Secretkeeper:: Ver 2.0

If you would like

2009-01-28T22:12:00.001+08:00

I'm not the sort of boy who can talk about
The latest hollywood dramas
About prom queens and socialites.

But I could, if you would like,
Talk about how Spiderman
Made a deal with the devil.

To save his aunt's life,
All he did was give up his marriage
As if it never happened.

I'd tell you about how,
There would still be a part of his soul
That calls out to her.

And I'd call out to the night,
"Wherever you are, I hope
you're not afraid."

"Because I will find you."

I could tell you about that,
If you would like.

---------------------------------

About a geek in love. Or something like that.

Memories

2008-12-30T22:17:00.002+08:00

Everytime I visit this website, I'm reminded of the time you stumbled onto it by accident while typing in my current blog. I still miss you for all the things that made you unique and whatnot and I'm not really ashamed that I feel this way.

This is kind of pathetic.

I feel like writing stuff again. Things that make sense. Things that aren't just for vanity. My current Blog feels like something I write in just to impress people with. I want this secret blog (or not so secret) to be something I use to send my message out into the void.

Here's the most recent thing I wrote. An ode to your smile.

idiosyncratic

lips, tucked like
protective lovebirds
nestling silently -
and all the while through the day
I couldn't help myself
i could feel feathers
lightly brushing against my cheeks,
evoking a smile to match yours
----------

I was angry at you that day. I tried to give you the cold shoulder, but it wouldn't bite. What chance did I have when you knew exactly what to do to get on my good side?

Walking [random]

2007-04-12T20:02:00.000+08:00

The night was dusty and the air was filled with the glow of halogen lights. I got off from the jeepney and made my way past the angry cars and into our subdivision. I walked past the tricycle stop, opting to walk home instead.

There's a street, where dogs bark at night. People say that spirits pass by that road everyday. It sounds silly, but the night was so powerful and the air blew against me, seeming to resist my every step, that I couldn't help but believe it that night. I walked across the road, past the cracked concrete and gnarled trees and found myself standing between two dead trees. They stood there, one at each side of the road, framing it like some ghastly portrait. The wind held my legs, and I had to lift them up step by intense step until I made it past the two guardians.
I let go of the breath I'd been holding.

Growing up [short story]

2007-04-09T16:59:00.000+08:00

The Department of Environment and Natural Resources, home of lazy aquarium fish, hyper little kids, and ever-changing landscaping jobs. Just go up to the third floor and head straight to the Foreign Assisted Special Projects Office (you can’t miss it, its thee only office there) and you’ll find unlimited internet, computer games, and a sari-sari store that doesn’t need payment – everything a kid needs to be kept busy until the old people have to go home.

Here’s why I used to live in the office everyday: I studied in Quezon City, while my mom worked at the DENR. Being the typical citizens allergic to oil-price hikes, my parents decided it would be cheaper to have the office car pick me and my sister up from school and take us to the office. There, we would wait until it was time for my parents to go home to Cainta, which would be around five in the afternoon. In effect, I spent more of my waking hours in the office than at home.

Upon entering the lobby, I would immediately run up to the fish tank (which, at the time seemed so big) and tap at the glass to attract the fish to my little tapping fingers. Unfortunately, the fish were never attracted by tapping fingers – or little kids with tapping fingers - so we never got to see them cluster around near the glass. Maybe they were just used to people looking in on them and tapping the glass despite the huge “Please do not tap the glass” sign taped to the fish tank.

Being the kid that I was, I was pretty much immune from the rules. I got away with a lot of things back then. I remember what I did when Final Fantasy 7 came out. I had a hard time beating a certain part of the game, so I went online to get help from Gamefaqs and printed a walkthrough of around three hundred pages long. This led to a long delay in the printer line because I ran out of paper four times and ran out of ink once. Work came to a crashing halt that day and multiple deadlines got pushed back. All this because one bored kid couldn’t sit still and tough it out with an imaginary foe.

