab which caused the towering assailant to double over. Those close to the cage could see the small man's demeanour change frighteningly. With frenzied eyes, he pummeled the giant with scarred knuckles and a disregard for compassion. Somewhere in the audience a gaunt figure was smiling, his incantation finished. "For you, Lord Oberon." the suited man muttered with the trace of a smirk. In the ring, a bearish man timidly lifted an arm above the small man's battered frame in the universal display of triumph. Chuckling to himself, the skeletal figure who wore the disguise of man convincingly left the sepulchral arena and stepped into the indecent embrace of a magenta sky. The gold coin glowed with dark satisfaction in his pocket. Somewhere a giant of a man's pulse deserted him. There were no rules there.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Travels On A Steel Shoreline
I'm riding down the steel shoreline on a rusted steed
My only companions are the ghosts that populate the ocean
An artificial sun rises daily
Spitting in the face of a bronze horizon
Right now a zephyr is bearing down on me with gentle ferocity
I inhale it while my steed dodges the crest of a titanic wave
And then everything is quiet
It's night, so I look up at the fictitious constellations which colonize the sky
And I know that each glinting light
Is just a photograph of a better time in a better place
A snapshot in the land of the blind
Faded and worn, but still cloaked in the sepia tones of mournful nostalgia
Day breaks again, crimson streaks marring a permanently altered skyline
My steed brings me through a graveyard of iron and glass
A mausoleum constructed on a monolithic scale
From shards of glass and crumbled pillars of cement
If I were a holy man, this would be worthy of worship
The sunset is beautiful, a magnolia erupting in the midst of a tangerine pool
Azure waves rippling across the pomegranate backdrop of the evening
The seductive tendrils of sleep ensnare me with my foot on the gas pedal
The crashing waves of time mock the impermanence of lines drawn in the sand
Blossoming into the harvested expanses of the great unknown
Burning rubber until I'm gone
My only companions are the ghosts that populate the ocean
An artificial sun rises daily
Spitting in the face of a bronze horizon
Right now a zephyr is bearing down on me with gentle ferocity
I inhale it while my steed dodges the crest of a titanic wave
And then everything is quiet
It's night, so I look up at the fictitious constellations which colonize the sky
And I know that each glinting light
Is just a photograph of a better time in a better place
A snapshot in the land of the blind
Faded and worn, but still cloaked in the sepia tones of mournful nostalgia
Day breaks again, crimson streaks marring a permanently altered skyline
My steed brings me through a graveyard of iron and glass
A mausoleum constructed on a monolithic scale
From shards of glass and crumbled pillars of cement
If I were a holy man, this would be worthy of worship
The sunset is beautiful, a magnolia erupting in the midst of a tangerine pool
Azure waves rippling across the pomegranate backdrop of the evening
The seductive tendrils of sleep ensnare me with my foot on the gas pedal
The crashing waves of time mock the impermanence of lines drawn in the sand
Blossoming into the harvested expanses of the great unknown
Burning rubber until I'm gone
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