In time, heaven’s light crashes in on earth’s darkness. //symbolic writing//

The Earth seen from Apollo 17. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Two ships flying in space a-tango
Earth and Heaven kingdom-ships
The Heaven ship could fly faster
But it kept close to the Earth ship

Often it would send power sparks
To give the Earth kingdom-ship a lift
Or Earth ship would have fared worse
The crew is the worst a ship could wish for

For long the two ships have been on parallel courses
Heaven’s Captain keeping a close watch
Because He has a stake in the other ship
For Earth carries unwilling captives of war

Left to the gods of the earth they’d run it aground
They resist heaven’s help even firing at it
They’d sooner crash earth than see the slaves free
Sadistic gods set against Heaven’s Captain

The Captain knew they’d soon hit the Hell Hole
But He would sooner crash his ship into earth
To get it off that self-destructive course
And He’d capture earth ship

He’d overthrow the lords of the earth ship
Free the slaves and set things straight
He’d force peace to reign aboard that ship
But the timing has to be right!

No Title

I see nothing
Besides blank white space
No doodles of art
Or words of wisdom
I am writing nothingness
Onto this nothingness
I am supposed to be writing the seventh line
But I see no letter or word
Am I dumb and unable to communicate sense
Or just blind to the sense I am communicating

But, if I am seeing white
I must be seeing clearly
Even though there’s nothing
To be seen on this blank space
Except the fact I have attempted to write something
And given the reader of this blank space
The feeling that he/she is reading something
The satisfaction of witnessing a work of art
That he/she has just read a piece from/of my mind
Let’s all stop and rest now. Thank you.

Life and The Writer (sequel to Death and The Writer)

The Writer

“Of the few unpleasant species like myself
Even fewer love a happy ending.
But again there are few who won’t care about rules of dark writings
Any more than they’d care about a broken toothpick!”
These thoughts run through the mind of the writer,
As he heads back from the shrink’s cave.
His hair is well combed and like shiny metal.
His eyes glow with eerie warmth and calmness.
An enchanted smile adorns his lips and cleanly shoven chin.
One gently swaying arm holds a baby bird.
There was something beautifully divine about the bird
Even the air smelt divine, almost spiritual
The other arm with shaky fingers holds a white-inked pen.

The victim

The full picture of emptiness
Sitting between calmness and uncertainty,
His throat bears the aftertaste of good food,
Which though sits uneasily in his tommy
In view of his maltreatment and enslavement,
The hole (where the padlock was) remains -
An unforgettable lesson on his lips
As he speaks every day.
His wrists bear marks from the cuffs.
His broken legs are yet unhealed.
His mind is unsure of what to expect
From the writer upon return.

The conversation

Writer(W): Hello friend! How have you fared?
Victim(V): Friend? Hehehehe.
W: As you could guess, I was only being sarcastic calling you friend. Not a chance!
V: As well! Anyway, I have resigned myself to this fate. I know how dying feels. I am well used to it by now. This is your fifth return from your shrink, and I have not fared any better. I have felt my body die, and horror as I felt it come alive again back to your chains. I have felt you drain my hope as you would treat me kindly before you go see your shrink, only to deal worse with me on returning. I have felt my soul die. The corruption of these chains have drained my hope, my light, and what sense of sanity I had left. What more? Oh! You will release me now -the new monster you have created -knowing that I am not the same again? I can’t successfully live a normal life -my sense of humanity, morality and dignity twisted by your darkness.
W: Hahahahaha!!!! Halt your speech there! See who is talking like a philosopher now.
I am wrapping all this up now

Conclusion

And as the victim watches
With the uneasy calmness of one used to pain and suffering,
The writer takes the pen
And in a decisive move
Sticks it in the delicate heart of the heavenly dove.
Frank red blood gushes out.
As the blood flowed,
Something unnatural was happening -
Something damningly darker than any could have imagined,
Or something worthy of engaging the writer’s darkness.
The victim saw the writer’s countenance change.
The final deed has been done!
The writer’s insanity forever satisfied,
He then writes a new story in red.
The victim was set free
From the chains of darkness
By the shedding of another’s blood.
Something snapped in the writer’s dark mind
With his bold move on the dove’s life.
The victim’s story changed
And the writer’s madness was satisfied.
The victim was still in shock
As he was let out of hell.
He looked forward with hope
Into the life ahead of him,
Hoping and praying
He wouldn’t be a monster unleashed -
A likeness of the demon he just left behind in hell.
(Who was still a bit surprised
Because it wasn’t quite how he had planned the happy ending.)

At least, he wasn’t totally dead like the writer.
He could still HOPE and PRAY like a normal human
Who believed in the power of the unseen.

The Writer and Death. (Warning: a dark writing!)

The writer

“Except for the other unpleasant species
Like myself,
Most don’t welcome
The dark theme of death.
Like I care!”
These thoughts run through
The mind of the writer,
As he screams foul
To the degree of howl.
His afro is dishevelled
Like one electrocuted.
His ears are taut like of a rabbit-on-heat.
His eyes are hard like a frozen ram’s.
Spit dishonours his lips and beard.
In one passionately fitful arm
He holds his pen.
In the other angrily convulsing
He holds a spiked whip.

