butterfly echo

2005-11-14T17:00:00.000+08:00

sound of silence.

hello darkness, my old friend,
i've come to talk with you again.
because a vision softly creeping,
left its seeds while I was sleeping.
and the vision that was planted in my brain
still remains
within the sound of silence.

in restless dreams i walked alone,
narrow streets of cobblestone.
'neath the halo of a street lamp,
i turned my collar to the cold and damp.
when my eyes were stabbed by the flash of
a neon light
that split the night
and touched the sound of silence.

and in the naked light I saw
ten thousand people, maybe more.
people talking without speaking,
people hearing without listening,
people writing songs that voices never share
and no one dared
disturb the sound of silence.

"fools" said i,"You do not know,
silence like a cancer grows.
hear my words that i might teach you,
take my arms that i might reach you."
but my words like silent raindrops fell,
and echoed
in the wells of silence.

and the people bowed and prayed
to the neon god they made.
and the sign flashed out its warning,
in the words that it was forming.
and the signs said, The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
and tenement halls.
and whisper'd in the sounds of silence.

Simon and Garfunkel

2005-10-25T21:52:00.000+08:00

gates of the country

april
back in new york
the 31st floor
it seems somehow everything's changed.
the kitchen too small
plates on the wall
the sound of machinery.
may
where have you been?
who were you running with?
wasn't he someone you used to call home?
where is the ring?
where is the boy who went traveling alone?
she is much better without me.
she walks through the gates of the country,
hands at her side.
and i smile as i watch her walk by,
somehow i see there are ships in her eyes.
she is better off now.
june
the curtain is shut
the patterns are cut.
the maid who will wake you at dawn
pulls out a chair,
pulls down your hair.
it's just like you wanted.
july
what's going on?
what are you running from?
why are you sleeping alone on the floor?
some people change,
others hang on till they can't anymore.
she is much better without me.
she walks through the gates of the country,
hands in the air.
and i smile as i watch her walk by,
somehow i see there are ships in her eyes.
she is much better now.

Black Lab

2005-10-18T14:41:00.000+08:00

(it's me.)

tomorrow, i'll dream of gold, and verdant and azure and fuschia.

(it's me.)

and there's hope.

(it's me.)

love.

(it's me.)

beauty.

(it's me.)

freedom.

(it's me.)

and dreams. orgasmic dreams. white-out and truths.

(yes, it's me.)

i need faith.

(yes, i need it.)

concupiscience.

(i need it, and damn it's a long word. must look up the dictionary.)

concupiscience is you.

*it's you, it's you..*

this is me.

(if i want it.)

my desire.

*you're an individual. you're unique.*

me. me. me.

(yes. i love me.)

there's a space between my ears. i need love, i think.

*advertising. coffee and cigarettes. pop and play. children*

(let the children die.)

tomorrow, i'm the white rabbit.

(what's your name again?)

i'm black and white.

(let tomorrow die.)

2005-09-30T15:07:00.000+08:00

the daisy chain

now, now,
you're a porcelain doll
even without the makeup.
but daisies are not only for
pansies.
(real men do love it!)

where the angels fear to tread
but the world still isn't yours, yet.
they may call your name now
(but you wished they call it out in bed).
you're angry, a little too insane.
a few daisy girls want you dead
with unrequited passions
of the wunderkind.
you can hold it back,
till you are fit to burst
a dam brimming, of
mercury, and solace,
in some distant arms
that pined and loved (you)
and picked you up.
and tucked you away at night

we can't all have our
(fruit)cake and eat it. just as you
bit off more than you could chew.
with more attention
then poor you could afford,
a cowboy shoots of stray (blank) bullets tonight.

sexy as it may sound,
the world is still your oyster tonight.
lap it all up in your greed,
shake, rattle, to the symphony
or rhymthm of sweaty bodies
and paint the town
in your unchained melody.

2005-09-30T14:41:00.000+08:00

"You yielded to one who not has the four S's(as if we should say, sightly, sprightly, sincere, and secret.), which are required in every good lover, but even the whole alphabet; as, for example, he is, in my opinion, agreeable, bountiful, constant, dutiful, easy, faithful, gallant, honourable, ingenous, kind, loyal, mild, noble, officious, prudent, quiet, rich, secret, true, valiant, wise; the X indeed, is too harsh a letter to agree with him, but he is young and zealous."

what do you know, Cervantes DID know something about writing romance.

2005-09-22T16:59:00.000+08:00

updates on the links section. for your undivided perusal.

Danke!

