Knife

"Cut the cake

             And put down the knife"

The candlelight flickers

      "Make a wish!"

The cat drowses, eyes no longer green

           "Now you are an adult"

The scorching wax drops down

                                         flows down

                                                     the stoic candle.

        "And put down the knife."

I held the knife tightly.

       It wasn't a knife. It was a piece of lifeless 

    clear plastic.

             Etched with the words:

Beauty

Time.

Flash

         The camera.

    "Come on up, we have our cake here!"

  The knife was lead, that sank

             into the cake

                                  red, flowing

                                                       warm.

         I              

did not move my hands

    The lifeless

                    despicable

   hateful piece of polythene 

           propelled itself

 created

                   forcefully ripped 

      apart.

The way of flowing

           Downwards.

        The way of thinking

                  Backwards, archaic.

    Isolated, despised.

 The toppings collapsed 

                      The execution

       by the guillotine.

              Callous, murderous.

    They never liked to be on 

        there anyway.

      

         Then

I realized

                  I have torn it apart

       Myself.

   The knife

         just a piece of

 lifeless

       thoughtless

  polythene

A tool.

Of beauty

and time.

Lux

It was a fine night. A stormy, turbulent, unrestful night, darkened with fog and not the atmosphere, with bouts of violent flashes that mades the cat hide, but a beautiful night. The skies lifted the belligerent waves up high, crashing them onto the jagged rocks not unlike swords of soldiers, dead and washed away from our memories. In these nights everyone on this island would curl up in their blankets, praying that the storm would spare their wrongdoings and mistakes they made. In the miles of sparsely populated darkness, my house shone like a beacon through my dilapidated windows, cracked, ill-made, ill-repaired with duct tape through the frequent typhoons that had done worse to the poor windows than this storm could ever do. It was on this island that I lived. It was in this storm that I awoke, then hereafter, sleepless.

Perhaps the barely surviving black grass that hinges on the soil ever so tightly, was green once. I would not know, since I, the hermit, had lived on this island for decades, yet always dwelled in the basement of my wooden shack. Who would build a basement under a shack, you may ask. The naive me, 20 years ago, would have asked the same question, with the same fervor and disbelief that you have. Unfortunately, there was no rational explanation for the malady that I had. I used to write for B, a company that rewarded based on the ability for me to compose pieces based on themes. I, of course, failed to seize this opportunity, and ended up with a tray full of underachieved, stock, unoriginal articles that I myself struggled to not cringe while reading, and a trash can full of derogatory remarks that sliced, literally. I figured that I was done with this business. No more. Down to the enfer I sent myself.

The wooden floor rattled while the storm tore away. My mind started to become hazy, much like the rain. At times, violent and passionate; at times, soft and withdrawn. The missing piece in the window let in discrete drops of water that formed a small puddle, a cold reflection of myself, superimposed with the flickering old lamp I have on my desk. The surface trembled, as if in fright of the storm. I would let this small pond rest in my shack, but it nevertheless drained itself into the basement through the cracked floor, so I had to mop it up, just to see it reappear after an hour or so.

There was a path that was exactly 200 metres long, which connected my home with the shore. There would normally be wild cats and dogs that scatter around the garden which this path bore its way through, yet in this night I doubted there would be any. For whatever reason (not important), I decided to see for myself what this storm had to offer. I took out my coat, and closed the door behind me. The lights I kept on, just in case I would be lost in this dense downpour.

It turned out that my plan to seek refuge in the bask of the light from my desk lamp was futile, as I could not even keep afoot in this slippery trail in this gale. Raindrops castigated my forehead, beating on each inch of my body with mighty force. Nothing was still in this chaotic beauty of a night, while un-creation descended. I could see nothing but my feet, as I traversed through the dreary path that seemed to never end, in this night that never ended. Trees clapped in desperation as they witnessed by passing. The lone crow screamed for help in this perilous night. The garden was alive.

I knew that there eventually was an end, yet it never came. I slipped and fell multiple times, and shouted curses that were immediately silenced by claps of thunder. Unreasonable! I simply picked a random direction to continue my endeavor, for I could not tell which way was which anymore. The track curved and dwindled, until the sound of the sea itself revealed that I had reached the end. Finally.

The waves were furious and crashing, with its fury revealed every few seconds due to flashes of lightning. There was nothing in the distance, only endless darkness. The night never seemed to pass anymore. Time had stopped for me to view this battle between the sea and the sky. Alas! Finality! The symphony of nature! I applauded in this great theatre composed by myself, while, gradually, the sounds of rain were muffled, the anger of the sea faded, the strike of thunder started to weaken into a drumroll. The smite of lightning smeared out into a signal of a beacon that seemingly lasted forever... just like a desk lamp...

The night was beautiful as ever. I leaned over my dilapidated window, cracked, ill-made, ill-repaired with duct tape through the frequent typhoons that had done worse to the poor windows than this storm could ever do. I sat back, and enjoyed this everlasting storm that awakened the island, the garden, and my house.

There was a path that connected the shore and my house. Yet, I was no longer sure whether it was 200 metres long. or 300. or more. After all, the night was fine.

Trek

In the night of nights
Under the brightest moon of the darkness
Under the metallic bridge of cars
On the dreamlike streets of yellow
I march.

It is not a lone march
And will never be
The bridge never ends
The moon never sets
And the crowds never disperse

All steps are uniform
No discrepancies are seen
All driven by the mechanical hand
The ticking of the watch
The dripping of the hourglass

The moon is a sickle
That never harvests
The bridge is a knife
That never cuts
The yellow drums pulse, seemingly forever

I have come twenty miles
I will go eighty more, or less
I have walked through some blindfolded
I have tripped over stones
I have complained, I have cried.

