Thursday, 6 August 2009


Welcome dear imaginary friends!

I would like to thank you all for your presence tonight, I understand that you are not here of your own accord and that you are all subject to my whims. But I have always been a humble man that gives thanks when thanks are due.

Now let us first take a moment of silence in lieu of your friends, and indeed mine also, that were not able to join us on this most auspicious of nights. You know what I'm thinking because, of course, you are also thinking the same thought; that I have been the one to expel our friends from our gathering, I'm sure you are confident that they are also subjects to my whims and that may I wish it, they would be here amongst us. Let it be clear that this is, on no account, a fault of their own, but simply a result of my indiscretion.

But please dear listeners, before you pass judgment upon me from your small wooden seats and before I'm reduced to a mere convenient object of hatred, let me remind you that you are no more innocent than I'm in this act, I agree, of selfishness. I understand your tendencies to shift the blame as this is indeed evident in actions of my own, even in this current one to be quite honest. You see, you keep making the preposterous assumption that I, speaking down on you from this high throne, am master. This of course is absurd; I'm merely the integration of all of you sitting beneath and no more than that. Where you to come to agreement amongst yourselves that you would like to include these detestable hordes form the past-our own dear friends-then so be it, I would have no choice but to do so against my own egoistic nature. But of course you would not wish such a feat accomplished because, it is my will that you don't.

Now you, lady in the back… yes you! Would be so kind as to enlighten us of why you are weeping? Perhaps all this drama is too strong for your own taste? Perhaps you think me cruel of heart? Ahh, that is it, isn't it? Now I remember, you look at me a think "you toke away my son!" You murdered my son! perhaps even? But your son was not real! Simply a fragment of my imagination. And now you come here and play the heartbroken mother… Let me assure you Madame that you only feel the way you do about your son because I thought you that way; if I were so inclined, you would be the cruel mother that gave her son to the sea. I will have no more of this nonsense!

And you young gentleman setting in the dark corner with that foul smirk on your face, you think I don't know what lies in this small skull of yours? You pride yourself on being the ultimate cynic, none of which happened here tonight escaped your sharp remarks, no? Well, let me tell you a word to the wise; a cynic who doesn't speak his thoughts is nothing but a coward! Yes, you can keep holding your tongue then.

And you, the man with the big mustache in the front row, you have schemes within schemes, and all of them revolve around winning my favour. Such decadency, and again, such cowardice!

My dear imaginary friends, I sometimes despair of you all!!
Ahh, such lovely train of thoughts that grip you all, this is the beauty of having one common enemy, a tormentor in this case, our own very selves. But even so, you will take no action, you know why my dear, dear friends? Because you are all cowards, and intentionally so! Yes that’s it; just let your doubts drown your anger. Ponder on all of the "what ifs?" and lose yourselves in your fear.

lastly, apologies dear guests if I have been brief on this day, but I'm tired and must take my leave to the real world. I'm sure you will excuse any excess by which I have offended you, it is my firm belief that your good nature and manners will suffice as to keep us friends still.

You may applause as I leave the podium, thank you all and goodnight!

Saturday, 18 July 2009


Voiceless, no sound breaking the dense blanket of a damp hot night.... the few dry words that escape torture my throat.
The need to talk to her is strong, make her understand.... but all i could offer is more pain.
i can hear myself trying to reshape the words to form a phrase that would cure it all, but this gives birth to a random clutter of noises that sum up to one thing only; i have failed her.
I breath in... I breath out. I breath in and blow clear white smoke into the thick evening air.
I look at the stars and through their sparkling beauty i can feel their anguish, so tiny and defenseless against the hungry stares of mortal men. I feel guilt of a thousand lives past condescending, i look away and find myself looking directly into her deep gray eyes.
"I'm sorry..." i begin to say, but now its her time to look away.
If only fate could be blamed one more time, if only each one of us was not his own personal monster, if only fear disappeared with the rise of the sun, then it might of endured..... but now it is over and all i have left are her dead flowers lying in the trunk of my car.

Friday, 15 May 2009


And so i'm sitting here in this small, almost empty, hall in a what could probably be a *** star hotel. let me mention, for absolutely no reason, that this hall served breakfast, lunch and dinner, and from 11PM to 6:30A.M. it served as snack bar. I would have been listening to some not so bad music playing on the radio but i'm not because there happens to be 5 british chumps that are drinking too much beer and seem to be having a good time. It is 1 A.M and it is probably time to head off to my not so big single bed, but i don't and keep eying the voiceless T.V as some images of a couple of faqs dressed up in shiny gold space suites jump around, i ignore them and write on, they are meaningless and so is what i'm writing. The Brits start to get crazy on the ass of the black bartender, they are asking for vodka i think, that and they were trying to shoot him down with their fingers... but that is not working, he just stares at them. i entertain the thought of telling them to shut the fuck up, and let it go quick, not worth it. I need a cigarette, i don't have a cigarette, i ask the bartender for a pack... he says "no cigarette" in what seemed to me as thick french slang.
The Brits are suddenly quite, and the music doesn't seem that good anymore, a cheap pop-techno gig "my heart is going bang bang!" followed by a uninteresting rap song about someone who's claiming that he is about to loose his control.
i hear you brother... i take a quick glance at the T.V and i see a girl, she reminds me of Nancy, i've just seen Nancy at work today, she is a bit old but she looks ok, slow at replying to mails though i gotta say, but that's fine, almost everybody is. She drinks her coffee decaffeinated and black, not that i care.
nothing more to do here, i consider reading what i have just wrote but go against, who gives a crap about what it comes out as...a few letters make a word and few words make a sentence and a few sentences make a fucking long boring paragraph, so it all adds up in the end.
oh wait.... the brits come to sing to me, they group around and start singing "it is only love...." i smile and think about it, i probably can take on 5 drunken suckers anyday but the bartender hushes them along, one almost falls, drunk... the bartender apologizes to me... i think they are sweet .
Till later... maybe.

