The Oncoming Storm

January 11, 2012

The Gods, they whisper to me.
Sweet serenades, seducing my soul into sempiternal slumber.
Silently the world fades to the efflorescence beat of the Gods’ hearts.
I awaken to the burning of my abode. The Gods lullaby, ephemeral.
I hear the screams of the Wood-Folk as the barbarians attack.
The glamour of the God-Song ended. Ineffable beauty never to be heard as the men with steel-arms burn our homes.
We conflate together as we are surrounded. The children cry as the men of steel spit and sneer.
Denouement received as I awaken from my nightmare.
Harbinger of the God vision, I inform my brothers and sisters of the Oncoming Storm.
We flee through the thick labyrinthine forest.
Hearts in our throats, we say goodbye to the Gods, to our homes, and to our lives.

The Gods, they whisper to me. Too silently now…
I yearn to hear them.

Bliss

June 8, 2010

It is night outside, the light shines in from the street lamp across the road. The moon is full, and if all were quiet you could swear it was humming… But all is not quiet. They’re at my window, eating the bars. Ugly little bastards aren’t they? That awful gut-wrenching stench of dried blood and that haunting cry, like cats getting raped. I think I might have a milkshake.

Two minutes later, sipping at my chocolate milkshake I ponder on how I got myself into this ridiculously absurd situation. Soon the conclusion dawns on me, that this all occurred, because I was in dire need of a blow-job.

8:32am that morning I wake with an erection. After having a glorious tug I get out of bed and proceed to make a coffee. Caramel latte. Three sugars. Sipping my coffee I stare around at the cesspool that is my house. I should really clean it…. I frown and shake that depressing thought from my head, I guzzle the last of my coffee, pack my suitcase and leave for work.

9:23am- I sit impatiently in my car. I drum on the steering wheel to a Guns ‘N Roses tune. I twitch now and again with annoyance. I’m going to be late for work… I’m going to be late… late…. fuck. I beep at the traffic ahead and throw myself around the car like a sped with bees up his ass. I’m going to be late for work. FUCK.

10:30am- My face is red with rage. My heart is pounding, my teeth gritting. I’ve been coping it from my boss for the last twenty minutes. I can’t concentrate on anything but my anger and stress. I daydream of vicious Velociraptors tearing my co-workers to shreds, blood splattering the office floor as they scream, being torn limp from limp apart while alive, meanwhile I am in a toilet cubicle getting laid by the sexy receptionist.

11:59am- Bored with graphs and statistics I change screens on my computer and log onto MSN. No one is online. Suddenly ‘SxcRecipe’ signs in. It’s the receptionist from my fantasy, we’ve been flirting for days. Suddenly I feel myself go hard. Dreams and fantasies fill my mind again. So I open a convo, and begin to chat.

1:02pm- I’m sculling my sixth coffee. For the last hour I’ve been dreaming of raptors. Killing everyone. The screams of my co-workers makes me smile. I picture the big claw on their foot cutting through that sexy, slutty face of the receptionist. That god damn dumb bitch. I finish my coffee and throw the cup across the room at the wall. My colleagues stare at me and I flip them off. I go into the toilet cubicle and pray for raptors. I beg God, Satan, Steven Spielberg, anyone I can pray to. That receptionist I talked about? She’s black mailing me. FUCK. I should have never asked for a blow-job!

8:43- This is about where you came in. A still silent night besides the constant cries of these hideous beasts, screeching, hissing, snorting. They really are foul. I begin drinking my milkshake panicky. My hands get sweaty and I feel dizzy. How did it get to this? Truthfully I don’t know. I was at the supermarket, and then I watched, starring in disbelief as the check-out chicks turned into blood thirsty Velociraptors, ripping customers into bloody shreds before my eyes. Hell. I still don’t believe it. And now, they’re outside my house and soon they’ll be inside my house. Ripping me to shreds. Soon I’ll be dead.

I finish my milkshake. With a sigh, I sit down on the couch, and I wait.

Pandora’s Box

May 24, 2010

I am incapable of showing human emotion. I cannot find words to express sadness or loss. If a friend were to break down, crying about being molested by their father throughout their childhood the first words breaching my lips would be: “That sucks.”

I am not a poet or a writer. I cannot find words to suit an occasion, to calm or help a person. I am completely uncharismatic. My tongue jumbles words, I find it difficult to put together a coherent sentence.
But this is not my only problem. A normal friend would be shocked and appalled. I would just wish to be elsewhere, not hearing about it.
It’s not that I don’t have a conscience, I know it’s wrong and sick. It’s fucked up.

But I’m not God. I have no fucking idea what you should do.
And I can’t help you.
It’s like I’m not human. Like I’m a robot, comprehending but impartial…. or something.
Maybe I’ve lived to long, seen, heard or learnt enough to give up and not care.