But the march must go on.

Woe be to him
Who looks not to the front
But to the bright sickle in the east
To the metallic knife of the gods
To the dull and dark pavement that abrades his foot
Layer by layer.

Concordia Discors

2200. In this midsummer's night, I was half-asleep, half-alive, straddling on the boundary of consciousness. A deathly feeling overcame me, as if the portal to the afterlife, that of headaches and fantasy, had opened. My eyelids felt heavy as ever, lacking any liveliness in that which could be described as life. It is the most morose of them all, this feeling of waking up to darkness, as if one cruel dream is not enough. I lie on my tombstone.

But in the distance I saw light. At the end of the tunnel...

It was piercing, unpleasant, intruding. It yells its brilliance at me, incessantly emitting its blinding brightness. It was yellow, yellow of the gold and fame of the future. You will be a millionaire; you will be forever in power; you shall prove to them you are the tallest of them all! The glow of wealth, the dream of the businessman, the tricks of the actuary, the uncivil engineer... I shall build the empire, with ambition and not procrastination. Not procrastination.

I knew not of the yellow tint, but not much later did I realize the white glow shining through the yellow light. White with passion, with conscience, with compassion, with charity. Be eloquent, be wise, and persuade. Glow in the others' eyes. The yellow light seemed to be supportive of this white aura. In fact, it is the basis of this glow. Why have you not seized me. Why have you procrastinated.

And, shameless at the boundary, was the faint red halo, like a circle of blood for the ritual of witches, the most evil of them all, the most tempting of them all. Come and embrace me, said the crimson ring, and possess me. Come here, and take me in your hands. I am warm. I am yours. Commit your infidel sin! Why are you hesitating!

I felt my soul being dragged out of my very head, onto the floor, slowly creeping for the eerie concoction of light, like a beast preparing for its victim, like a snake crawling to its food. My body was limp, helpless, as I watched my soul get abducted by the node of taint, of the chemistry between evil and ambition, of love, of killing...

0628, the clock strikes, at the strangest time of all. I found myself without a blanket, overslept, with severe headache. The light at my bathroom never got turned off. I sat up, and proceeded to wash my face.

At the bathroom.

I have seen

I have seen the cosmos go
In elliptical orbits
Every principle is in control
So aesthetic, so pleasing.

I have seen the rivers flow
Undisturbed and unreserved
Words pour out, ideas are sent
So eloquent, so moving.

I have seen the east winds blow
Bringing life to the land
Deeds of kindness, seeds of love
So impressive, so touching.

I have seen the tempests brew
In roaring speeds it tears through
One second here, and the other not
So powerful, so daunting.

I have seen the sunflowers grow
Towards the sunlight they strive
Composed melodies, of love and life and joy
So elegant, so praiseworthy.

Then, I watch the tree of life
Bearing fruit, yet turning black
While I walk along the dwindled streets
Into the etherized evening, I go.

The Archer

A man
who speaks the language of mathematics
Stands brave in front of the tide
Of humans, of nature, and of life.

And the tempest of ignorance shall rise
And the tremors of the ground shall rage
And the darkness of unfettered wrath shall spread
In a false face of aristocracy

But stand true you shall
Stand true in the face of the revolver
Though reason is not on your side
Nor has it ever repaid your efforts.

Draw out the bow you shall
Release the unrestrained arrow of light
Trust your instincts, trust your conscience
For the shadow of lies you shall dispel.

Play on, play on, and play on, the monologue!
in the visage of the so-called man
Laugh in the presence of the reaper
Smite in the tangle of the poison ivy.

In the age of flowing
Rivers flow red, leaves grow black
Amongst the lurid tarn of humanity
Where, where is the bullet of truth.

March

To march, to proceed, to kill. What are we marching towards? Why, to the miserable fog that we call "spring". This thick covers all life, overgrown, decaying or stalling, from the bloody swords and scepters that we call M and S in our language. The strangling ivy wraps around the great tree, the tree that burns. The grey cubicle, that I once called home, has turned into a battlefield, of lush flytraps, of undead nightshades, glaringly displaying itself amidst countless mindless corpses.

What irony that fills one's face with unyielding smoke of confusion. March is the month of death, or morose. Grey skies weep upon the graves of the sacrifice to the greed of mankind, to the collapsing walls of the cubicle, to the history that is heavier than ever. Endless rain pour from the white mesh of pure melancholy, attempting to dilute the bloodshed, yet in vain, for the bloodshed has lasted for hundreds of eons, longer than the memory that anyone alive possesses. This river of heme has flown for eternity, that while we see it, hear about it every day, we simply walk past it, contributing to the flow of this acrid rust.

Every March is when the metallic gates of the enfer open, when the reaper himself comes to claim the lives of the unfortunate, though this is not necessary at all, for the minds have already been betrayed and lost in the forgotten woods. Simply wave your sickle, and the heads will follow. Save yourself time, and indulge in apathy.

March is the month of apathy, of indulgence, of wastefulness. The East wind blows, away from the vast ocean to the already oppressive shoreline, sticking drops of tear on all walls. The grey walls of the cubicle then seems even more depressing. Injustice rise from the ground, like the fog that emerges from the endless ocean of puddles, blinding all men beneath the sun, or the lack of.

March is a nightmare of thirty-one days, where all joy lays waste to unyielding evils, inundating the earth, the air, and the sky. Yet March goes on every year. Painful, but fateful. Unfortunate, yet determined. Ghastly, though permeating.

The cries of the fog
The sobs of the walls
The wailing of the cubicle

Overcome
I recognize none
But fear.