Made of Glass

Friday/30/Dec/2016
00.00

I have seen tears.
I have seen love, smeared.
I have seen goodbye.
I have seen lust, splattered.
I have seen rage.
I have seen anger, spilled.
I have seen hate.
I have seen revenge, vomited.
I have seen the world collide,
the moon ripping apart, the stars falling from the skies, and fireworks bursting from every corner of the street.
I have seen warm coffee and love making, and cinnamon rolls and breaking up, and red wine chugged on her deathbed.
I have seen damage.
I have been cracked open, smashed, and burned.
I have been steamed, and shot, and wiped.
I have seen fear.
I have seen outrage.
I have seen compassion.
I have seen courage.
I have seen you: sitting in front of me, drinking black coffee, scrambling thoughts into a notes, and trying to piece together desaturated memories into a moving poetry.
I have seen you: lonely, facing the busy street with bad eyesights and let the headlights turn your surroundings into an afterthought, suppressing heartbreak like a bad tattoo burns.
I have seen you: leaving, in front of me, with your fingers laced together, wiping raindrops from my cheeks while dropping a tear; I wanted to warm you up, but there was nothing I could do since I am just a window made of broken glass and you're a constant wanderer.

If love tastes like violence

8/Oct/2014

Darling, we're now speeding at 666 kilometre per hour because devil may care who we are and what we are chasing after. The cheap street light reflected on your razor sharp cheek is shining like a glittery ember. "Where are we heading?" You ask while increasing the pressure of the gas as if you were stomping on this gasoline-fucked city. 

"I'm not going anywhere in life and I don't have to go home now." I mumble. I love the fact that your eyes turn into a couple of red full moons within a minute. I look back at you and set the fire in our silence. If love tastes like violence, then this one must be a war. 

My friends told me that you are no different than any other suburban joylessness with head higher than the clouds. Your friends told me that we would be nothing but lost souls in the wilderness of this megapolis; chameleon hearts and dangerous trust in the words of strangers. But now we are in the middle of the open road. Packed with rolls of cigarette and outdated films in our leather bag. Nostalgic -- but if this is how we are supposed to be in love, then so be it. Let us drown in every single particle of toxic waste and filthy carbon emissions. 

Silence. Top 40 upbeat songs from the record label I used to work in are playing in the radio; their five minute to fame lyrics are our only friend in this endless road trip to nowhere. Your gaze is starting to look empty. It's two in the morning; we all know that this is not the waking hour dedicated to lovers with arms intertwined together. This one is a special gift from the so called creator to self-loathing people like us and million other beings with issues more than any fashion magazines combined. We're starting to see stars in our lips, and the nearest motel is still six kilometres away. It is not the most luxurious guest house, but we believe in the glamour of public bathroom and flat white sheets. 

At night we fall asleep to our invisible vision of dancing nightingales in front of the door. Knocking our heads to realise that we are safe in our eternal winter. 

We breathe each other's breath and numb each other's pain until there is nothing left to taste. We explode in the desert of emptiness and swear to the gods inside our soul that this war must go on. 

We Are All Bored

Goodbye, blue sky. Pink Floyd.

I’ve never been this pissed, and disappointed before. Everything seems to go irrationally from here, and my retinal disparity seems to be blurred in some static fucked up figure of a mental statuesque landscape. Double visions, binocular sunset. It’s like they simply put me upside down in a tank full of nonsense, and whimsical gravity. I tried to runaway, and they just pulled me back in. They call themselves as the brightest lantern of all, the immaculate source of hope, and legacy. Tell my man about that, he’ll laugh his ass off. He is as riotous as myself. He’s not just another punk rock lad with manner issues. Never felt love, never felt hate. We are completely numb to these crappy bollocks. Pedal to the metal. Can’t stress that one enough. Life is a nonstop heavy metal riffs from Iron Maiden. No, it’s heavier than heaven. 