Of course I needed more than things to do to stop me from complaining. I needed food. So whenever I was hungry, I’d go to ate Lenny’s cubicle to get some instant noodles, chocolates, juice, potato chips and whatever she had on hand for what I thought of as “free” at the time. Then she’d take out her small pocket notebook and list down what I had taken for the day on my mother’s account and collect the total amount at the end of the month. I, for some reason, always found myself busy during these accountings. What mattered was that I’d always walk out of her cubicle with my pockets full of sweet cavity-causing delights to fuel me during my stay in the office.

The office itself was made up of three separate departments separated by portable walls. My mother’s department was to the left of the stairs near the windows. Every cubicle has a yellowing personal computer, one of those adjustable office chairs, and a ton of paperwork. Most of the time, the people in them were just reading some papers and highlighting a sentence or two – which I thought at the time was not a lot of work. Adults were unusually tolerant of our presence since kids were a common sight in the office at the time, to the point that we felt at home in the office. Sometimes we fought each other. Sometimes we banded together to amuse ourselves by running around and playing games. We didn’t care if your dad was the boss or the copy boy; you were just a kid like the rest of us.

One time, I found a secret tunnel behind a wooden panel inside the conference room. I used this as a hiding place when we were playing hide and seek. I’d sit in the dusty hallway behind a pile of old boxes and nervously wait until I felt it was safe to go out. When I did, I ran my with little legs clomp-clomp-clomping or squeaking (depending on which shoes I wore) until I reached the base in time. This tactic worked well until the other kids found the hallway and looking in there too. I’ve seen the secret tunnel a few times over the last few years and it did not look as large as it used to. The last time I went there, it was already gone.

While running around and playing with other kids in the office is fun, they’re not always there. Computer games installed by bored office staff provided me with a source of amusement. Games like Pacman, Tetris, Wolfenstein, Doom, Hexen and asteroid were staples in most of the office PCs, but it was the point-and-click RPG Dare to Dream which captured my interest. It had crocodiles paddling canoes in sewers while giving out cryptic clues to lead you towards your next task, a demon speaking in the voice of your lost friend and portals to another dimension, all in 16-bit glory. I sat motionless in my seat, eyes never leaving the screen and sometimes shivering as something new came up. I found myself stumped by the puzzles in the game until I found that ridiculously unrelated item needed. I never actually finished the game, so I never knew where the portal led and what happened to the lost friend.

When I entered high school, my mother took a new job with a higher pay somewhere else. Children weren’t allowed there and I wasn’t inclined to go because I was too busy with high school obligations. We went back to DENR once, and I learned that the whole third floor was demolished so they could place the supports for the never-to-be finished fourth and fifth floors.

Now that we’re all grown up, all that’s left is never-ending work to be done. The past no longer has a place in the present.

------------------------
Something I wrote at the beginning of the semester for my Creative Writing class. A bit too dramatic for my tastes. I want to write more poems this semester break, but I can't find the inspiration nor the words.

untitled

2007-03-17T19:39:00.000+08:00

boom ticked the dynamite

as
I
missed
you

and

I can't throw myself
down

st
ai
rw
el
ls

anymore

because you're not there to hear me crash

------------------------------------------
something i wrote a while back. i cleaned it up a bit. semi-tribute to ee cummings

Sidewalk Sundae

2007-03-06T19:53:00.000+08:00

The ice cream was sticky in her hand.

The semester was almost over save for some frantic cramming for finals. A few more sleepless nights and it’d all be over. The hectic pace wouldn’t start again until June. She could rest later during the break, when she went home to the province.

But she dreaded going home this time. She knew her decision was going to cause a lot of problems between her and her parents, especially her father. Her only sin was that she wanted to do something she was good at: writing. Her love affair with words started at a young age and her father had always supported her in it. They had lain side by side together at night while he read her her favorite poems before she went to sleep, sometimes repeating it over and over until she was satisfied or until she had the words by heart.

She sighed; the now-melted treat fell from the cone and fell. She sat down, watching it trace its way across the sun-baked sidewalks. The yellowish cream hardened like plastic and bonded with the cement.

“I’m scared to let things flow,” she always said to her best friend. “I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I want control of my life.”