The victim

The victim is on the floor -
A figure of life’s scrawny tail,
A specimen of minuscule dignity.
He has swollen cuts on the head.
Padlocks on his lips in shame -
Can’t even taste simple joys of life,
His wrists cuffed handicapped -
Unable to do things he always wanted,
Can’t reach basic necessities for life,
Can’t reach anyone to help him.
His back laced with weals,
His health suffers bad.
If wishes were horses,
This man would escape this hell.
But his legs are tied.
The writer adds a “cherry on top”
And breaks his legs -for insurance!

The conversation

Victim(V): Would ask why, but I doubt I’d understand your complex speeches.
Writer(W): I promise to make it simple.
V: Ok! Please tell me then -why would you want my life’s story this way?
W: because I have never written about someone dying before. I am sorry it had to be you, but whomever I chose would still have complained like you are doing. Just accept your fate. Besides, I have saved you from a meaningless existence. Do you know the many people whose lives follow scripts of fame, wealth, romance, and the whole parade of epicurean pleasures. Cliched vanities! So, if I hadn’t castrated you, what would you have achieved before old age did? Reared children like rabbits to propagate this meaningless existence, or what else? Further, doesn’t your Christianity teach death as way to life? “Die to yourself!”
V: I knew it! You started simple and you went off too deep. How does your mind work like that?
W: Aha! Glad you still have some sense of homour. Anyway, I am also caught in a net of my own. I grew up to find my mind this way. Wish I could help it, but I guess the process of changing my mind-that-makes-complex-sentences-and-is-writing-out-your-life-story-just-for-the-sake-of-a-piece-on-death might as well be as torturous as yours. So, do I kill myself just to shut my mind?
Here, let me also reward you by making your death quick and less dramatic.

Conclusion:…
And for hours the writer whiplashes coldly at the victim,
Screaming till his eyes would pop,
His pen running out of ink.
“Break his pride.
Add an extra pair of cuffs
To his elbows.
Make a v****a where his p***s is.
Add an extra hole to him,
A dent to his identity.
Hey! Here, see his legs going numb.
Quickly, time to bring the scorpions.
Let the pain exceed the numbness
Oh! Let’s pity him and let him lose blood fast.
Hehehe! Not too fast.
Please get 2 pints of blood ready for transfusion.
Let’s see which wins out -
The blood transfusion or the haemorrhage.
But please, kindly drain his heart of blood and hope gradually, gently, mercifully.
Yes, is the s** change surgery about to commence?
Anaesthesia please?
I am afraid not! That’d be unkind.
Oxygen mask please.
We don’t want him to die from surgery.
(I still have a reputation to uphold
As a doctor who must do no harm!)

All the while bystanders watched -
Youtube, facebook, twitter, wordpress, google+…
And when it was done,
The man survived.
The transfusion won out.
He was neither dead nor alive -
Just hanging.
The worst kind of death!
Better he had died into rest.
The writer seeing this,
He cooled, combed his own hair,
Shaved his beard and changed his undies.
He unlocked the victim’s padlock,
And the attendants gave him some food.
Then the writer called
To confirm his own appointment
With his shrink/Psychiatrist.

I don't know much, but I can tell you this: God is definitely NOT a female!

Reblogged from Shards Of DuBois:

God must not be female.  I don't care what religion you believe in, but there is no way in hell He would have designed women to go through all the crap they go through, if He was a woman.  No Way!

And as far as Eve goes, supposedly the stupid woman tempted Adam to the point that angered God SO much that he cursed all women:  I can tell you this, if I ever meet her, I will immediately smack the snot out of her. 

Read more… 619 more words

Woah! It would be thrilling seeing into the mind that wrote this hilarious and sarcastic piece. Lengthy, but I can assure you, you won't notice. Wow!!! Got me LOWTIME! (Laffin Out With Tears In My Eyes.)

When you dance like that

English: Cathedral cliff edge (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Come dance with me
My legs are itching
I have this disease
That makes the soul scratch

Let’s step up and stomp down
Feel the mood rise
Let’s savour the groovy moment
Like a delicious foreplay

Don’t let the music stop
Don’t give the man release yet
The legs itch and soul scratch
And we dance to that rhythm

It’s not time to quench this fire
Let us take it higher still
It may add colour to the climax
And the disease may find its cure

Maybe we will dance so well
And lose ourselves to the rhythm
Our souls dying at the climax
As we drown in the melody

Till we tango off the edge of the cliff!

Versatile Blogger Award Nomination

It is encouraging when your work is acknowledged. On one end, there is some degree of “blogstitution” (pardon from those of delicate consciences) where you feel the need to falsely pat fellows on the back for the sake of retaining their loyalties to your blog. On the other end, you get to meet the mind of some writers through their writings and you are -at least -a bit fascinated by what you see. It then goes beyond just their writings for you.
I hope my followers will not give me a false pat for a job poorly done.
My first nomination for this award was by a blogger -Tazein, of http://www.transcendingbordersblog.wordpress.com -who apparently blogs mainly to inspire people, and I daresay I have enjoyed reading about the things she has gone through. The nomination came as yet another award combining the merits of the versatile blogger award and a very inspiring blog award.
Thank you, Tazein.