Pandora’s Box was opened and all hope was lost.
That’s just how it is. I’m sorry and I wish things were different.
But the truth is, we’re fucked.

All to Die

April 22, 2010

He begins carving his own face. Blood spills to the floor like water from an overflowing drain. The thick salty smell fills his nostrils as he hacks at his face like a butcher. Skin and blood fall like the fat chunks of meat they are.
The knife has reached his cheekbones and the man begins chiselling away at it. Chunking crushing sounds like sticking a shovel in sand.
He bashes at the bone as he screams, haunting long and painful screams. He cuts ferociously at it like knife against a dinner plate.
The screaming continues, long hard yelling amidst howling and crying.
The salty tears burn against the places where flesh once was. It stings so much that it is unbearable, yet the man continues, breaking through the bones and moving on to his own nose. He slices at it like a child would slice at cheese, there is nothing more then a deep dark bloody gap within a few seconds as the man’s screaming only radiates louder. He stops, and slowly moves over to the mirror for a look.
He inspects himself, raising an eyebrow and attempting a smile into the mirror.
He quickly dashes away and begins searching within the dark oak drawer next to the bed.
He is in a small dark room with little bits of dust floating around. He is rushing, and attempting to gain a hold of his new body, he is unsure of how to breath yet, he knows air fills his lungs but the feeling is strange without a nose.
He pulls out a small black object from the drawer. Holding it in front of him it begins flashing. It is a camera.
After a few minutes of photos the man picks the knife back up, and continues his carving.
He begins with simple symbols in his chest, but he does not know how long until that wont be enough… until he needs more destruction, more pain.
His teeth grit as he feels the insane hate and rage build within him, the urge rises again.
He screams with ravenous anger and begins punching himself in the face. Pulling and tugging at his teeth. He wants them out, they have to go.
He continues punching as blood and spit fly across the room. He runs back and forth across the room, beating himself, along the way bits of his face squishing in between his toes and sticking to his feet.
This annoys him. He begins stabbing at the chunks of his face now layering the floor.
He wants them to die. All to die.
He will burn them. Again in the oak draw he pulls out a bottle of Metho and some matches. He opens the lid and dances across the room, spraying the Metho everywhere, it sprays over his own body. It burns. He licks the place where his lips once were and grabs a box of matches. He begins to light before noticing a cheese grinder in the corner of his eye. He stops.
Before he goes he must use it at least once. He grabs a hold of it and pretends it is a bar of soap, as it slices skin from under his arms and his legs, ripping skin from all over his body. Satisfied, he proceeds to light a match. He holds it, staring deep into the flame.
He drops it.
Screams fill the night.

On a Breeze

April 9, 2010

“Do you know why humans invented fun?”
“Because someone smiled and thought it was a nice thing to do?”
“Because we needed something to take our mind of all the troubles in our pathetic little lives.” I say snapping a twig in half.
We are sitting on the wet gutter of the street next to the Graveyard, small pellets of rain drip onto our shoulders as the water absorbs into our jeans wetting our butts.
“The whole concept behind a hobby is just because people need something to take their mind off things, off the misery. Back in the day we weren’t trouble with such notions. We had to hunt for foods, collect, gather, struggle to survive. Humans are moving too fast, and struggling to cope. We will be our own demise.”
I spit onto the wet tar road, the sun is beginning to go down the twilight helps add to the melancholy feel that I can’t seem to escape from.
“Well that’s cheerful.” My friend says, feigning a smile.
“It’s not about being cheerful, it’s about being true.”
“Well, tell me, how does that make you feel?” He says raising an eyebrow.
“Like shit.” I moan.
“That’s why there’s fun, and hobbies, maybe you’re right, but ignorance is bliss, no one wants to be fucking miserable.”
I think for a moment, like his words semi make sense within my mind, but I am unable to grasp this concept, my mind travels to my ex girlfriend… the love I once felt… still feel. The feeling of sickness and pain when I think of it. Why does my brain keep taking me to her. Hurting me.
“I disagree.” I say to my friend. “If no one wants to be miserable why do we listen to sad music? Why watch sad films, why almost a year after a tragic event do we still keep thinking back, making ourselves sad.”
“I guess there’s no arguing with you.” My friend says, looking away.
I can tell he’s trying to think of a topic change, I must be miserable company.
“What do you think would happen if a book was sold. A riveting story, fantastic, everyone was reading it, it was a best seller… and halfway through they found the last half of the book was blank. No conclusion.” I ask.
“There’d be an uproar, people would want the whole story, they’d want there moneys worth.”
“But maybe that is the story, like, you write a movie and a book, and it always has this conclusion, but life’s not like that, you never know what’s next and you just keep asking. Maybe the point of the book is that? That it’s not predestined. Like what Forrest Gump said, we’re all accidental like on a breeze. The book takes you in, makes you love or hate the characters, makes you believe in them…. then it just ends. Because the story isn’t complete. There is no true ending. You discover it for yourself….”
I stare deep and intense into the palms of my hands, hoping for some glimpse of what the future holds. My friend says nothing.
I breathe out as condensation comes out, like mist… mist…. You cannot see what’s next in the mist….
A single tears rolls down my cheek.
The warmth is real, it’s not to be debated. It is real, it is clear.
I look up at the sky.
I cannot see the stars, they are clouded by pollution.
This is the sort of world we live in.