2005-09-02T18:34:00.000+08:00

An unopened letter to God

Dear God, I have a problem
Something that I have no answers to
Perhaps I need to be vatic
in order to answer these very same questions
that I would raise up from time to time
to you but no one else in particular.

It might have been the signs
that it was something not meant to be
but would having schizophrenic conversations
with myself counts as a very good question?
Obsidian, the darkness as a monolith
the angel tilts and pours
burn a revelation into your eyes.
Cinders fallout.
radio shout outs,
people talk so damn loud.
I can't listen with all those noise
My head, or someone else's. Maybe
but I don't know.

Dear God, I have another one.
I still don't know anything
No one's getting smarter
nor getting the score
But they all know the answers
and I'm left shredding sanity in my hands.

Is it right, to be righteously wrong?
And is it wrong, to be rightfully unjustified?
May I murder you, from time to time
since you are eternal
I can do anything and you're still interminable.
I would be fine with the reverse
Just make sure you finish the job.

Dear God, please answer my questions,
because I might kill myself tonight.

2005-08-17T16:57:00.000+08:00

an idolised bang for the industry killer.

and it was war, and we charge forward in heed of our masters pulsing, maggots, throbbing and pounding and emascalating the sickness of torpidity. burn, we murder promises, and we are the manchurian cnadidates, here to push fingers into our eyes to dull the ache. the walls came down, and we fought for the unconventional. unconditional, the new diabolic, the black, bitter, bucolic. we are the life, the anti-life, the existence of an alliance in defiance. and it was the virus, cold, a synergy of a blister bursting into death and of a new beginning of a pain.

Maggots.

Slipknot was a blast.

2005-08-04T12:42:00.000+08:00

i'm writing this as i stare at the blank wall and wonder what the hell am i doing here.

i guess that contigencies can be sorted out, but if you can't be bothered about that then really, there is no need to show all the pleasantries anymore. just let me go. please. i don't really need this desperately, and my life does not depend on this. but it all good cheer and amicabilities, i engaged myself to be in all of this, and now, i suffer for it.

i am counting down, just like my friend did, who shall receive his freedom in less than 48 hours. a passenger who could not fly.

let it go, let it slide.

as i was driving i suddenly had the urge to drive it into a wall at 200km/h.

2005-07-26T15:48:00.000+08:00

Reise, reise.
Reise: stand, at attention to the greying corpse
in one-armed salutes and the spray
as the kiss of death draws them in her
final embrace. But not before
telling them to sink their teeth into
their miasmatic feelings choking them in,
since they were already gurgling white
before the sound of thunder began.
For the cause, as they held up blood-marked
pickets trotting slowly in a wave with
eyes bowed but heads high.
For the cause.
And let it run its dues.
And sit there in that damn stink
of morphine and saltbloodsweatglory
and the sanity-shattering screams.
"No, I am not going anywhere."

Saved, by a bullet to the head.

2005-07-15T09:26:00.000+08:00

Who are you?

... i'm the half-circle, the niveous that you worship. i'm the shattered mirror, the broken tail light. i'm the conduit, of acrid memories. i'm the shiver, the finger down your spine.

...i'm the obtenebration, the shade of a shadow creeping behind. i'm the twilight, in ending all that is unceasing. i'm the coitus, of unlife matrimony. i'm the alabaster, to the ebony heart blind.

...i'm the wanderlust, the safety of unbelonging. i'm the seether, the bubbling stream of blood boiling. i'm the child, of Yggdrasil's tendrils. i'm the fool, of the savant of knowing.

...i'm the king, to the rabble. i'm the drug, of delirious melancholy. i'm the pact, of faustian depths. i'm the light, of the shimmering adrenaline.

...i'm the drum, rattering of dry bones and dust. i'm the reckoning, of the unbecoming. i'm esctasy, the hymen tearing. i'm justice, the black hand moving.

...i'm Elysium, the guardian of your waste. i'm waking, in the middle of the day. i'm bucolic, the natural artifice. i'm the lost, here to show you the way.

2005-07-01T21:53:00.000+08:00

i am now accepting applications for an opportunity to take part in a once-in-a-lifetime adventure with me. Slipknot: The Sublimal Verses World Tour has descended upon this pitiful island and it is our duty to honor their appearance with one of our own. as such, applications are to be submitted via the email link in my links section, or if you do know me a little better perhaps you can text me. 16 Aug 05. you simply cannot miss this.