The children of the night

We drift off and contemplate and think we are smart.... and other times we think we are completely dump. The voice of the unknown cries to us from the dark, beckoning us, reminding us of things past.... warning us of things to come. I know you sometimes hear it too, we all do. sometimes we ignore it for so long, acting as if it didn't exist, acting as if we couldn't hear it. But it is surprisingly persistent the damn beast, it haunts us for, what might very well be, eternity....
Cool under the roof of the rich silence of the night we play with our imagination, and what else could we do... for we are but children.
we are the children of the night...

Friday, 27 February 2009

Who the fuck do you think you are?

You deceive, cheat and lie
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You act as if you own the sky
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You scream, shout and cry
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You do and then deny
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You excel at being sly
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You meet your troubles with a sigh
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You are scared least you die
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You think you are big, while you are a small fry
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You mourn blood spilt, when red is your only dye
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You get hated and wonder why
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You say you are ashamed and still you try
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You say the words to justify
So who the fuck do you think you are?
You love self and think morals are high
So who the fuck do you think you are?

You are man…
That is who you are

Thursday, 15 January 2009

Fuck off

"so basically your saying that people are full of shit"
"well, i 'm saying that people don't know shit, that they got their heads so far up their asses that..... wait, not even that, they don't even give a shit where their head is at, as long as they are not bothered by the smell"
"And then you've got this asshole thinking that he is all zen and shit, just cuz he got sad seeing someone get his brains blown.... well, fuck him. nobody gives a rat's ass about someone eating a bullet, at least no one is gonna lose his dinner over it. they can give me drama and cry their heart out all they like, i would still think they are full of shit"
"And the funny thing is that this kinda bitching really appeals to people, works like a fuckin charm, probably plays on their basic emotions or whatever"
"so you spit any crap, blaming the world, thinking you're cool, well fuck you too, you are as jaded as the rest of them losers."
"at the end, all he really said that made sense is that he really didn't give a shit just like the rest of them, he never did, only he might of entertained the notion for sometime, while they believed they were all innocent fucks"
"you wanna hear about innocent? fine, i'll be your worn out piece of wisdom for the day; truth is nobody is innocent, they will tell you otherwise, but mark my words, we are all guilty as hell"
"guilty of what you stupid crazy bastard?"
"fuck off" he said at last.

Friday, 9 January 2009


Offensive conjectures, the offering of a twisted mind, they surround us, murdering our spirit and nourishing our decay. Yet we welcome them, we welcome them all. We welcome them as they have welcomed us before. We welcome them because we must…

We are the reapers, gathering the toil of others. We are the horrid monsters that look back from your mirror. We are the magic makers, the spell enchanters, cursing you till the end of days.

We are the yoke of humanity, the chains around your neck. Deny us not our right to consume your soul. Deny us not, least you deny yourself.

They met on the golden shores of where-they said- was paradise. They ate crab legs and drank sea water. They spent their days counting the tiny grains of sand, and their nights counting the sparkling stars. They walked back and forth, hand in hand; they walked and never looked back. They spoke about nothing and everything; they spoke because they feared the silence.

The time was busy as usual, it hurried along and nobody could catch up with it. And people called but to no vain! The time was busy, yes indeed. Then one day while running to its chores, the time fell in love with a young and charming space. They stayed in each others company and forgot about the worries of the world. Until in the end, time was running short, and there was no more space.

Speak gently, whisper even, or else he might awaken. Dance on the tips of your toes, dance on the fragile tunes of silent music. Sing songs of joyful remembrance; sing while your frail limps shake from absolute terror. Caress his beautiful face in loving affection; caress the curves to remove their harshness. Drink from the cup of misery; drink without voicing a complaint.

Thursday, 8 January 2009

The road that must end

The voices of the old, worn tires on the pavement speak for us, declaring that we cannot bare the load anymore.
The images from the dim, grey road portray us, showing the state of our demise.
The thick, black fumes clouding our judgment, existing because we produce them, are there to suffocate us.
The dark, deep holes in our path, do more than just cripple us, they are there to swallow us whole or deliver us to the next one.
The intense, reflected light from the mirror, it blinds our vision and leaves us impaired.
The high pitched, loud squeal of the brakes cries for us, voicing our pain and anguish.
The small, uninteresting numbers that grow with each step, they mark our journey and signal that sooner or later it is bound to run out of digits.
The sudden, impulsive turning of the wheel exposes us, reminding us of our fragility.
The unending, hungry chaos represents us, standing for our greed and indifference.
The irritating, repetitive horns, annoying to all but us, prove our vulgarity.