The second nomination was by Paul of http://poesypluspolemics.com/ , a blogger I came upon recently. Without a thought I’d say he is a man of words. Like I told him, his bibliophilia seems to be paying off well. One of the things I enjoy about his writing is the witty way he goes about sarcasm and satire/satirisation.
Many thanks, Paul.

Here is where I am supposed to state seven things about myself. Of course, these are expected to be different from what I have in my “About” page or other awards. At this rate, I wonder how many more awards before I run out of things to say.
1. I regard myself as no more or less than a human being, product of a Creator, with privileges, abilities and limitations.
2. I love virtually all fields of life’s studies -arts, sciences, legal,…
3. I’d rather be playing chess than watching ANY football match.
4. I love heights, and training myself to love scarier heights. Unfortunately, I am not close to any imposing steep mountains.
5. I COULD sleep 12 hours a day for as long as a holiday could afford me.
6. I am always “impressed” by man’s latest inventions at impiety.
7. I am slightly shocked I could successfully complete this list so quickly.

Err…here is the third part which I am running away from. I am supposed to nominate 15 other blogs. I have to scram because I really have not studied many more other blogs than the ones I am used to. These are already sick of being nominated by me for awards; and I am sick of sickening them. For instance, shardsofdubois.wordpress.com tries all sorts, across different kindda posts, but I am sure she’d de-blog/report me as spam or totally unsubscribe from my blog if I dare mention her again in my awards. There are many other blogs like that. So, I’ll spare us all the “blogache”, nonetheless with profuse apologies for appearing a tad lawless.
Thank you reader for indulging me thus far.
You are released now.

Happy lonely thoughts whilst lounging on the rooftop

It is in the skies

The ears filled with lies
With tears flooding the eyes
The breath filled with sighs
Darkness hits in the skies

Into men’s souls truth cries
Free yourselves from these ties
While they wander like flies
Stranded up in the skies

A narrow road none plies
I encounter with shaking thighs
Which scales lows and highs
Like birds in the skies

Still the Dark One defies
Locking his captives in sties
But life lights my eyes
As I cruise the skies

On little soul games: affections

Heart (Photo credit: mozzercork)

It hurts and you know it
You tickle my emotions
And my heart is sore
You string my thoughts along
And my soles are worn out
You play on my psyche
And I am tired
Does it give you any pleasure
To hear me admit it
That, even though I regard myself highly
You are far better than I am
You know the limits of my abilities
Intelligence, emotions, will power
Does it give you any pleasure
To hear me admit it
Because it boosts your ego
Or because it crushes mine
Yes, I can’t play along for too long
And since you likely knew
I would come to this breaking point
Why did you start this at all
To convince yourself you really could
Or to convince me you are all that
You taunt me everywhere I turn
I hear songs and my head swims
I see people and I only recognise your face
I know I am having a psychotic breakdown
Or how do I smell your fragrance
Even whilst in the loo
Through the day I dream
Through the night, of course…

Yet I can’t say I am in love with you.

on passion for monstrous things

Always…

Like twins from birth
I understand most of your thoughts
Always know how to flick you on
Like a match struck together from heaven
Flavoured with the essence of hell
I play with your body indiscriminately
Tickle your emotions and fantasies
And you like it
This game of passions
I am a part of who/what you are
Your ego, personality, passions

Then…

You were seeing another and things changed
Suddenly you seemed the sensible one
Our adventures then seemed childish and risky
As you settled for a placid vague life
Where things are not tangible
Where you choke your desires and “needs”
Drifting passionlessly
Like the smoke
From dead embers
That once blazed with life
Yet you called our relationship unrealistic

You would give me a wise look
Asking “Where were we headed?”
I had become the clichéd “fool for love”
I still stuck around to my need for you
Because without you
My existence has never made much sense
Then you’d come
With head low
And dignity battered
Begging for a little of what we had
A junkie dying for a fix

I won’t admit to how good it felt
Though I preferred you’d want me
With all your dignity and senses and will intact
Then when we are done with our tango of love
You’d dump me again like faeces
How do you tell me to my face
To go *#@(a swear word meaning “have sex”)@#* myself
In front of a mirror
You think I don’t know how I look
The two horns and cold dark eyes
My bloody fangs and crawly warty skin

You think you didn’t know these
All the while we were insanely in love
Why do you now feel a need to hurt me
Now you call me a monster
Because of your new lover
In the camp of the Christians
You should know how many of them
Play around with monsters like me
But what WE have is real
And I cherish a TOKEN of our love deeply
For a baby monster now grows in my womb!

Later…

P.S.: And the monster was delivered
Of a live healthy horrid baby at term
Who didn’t give a care for sentiments
And later became the death of its father
R.I.P. O poor Christian soul