Is the world really underwater? Or was it just a dream that I got while trying out Sigmund Freud-ish technique that Salvador did? Maybe it was really underwater, and everything dried up as soon as I opened my eyes to smell. Or to see? It doesn’t matter. All I can think about is how to go to New York, and pick him up from his flat, and off we go to the sunset. Why not vice versa? Because that’s how we always roll. Dead Kennedys in the morning, and Misfits in the night. Mommy, mommy, mommy. let me out and kill some people tonight. 

She keeps on rambling, and rambling, and rambling. Prettiest girl in the world. She’s the epitome of Marilyn Monroe of 2013. Gosh, please tell me that you don’t envy her beauty. What? No. You’re lying. You’re a lying bitch. St. Patrick’s Day, huh? What’s your excuse? Dress your feast up, party on. Bury me in my leather jacket like they did to Sid. He was too Vicious, and I’m very curious. Turn on the volume, I see that you’re listening to Gojira. Heavy heavy, their songs are my chill pill. If Plato was right, the current idea world can only be found in Joe Satriani’s guitar solos. Nothing is better than listening to a crisp shred, and your boyfriend laughing twelve hours away.

Leo Tolstoy was always right about everything. “We can know only that we know nothing”. Yes, Leo. Nobody knows what we know, right? Because we know nothing. Every single thing that we knew was literally nonsense, not really, but they’re quite invisible. Invincible. Sheer plasmatic cell of knowledge waiting to be stored in the pineal glands. Where is Stephen Hawking when I need him? Let me dig the truth from Gadamer’s book. Thank you, classmate for lending me this bible. I’m starting to worship the guy, and build an altar especially for him, but wait, he’s no Salvador. But still.

10:10 wish upon a star? Nope. Wrong answer. Newsletter is waiting to be done, and some paintings are dying to be coloured. And I dwell in probabilities, and posibilities, and maybe some chi squared test. This is purely for artistic, and mathematical purpose. The concentration of my oil paint is getting thinner as the night grows darker. Maybe I should stop here, and breathe, and put on GnR’s Patience as I paint through the night. Calling all the muses to line up, and fill my surrealist block here.

We are all bored.

All was created out of the night 
We're all born from the burst of a star 

Stone feet, Crystal eyes: 1.

Two hundred karats skeleton like black diamond is sitting on Aesa's throne.
Engagement ring was stolen from her little voodoo doll.
She saw a curse in the crystal ball.
Quick, Viktor, hide, before she rips your vigorous neck bone.

Stories from a mountaintop

I don't know how did I get here.
Or what brought me here.
For all I know that we, all of us are intertwined in some particular uncertainties.
I saw a golden lion roar in the middle of my conversation with the soul inside the reflective glass.
It was enormously harsh, it shattered my whole weak drums.
The little girl in the old photo smiled back at me.
Telling me that everything is going to be just fine.
The sharpest roses bound her arms into an esoteric geometry.
(and her lies into a crypt of ashes)
The silent walls behind me, and the whispering trees above me are weeping through the coldness of the war.
The unfinished vengeance of the nymphs of the shore.
I was not alone, I was surrounded.
I was surrounded by the dying spark of humanity, and the shattered hopes of morality.
Every single thing was in between.
I could even place myself in the middle of the battleground.
For I could find their faces in the middle of the armoured veins.
From the lover to the devil.
The drowning victim of the glorious battle.
I thanked the empty skies for my family.
I thanked the universe for my childhood sidekick.
I thanked the devil for my enemies.
Here, I brought my weapons of my future war.
My personal war with myself, and the screaming crowds.
My war with the city lights, and endless dynamites.
My war with uncertainties, and the pressure of the societies.
My war in the madness of the neverending stories.
And through all the madness, I found peace.
Here, in the arms of the forested raindrops.
Here, in front of the blank canvas.
Here, drifting in his velvety voice, and silver strums.
Here, where I have no capital nor electricity.
I am free.

(Written in the middle of nowhere last week.
PS: I've been thinking to close all of my online accounts, and just get back to the old fashioned way.)