2005-06-29T17:53:00.000+08:00

it always turn out to be an anomaly; something told me to learn vicissitude but its the democracy of plurality that is always visible. and yes, follow, catenate, concatenate. and you'll always end up laughing at why everything was cut away so clean.

why is it still a masquerade? would it kill, to take the masque off once in a blood moon and black hole sun? we don't need to bare fangs to know that some things are just as untouchable as shattered stars.

does it hold any true meaning, behind, why it is so cryptic? night whispers shall go into the grave with you if the air only defines inconsequential pedestrian affairs. speak as sharp as light as it rends.

but still the light fails and shimmers into ashes, the masquerade is kept and all of you will still be pretending.

and we are still pretending.

2005-06-23T12:45:00.000+08:00

it is best that we do not even begin to comment on this sort of thing. let people be exhibitionist. you may disagree in your hearts but that doesn't really matter because your words will never matter to those who deemed it featherweight in the face of the sludge and brimstone of their actions. pardon the expression, but this place is more uptight than a constipated anus. if you put it more poignantly you could say that it is a beautiful prison. sure, we don't have graffiti adorning the streets or the trains and we do not have blatant cretins stealing purses from under your arms. but we traded it off little subculture and abundant lambs leashed off by vogue that they do not understand.

on a lighter note, please get plastic surgery. i know you love flaunting your body, but regrettably the world would very much like to reserve its artistic savourings for something more palatable. you could always start on your nose!

2005-06-14T12:42:00.000+08:00

if you listen to corrinne may's "save me" for the 3rd time you will realise that its a song that grows on you. except that its mold.

ms may, if i may be blunt, you simply cannot even begin to compete with lyrical heavy weights like tori amos and damien rice. neither is your vocal enchanting, because its so thick and deep that what comes out is rather throaty to be really earnest. sure, you are a good singer, but really, loopy lyrics and the overtly-deconstructed bridge and then the immediate skipping to the chorus in a higher key is something that 80s and 90s song writers grew out of. i'd thought Berklee taught you better. and i'm trying my very best to remember the best, catchiest line from your song, but all that comes up are snippets of something of sweet something something save me. its somewhat radio-friendly, but its sure like a TV Mobile ad. blink and you'll miss it. and you won't be missing it sorely as well if you actually caught it.

its rather a pity that the song you released as a single is poor, because there are genuinely some good lyrics that you had written for the other songs. i don't know about the sound though, i've never heard them all really. but if first impressions are anything to go by i'd predict that you would continue to produce albums for a little while but you'd probably get nowhere and then get really tired of the indie scene (not that you are indie enough anyway because you sound too mainstream) and then go into a soporific semi-retirement state of teaching music to snobbish fat kids who stained your piano and guitars with their grubby digits, or teaching literature to an assortment of unimaginative wooden secondary kids-happy-zombies in Singapore.

its just too bad that you aren't really talented enough. but its ok, maybe your kids might do a little better. then again you can flip open the Life secion of Straits Times and you will understand that it will be at least 20 years before the there is enough subculture to groom good artistes.

2005-06-13T11:41:00.000+08:00

bad singaporean poetry.

its bad enough we have american english and spanglish and the much abhorred adored singlish. and thanks to gaston who showed me this horrible book of poetry by GRACE CHIA or CHUA (doesn't matter they both sound the same like a soporific blah) i never want to be a singaporean ever ever.

Consider this:

I Like BIG BOOBs
B
U
T
I dunnnnnow Why??

T
H
E
Y

Said.

I
Was
A

GIRL.

maybe i'm not the best mimic but u get the picture. so understated! so deconstructed! so simple, yet profound! *gasps* *bloodless hands* *faints*

i seemed unable to get rid of this image of breast-bound unsexable cherries tearing at pages and pages of script and attempted poetry drowning in their tears of agony-lonely-baloney and the whirr of their vibrators.

oh, absalom, absalom! ruin be upon thy blighted hands! your sons be put to the sword at thy enemies, your daughters be carried off by the enemies and made to play with bad poetry and vibrators.

oh, get a damn life.

2005-06-11T00:50:00.000+08:00

how does one even begin to
speak the thoughts in your mind
when all i saw was
a flashback of still frames
that played in a circle
to this infernal tune
that spoke for nothing
except that
the pictures were pretty beautiful.

2005-06-06T23:20:00.000+08:00

change one thing, change everything.

but yet as a cycle, metamorphosis comes full circle.

the alliance in defiance that had caused the seed to burst out of its womb had long gone since then; the seed, as it shall, will take root and fashion an armour for sleep. and as the sleeper goes, a juncture awaits where to cocoon bursts and gossamer manifestations take flight.

a flap of butterfly wings can create a tropical storm.

a flicker of shadows can create a private war.