“But are you ready for the consequences? You have to be practical you know,” her friend counters. “You need to think about that too. A career, a family…”

Always having no answer, she just smiles mischievously as if keeping her own counsel. She’d never reveal how much pain she felt over the topic.

She knew she had a decision to make this summer, something important, and that staying here watching the ice cream melt was just her way of delaying the inevitable. She wanted to pursue her own path in life rather than the one her parents picked out for her, and she wanted to be on that path as early as possible.

A smoke-colored kitten approaches shyly and starts to lick at the ice cream. Frail and barely old enough to fend for itself, it looked like it hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“I don’t hate my parents,” she told the cat, looking at its wide brown eyes, “I just want to decide for myself. I’ll accept whatever happens: if I fail, I’ll deal with it. I’m old enough.”

The kitten stopped licking and looked up at her, eyes not understanding. It tilts its head to one side out of curiosity. Out of impulse, she reaches for it, but it pulls away, leaving its snack unfinished.

She looked at the children playing in the street with a hint of envy. Dirty and browned by the sun, they seemed to have little care in the world. What mattered to them were friends and games that were never serious unless you were a kid, Spanish bread and taho and iced candy. They acted as though they had the world even though they didn’t have much.

She thought about whether she could live like that and smiled. Then she really thought about it and frowned.

Picking herself up, she made her way to the cool interior of the building. She knew what her choice was going to be, and she knew that was going to break her heart no matter what path she chose for herself.

boo [poem]

2006-05-14T19:52:00.000+08:00

wasted

and i miss you

like liquid fire and diamond dust
and druid dreams with lapping waves
and solid bark

and i think i loved you

im not sure when
though

bright lights and golden cities
clouds and Alice

(and i know im not good enough)

prefers wonderland over solid ground.

untitled 2

2006-01-30T21:43:00.000+08:00

A thousand cuts of mirror-dreams demolished by the hammer of today lay on the cold floor of the jail cell of conformity and stagnancy. Such is the destiny of dreamers. We are the confetti that line the road to that jade illusion called reality.

Reality shall engulf the world of the imaginations. People shall continue to poison the minds of others, desiring them to be like theirs, detesting the selfsame traits they see in themselves. This shall continue as long as insecurity exists, as long as people cannot trust their own thoughts and words and deeds. in this future where great men seek not to educate others, who may have the potential to be great, but seek only to immerse themselves in their wealth.

I am no hero, I am not great. I am just a voice crying out in this world full of static. Noise which engulfs the daily thread of life, drowning what is important, extolling the mundane.

I am but a voice, a cowardly one at that, waiting for someone to perform the deeds I cannot do, but only dream about, for I am one of the mirror-cuts. I am broken. I am insecure.

I told myself I wouldn't do this anymore.

This illusion meant [poem]

2006-01-12T20:57:00.000+08:00

This illusion meant,
waking up from dreams of fancy,
optimistic ideologies.
Like scraping off the candy-
coated M and M's and tasting
mucky realization.

If,
by Webster, I say, by Webster,
this meant,
a return to reality.

*Flick*

You know,
THAT story.
Whffff.
Tscchhhh.
It's fake.

We don't believe in fairies.

*unflick*

this illusion meant
Dis's Illusion meant

for you.

Say Goodbye Softly

2006-01-09T21:01:00.000+08:00

When the lights go on in the black summer sky,
The guide warns of Charybdis and Scylla.
And you wave your arms in lieu of goodbye
As the one you love passes your life by.

The sirens wail through the shifting wastes
Luring lurid somnambulists into an embrace.
Breathtaken moments wrenched into oblivion
As nameless strangers violate your hidden space.

Let's trace crop circles on our jealousy.
Green and bountiful fields of disharmony
Mar the continent of heart's content.
Let's. Just. Say goodbye softly.
------------------------------------------------

I may get back to this, I'm not really content with it. Writing this has been really tiresome for me. I haven't flexed my brain muscles in quite a while. I shall try to write more often dear readers.

Midnight fields [kyrielle]

2005-12-17T20:00:00.000+08:00

Let us rejoice, winter's at hand!
The solstice shall be his adevnt!
Mad rapture spreads throughout the land!
Let us loose Bacchus, god of vine!