Preventer

April 4, 2010

What do you do, when you wake up in the morning and look in a mirror but don’t see yourself? My sky blue eyes…. now black, lined with red veins. My short, neat blonde hair, now brown and greasy and reaching my shoulders. My nails once pink and perfect, now overgrown and filled with dirt. Once bright clean teeth, now yellow and rotted.

What do you do, when you wake up in the morning and can’t even recognize yourself? How does one become this way. How can ones life turn so wrong? One day a normal life, normal friends. Next day being through as much loss as one can. Losing wife and kids. Parents and grandparents. Brothers and sisters. Killed. Slaughtered in a fashion so disgusting if I was to describe it you might cry. And what for? For being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing the wrong crime being committed. Dying because someone else couldn’t be fucked to kill them elsewhere.

On the run. Living off scraps of McDonalds. Running from my own shadow, hiding from my own reflection…

No. I couldn’t live like this. I was going to start a new. I got a job. Not the greatest. Then what is great about whoring yourself out… I had the money… I had it. I bought a ticket and was on my way out of here. This plane would take me far away. Away from my sorrows and pain. Away from my fear and confusion. As I sat thinking of the plane I’d be on tomorrow it began to rain. I stood up enjoying the cool water splashing against my skin. The water washed away my fears, my confusion, my sorrows, my pain. It washed away my dirt. It cleaned me. As I looked up to the heavens the water stung my eyes. No more…

I caught my plane. I caught my plane on the 11th of the 9th.

It burned away my fears. It burned away my confusion, my sorrows and my pain. It burned away my life. My sad pitiful pathetic life. At least… I wish it did…. I wish this story was true… some facts are. But the cold hard truth…. My story it’s… it’s much worse.

Sometimes

April 1, 2010

Sometimes I feel like screaming.

Sometimes, there’s this anger and fear inside me.

Sometimes, it all boils up. The hatred, the rage, the sadness, the loneliness. It boils until it feel like I’m about to explode.

And then…… right then…. it feels like a piece of my soul has broken off. Like a piece of my very existence, my fragrance of life has died. I hold it in. I push it back down within me. I force it all down, kept hidden away.

Sometimes… I wish I could get rid of all this teenage angst that surrounds me. That I could be left with all the happiness, and I could shrug off the bad things. That… in some aspect… I wasn’t human. That I wouldn’t have to suffer.

I could make thousands of metaphors or similes to describe it. I could be creative. But I’m being blunt. I wander, constantly, hiding all feeling, wishing I could just cry sometimes…. but I don’t. I wander on. Letting it eat away at me, the sick feeling in my stomach. The feeling you can’t describe, but if you had not felt it you would not understand. But imagine, if you will. Standing alone in the dark. In complete nothingness. With no feelings or emotion. But a gradual insanity, a rage, a needing to be released grows.
No… that’s wrong. The feeling… is like waiting in a hospital bed, and the Doctor slowly enters the room, life moves in slow motion, like the whole world is revolving around you in the one exact moment. His mouth opens and he speaks. But you don’t hear him. Not completely, you already know what he’s said as the world melts around you… the feeling in your stomach, that… that some sort of sickness. You’re going to die.

Yes. That’s the feeling. A sort of nothingness, a heavy weighing on your soul, as it shatters into a million pieces. Sure you live on, but you’re never truly living.
Living life in this depressed state, where you don’t truly belong. Like you shouldn’t really exist. You do. And you don’t want it to end. You just wish it was better. And as the days go by the sickening feeling grows.

You never really enjoy…. food doesn’t taste, you just eat because you’re supposed to. You don’t enjoy the sun upon your skin, or the cold breeze across your face. The thought of death always on you mind. A nothingness. An end. The pleasures in life are void.

Sometimes I feel like dying.

But I don’t. I wont. Not today. No. Today as I sit by myself, having philosophical arguments in my head about the point of it all. I will not live like others. I will not be understood. I will talk to people, as if I am a person. Yet I am not. Because I do not understand who I am. I have not yet developed my personality, not yet defined myself. I am still a void.
I will talk to my friends, I will laugh and argue. But in those silent moments, when the void grows and I go blank, falling from reality….. I will have learned more than other have. I have learned to feel dead. So when I grow, pass my teen angst, my hatred and fear, and when I truly live…. well…. I will truly live.

Sometimes….