The hunt! The hunt! Glorious and free!
In midnight fields we find our fame,
Let's drink our way to victory!
Let us loose Bacchus, god of vine!

Through drunken steps did I pursue,
That which flits under thorn and bush.
I saw my arrow strike so true.
Let us loose Bacchus, god of vine!

Fire-drunken with eyes mad and wide,
I maimed a creature so divine.
So I felt the death of mine pride.
Let us loose Bacchus, god of vine!

So I have shed a thousand sighs,
For vine has thorns unseen and all.
Forever I will question why!
Let me lose Bacchus, god of wine!
--------------------------------------
It's an entry for a poetry contest. The format's a kyrielle.

Devour.
Rinse.
Repeat.

Sign Language

2005-12-11T09:32:00.000+08:00

Stop.
Stay off the grass.

Dead End Ahead.

Dangerous curves,
Accident prone area,
Walk at your own risk.

Look.
Listen.
Stop.

Kamikaze Leaves [free verse]

2005-12-04T21:57:00.000+08:00

I was strolling down the autumn lane
of a quiet suburban park
in the autumn of my life when
I saw the most curious of displays.

Colors of earth and fire where awhorl
all around the chilly atmosphere.
Gold, orange and muddy brown conspired
to envelop the most innocent of passers-by.

I have never, I say, I have never
seen such wanton disregard for life
as those kamikaze leaves of autumn time.

Old and withered stems pluck'd themselves,
wrenching tired old bones and sagging flesh,
for a final hurley-gurley joyride
along the autumn breeze.

Impotent.

One wishes we could all go out
in such an energetic and beautiful fashion.

Untitled

2005-11-04T21:46:00.000+08:00

It happened to me one night,
drinking on the beach,
that a star,
one which I percieved,
fixed
in the firmament of the night sky,
fell.

As it fell in a line,
like one from a sonnet of love,
or like a teardrop in the sky,
as a gash in one's heart.

That night
I found contentment
in cradling a bottle of beer.

Sleep tight,
my love.

Streaking through the night sky yet again

2005-10-26T21:18:00.000+08:00

Title: Starfall

Stars streak through the night sky,
dazzling in the world with beauty.
Flaring down towards the ground,
like
falling
leaves.

And the emptiness left...

[beautiful;

like an empty room filled with

memories.

Cycle of Paper Dreams

2005-10-19T22:05:00.000+08:00

Love scented paper lie unused,
on top of a desk where all secrets lie,
promises of tomorrow, whispered in sighs,
as tears fell from her river eyes.

Unbidden songs of love so true,
trickle in with the nightly dew.
Cold breeze sweeps through her face,
unveiling the madness in her gaze.

Airily she glides to the windowsill
Looking through what's fantasy and real.
Picture perfect photographs flash,
Mem'ries of the past coming to a crash.

Through roads of life they walked as one,
Twining fingers as minks seeking warmth.
A chorus of voices surround every step,
Each of them beautiful, each voice their own.

Ghosts of autumn trees flicker out of sight,
Bittersweet goodbyes said to ones eyes,
A faint glimmering droplet in the night
Marks the end of an unending plight.

Dream-drunken couples come and go,
As oaths are broken blow by blow.
Bardic songs paint it as fantasy
Yet it all ends in blasphemy.

Love is a curv[e]d blade
Tracing the fragments of her Secret
As each piece loses hope in the morrow
One can only hope,

that time

heals her sorrow.

---------------------------------------------------
It's a spur of the moment collaboration between Rio and me. Read and understand it as you will. It's my first time doing a collab so...

Comments will be greatly appreciated!

Sleepwalking on tightropes

2005-10-16T21:41:00.000+08:00

I know you want me to sing more.
A jackass symphony of destruction.
Yeah let's set all this into motion,
This great soporific masterpiece.

Quaint haunting beats of delicate boredom
induce mass hysteria.
Crash,

Smash.

Sensationalize our somnambulism!

I know you want me to sing more.
A jackass symphony of destruction.
Yeah let's set all this into motion,
This great soporific masterpiece.

Let's just pawn the whole world why don't we?
Set the record straight,
straight jacket all who oppose us.
Burn town halls with our fire

and blaze

through the opposition.

The orchestra hang their heads
as
The music fades with the moonlit night.

As we turn

2005-10-12T19:45:00.000+08:00

Let's remember the quiet secret we once held
as our hands twined beneath the summer sky
and stars burned bright supernova flames.

The universe held its breath
as the youth turned and gambolled
amongst a backdrop of dying stars.

Quick to the gun and quicker to the draw.
Lives end and shatter with this one single

flaw,

---------------------------------------------
*stretches metaphorical writing legs*

At Home Detailing [poem]

2005-08-17T21:20:00.000+08:00

I'm at home

detailing

the curtains with little
teensy
weensy
dabs of yellow paint -

all the while the dark cloak turned
spinning and stopping
and
stooping
for some little thing -

I'm at home again,
detailing
my comb with

microfractural

cuts -

and all the while the dark cloak turned
spinning and stopping
and
stooping
for some little thing.

(I'm at home

again

detailingeverysingleinfinitesimalaspectofmy

life)

Alms for the Dead [sonnet]

2005-08-05T21:05:00.000+08:00

This is an old work I found sitting in my laptop. I finished it and polished it a bit. Enjoy. :D
------------------------------------------

Many are those who give alms to the dead,
Full of declarations of friendship they.
For these were the things they had left unsaid
To the rotting, frozen corpse of today.
Feelings that were restrained deep down inside
Gush like an awakened river at spring
For there will be no more reason to hide
To those whom the small birds no longer sing.
Trite are the words for a corpse can't discern;
Squandered is the praise foer a corpse can't feel;
Pity for those whose ash lie in the urn
For they had never felt anything real.
What little time is given, waste it not
Lest you be o'ertaken by the rot.

Come back Ravencroft

2005-07-31T10:24:00.000+08:00

Like sweet condolences, her eyes fluttered.
Soft downy lashes veiled the windows to her
Infinitely
Sorrowful
Eyes.

Come back Ravencroft.

A new poem plus some major deviantart issues

2005-07-30T13:08:00.001+08:00

Some background info:
http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=29420581&size=o
http://www.deviantart.com/view/21139764/
http://splat.deviantart.com/journal/6066915/

I know I said I don't post journal entries here, but I'll make an exception this early. Something rotten is happening in Deviantart. You know something is up when one of the FOUNDING members of an organization gets fired. You know it especially when the current admin has given no word as to why this has happened.

The whole community is in an uproar, as it well should be. Deviantart is a free hosting site for artists EVERYWHERE. The person with the most pageviews is even a filipino: http://bleedman.deviantart.com It could be said that DA is being more business-oriented as time progresses, but it has a right to be. More and more people are joining up and the bandwidth is expanding. Ads and membership are needed to fund this dream.

Yes, DA was a dream. A dream brought to online LIFE by two men Jark and Matteo. It was because of those men that we, the members of DA can post our works and share our comments and views with others.

As per the policy of deviantart, no member or ADMIN can delete threads or posts. If you post, then it is history. Say your apologies if you must, but you cannot edit your posts. It is because they want to preserve everything in DA. Just recently, a thread about Jark being fired was edited, to put it lightly, by one of the new admin members with no explanations given.

I didn't know Jark and Matteo up until somebody posted a little stamp as a deviation, but I'm glad I've heard of this. I know a lot about broken dreams.

Some people at the DA COMMUNITY has suggested boycott. I know this'll be effective if a lot of people join in. Deviantart has traffic precisely because the members post their art. All that traffic will go away. Business and money will go away.

The dreamers have stopped dreaming. How long can we live within their dreams?

Here's my poem. Untitled as is. It kind of matches my current topic. :p

He set down his dreams on parchment paper,
While she lived them out in glitz and glamour.
His pen worked feverishly with quill and ink,
To keep the memory of every sweet thought.
She whiled her time away conquering mountains
And drinking of the sweet nectar of life.

At the end of it all, both found life deficient.
Like a meal only half-tasted, full of promise,
Lacking in delivery.

He never tasted the bittersweet fruit of a life lived.
He was bereft of all the shining lustruous tangibles
That make up life.
She has lost her taste for adventure.
Wistfully reclining on her mountain vista
Recalling lost dreams obscured by time.

untitled hand story [draft for a writing contest]

2005-07-29T23:05:00.000+08:00

Details of the contest can be found here: Dean Alfar

On to the rough draft!
--------------------------------------------------

My hands won't open no matter what I do.

Once I tried to massage it, to soothe the muscles with a salve that would make me forget everything and numb my senses, keeping me oblivious to everything around me, including the pain of sensation. The following numbness was too disturbing and I had to scrape off the salve. My hand remained tightly closed, unwilling to relinquish it's grip on...

With the salve gone, the sensation returned.

I tried to hire some strong burly men to open my hand. I thought subjecting it to pain would make it open. They tried to pull away the fingers one by one, to slide in a crowbar and pull, to beat it with a hammer. They tried and tried so many acts of mutilation 'til I couldn't remember anything of what happened. At the end of it all, my hand remained tightly closed, unwilling to relinquish its grip on...

With the pain gone, the sensation returned.

In desperation, I called upon a doctor. Now this was no ordinary doctor. She specialized in making hands relinquish their grips on... And she came one day bringing her tools. One by one she laid the implements on a white cloth, counting them one by one, arranging them according to their purposes. After her ritual, she faced me. Her lips moved but I could no longer hear what they said, for I was completely etherized upon the table. I had the vague notion of nodding my head before fading away.

When I woke up, the doctor was gone. With the doctor gone, the sensation was gone.

I saw my hand lying on the table, still unwilling to relinquish its grip on... I kept it in a glass case, occassionaly taking it out of its case and playing with it during lonely nights. A grisly memento, but it was a memento nonetheless.

One day, a visitor came to the house. She saw the hand and asked if she could touch it. She had never seen a dismembered hand beofre. I took it out of it's case and handed it to her. It fascinated her for a while and she came back again and again to touch it, to play with it, and sometimes, when she thought I wouldn't notice, to whisper to it.

One day, when we were playing with it, it finally relinquished its grip on... And I smiled.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
As is, it looks and even sounds more like prose than fiction. It's my ambition to submit this as a prose piece to that contest. I'll be adding more details. Dialogue is tricky business. I've never done much of it and I feel I underrate it. I'll have to see if I include dialogue in my submission. :)

Wish me luck. The deadline is August 15...

Little Rockstar Hurricane

2005-07-22T20:05:00.000+08:00

This is a soliloquy
in the form of discourse.
Feedback jolts, shocks
but changes not
what has been set down in the annals of forever.

This lasts forever if unread.
This lasts a lifetime so long as the fires
remain unfed by the spark of your humanity.
This lasts until the rumblings of your mind
ripples the surface of its meaning.

Bend my will little rockstar hurricane.

All thought is but fleeting if not for the reader.
All thought is but fleeting if not for the reader.
All thought is but meaningless if not for the reader.

All soliloquies are meant to be heard.

How Soon Is Now (from the shirt of the same name)

2005-07-12T22:17:00.000+08:00

How soon is now?

How, the endless question of innards. The endless amalgam of everything has to be propelled by something in some worldly, measurable or qualitative way which gives us the desired results.By what means? In what way? To what extent or amount? In what condition? The manner of which things are done. how about? what do you feel about a certain thing? How do you do, endless seeker of answers now lost sunk, uncovered and forgotten as well as displayed in hidden sight? A full explanation of all things incorporated with living dying, ticking and all the hodgepodge minisculities of eternity which is our moment of existence convulse in an earth-rending epilepsy and throw us off its back like so many beady-eyed bloated gargantuan flies.

Soon, the answer will come o the seeker of all things unbidden and unhidden. In a short time of the not long after all the somatic somnambulists shall lie and wake, shattering the pillars of the society that has solidified from their incorporeal dreams of agony. We are everything they had hoped and feared we would be, a utopia in all its myopic glory. Willingly we give up our sophisms for the exruciating agony of the present, of the shuddering orgasm of the moment in which the climax is forever within a second's touch yet eternally remains unfulfilled. Soon is the edge, the brink before the sleep that follows dreams.

Is. To be. An island that remains unfulfilled for its fulmination remains to be, forever to be. It foregoes the moment to live for the future, the promise of what may come. Everything is postponed for the glory of tomorrow albiet today is in stagnancy. Is. To be the perfection found in tomorrow.

Now, the shuddering cataclysm that throws of everything in its path with the reckless abandon of a tiny fluttering butterfly hurricane. Forever it remains yet constantly changing, never has any human being known any time besides the immediateness of now. At the time which one is reading, living, speaking, dreaming, the span of everything you knew and will ever know. The same moment for Alexander the Great and someobscure poet living in the urban seascape of now. Immediately it senses a rift, this sentinent being of the moment grows uneasy with its role and flutters, spasms as the Requiem plays in its multi-faceted quarters, rebounding by it's own walls, it shudders in its throes and shatters its cage from the bindings of If. Now the beast is rampant, erratic and fluid-like.

HOWSOONISNOW? The echoing ruin of all the fast-paced netboys linking their servers up to the speedy interconned network of supercomputers forming a slipshod highway of dreams gilded by the promises of tomorrow. HOWSOONISNOW? As the heart beats sporadically by and by whenever lovers share their carresses with the living soul of the mass of mortality plaguing this earth. HOWSOONISNOW? Comes from the raspy throat of one in anguish, forever barred from society because of the deformed blobs of flaking dried lesions on his flesh. HOWSOONISNOW? The eternal wait of the worshippers of Chance, waiting eagerly for the chance to be one of the ostentatious people promised by the gilded superhighway built in a slipshod manner overloading mysensesthishasgottostop...How soon is now?

The moment has passed me by yet another steps up to take its place. This is my question, the question of one tired of waiting for life's promises to come true...

Dew Drops's Unravelling

2005-07-08T21:02:00.000+08:00

Dew drops from clos[e]d eyes
Whilst everyone danced -whorled through the black murky night.
The hole which was all-encompassing
Did wince and shudder in convoluted spasms.
Dewdrop did not wince nor scream
As her earthy consistency burst at the seams.

Twisted, karmic energy did rise and recoil.
Touched by purity, echoes of insanity
Shirked.

Infinite screams from that mirthless void
Covered the Earth in a blanket of cold.
Not man, nor beast, nor celestial essence
dared move in the power of her presence.

As dewdrop's unravelling brought forth the dawn
Men soon forgot her drops and her clos[e]d eyes.

Around Me

2005-07-06T20:22:00.000+08:00

you are the taste of strawberry, pink and sweet, with the freshness and vitality of newly-
plucked fruit.
you are the soft sway of the waves, undulating black satin in front mine eyes.
you are the amalgam of every beautiful thing in this world,
that I knew
sought
and have forsaken

everywhere I turn I see your essence,
magnified by the fact of your existence

Out of reach
In too deep

And when I crashed with my drunken feast
(-oh beast that rode my fragile bod-)
And looked up
(-oh god oh god-)
I was safe in the knowledge
(-that you...-)
Were the reason for it all.

of dragons and dandelion days

2005-06-29T14:13:00.000+08:00

way way up in the bright blue sky,
a shining sssilver dragon caught my eye.
it paused, stopped at my front,and said with
much
Haunt.

dragons streak across the sky, spreading glittering fury throughout the heavens. they do it not for themelves, but for the inspiration of puny humanity, urging the tireless drama on and on.

and, woe, i began to cry,
though i never figgered why,
because what it had said,
i knew in my tiny little head,
to
Be
True.

First Entry

2005-06-28T22:54:00.000+08:00

Well, it's my first time to use blogger so...

Anyways, this is my first post here. I'd like to direct your attention to my links list, the only thing I've actually had the decency to fix...

Check out my other websites! This is basically a continuation of my Secretkeeper fiction log in LJ.