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Angels; Devils; Gods

Angels oft are among the guiltiest, For if ignorance is bliss, They might smile widest at the beggar, and clasp the hands of the sluttiest street monger

There is no such thing as innocence, Read ravens in red, Only degrees of guilt. Metered into infinity.

Might they deliver themselves, The winged heresy of divinity, To the meanest of the lot Of us; bottom of the ladder. That the snakes, Men with apples, May slither up the way, To sit at the feet, Of Lady Justice. Her blindness serving her well, The scales on her arm, Numb; To the blank book.

Devils oft are among the noblest. For if duty binds us to honour, They might be the knights, Wardens, Clasping in their claws, The wicked.

The worn and the dead. All clanking in their cells. They must not make them sin, But simple burn them to atone.

That the red skinned, Whipped tail, Horned monster, Is only so that he may ward off The sick and the sinner. For he must as well burn with Rage for himself, He may not like it.

That the nectar of the gods, Might be only had, With the flesh of the devil, Burnt already medium rare, And the ash cigar of the wing'd Angel, Flavour'd of sky and innocence. In the melting pot of damnation, The servants give up Everything they are, For the duty they behold, Either willingly with cynicism, Or innocently like the gullible.

So I ask you, After this ramble of thought, In word write hastily. Why would I call you an Angel, Rather the Devil who cannot know, When we can be GODS?

Regret

This list is neither exhaustive, nor chronological I regret breaking down in school as a child, I regret being a bratty pansy at the playground I regret being a stupid kid I regret not telling her she was beautiful I regret every opportunity I gave up for a level I regret every party I went to instead of ELO I regret not saying it I regret not leaning over to whisper over a half glass of whisky I regret a lack of adventure I regret not studying I regret not putting in obvious effort I regret my lack of willpower I regret being edgy I regret lies I regret creating false distance I regret letting myself go I regret holding myself back I regret adding lines seeming ironic I regret short days I regret making this sound trivial or funny I regret taking myself lightly I regret myself Help me. I do not know. My bottle fills My masque cracked I am sick of hope, I hunger I thirst. All this emotional baggage I don't enjoy giving it I've always prided myself on carrying it myself. And it's like the pride that runs thick in my grandfather Pushes through me and I feel just as he would I refuse just as he would Yet I have some semblance Of resolve in word, thanks to a mum A drive of pragmatism, I can only attribute to both And yet I can't cut it when I want to. I can't re-shunt frayed ends. I thought I knew how to handle everything People are in an equation. But I can't solve this one.

There are too many variables, Too many words Too many functions Too many stanzas Too many transformations Too many metaphors. And these regrets are filling my bottle And no amount of crying can spill it over. And I have a mantra of hesitation, But my philosophy prides on having that clutch I don't know where it starts, And where it ends. Its everything I mentioned above, And less And more. It's every regret I ever had, creeping up on me unawares.

Metal soup for the chicken soul

Riff is mantra Raff my demon-devil. Lick is my prayer Lack of is my silent doom. The apprehension of the next, Note and bar. Squeaks as the mouse, Named pianissimo. He is in his hole, Just under the treble cleft. E minor he steps, Into melody I need speed, Riff my heartbeat. Lick is my foot, Tearing at the seams of my lips. And fingers cannot go, Any faster, Due to the limits of physics. Chug, chug, chug, As I drink song after song. As the inner workings of The back of my brain, Live. Metal, heavy, death and Nu All the flavours. The aroma of the wicked And mean, beggar of a man I despise and yet embrace tight. Every ounce of darkness I can let leak Into the purity of the air Around me bathed In happy songs of love and heartbreak; Oh she's so coy. Nobody moves Nobody gets hurt. An apex predator hunts. Wearing an A.D.I.D.A.S. shirt. As the creeping death, Pounces on pianissimo, In a crescendo of blood and guts, The tail on the run. The freak on the leash Is rabid and wild. Its eyes! Those hands! The window! The horror, The horror, The genius, The utter genius.

Business Cloud

The flight to was standard. Economy class. A tray with segments of plastic holes filled with food is handed to me by the pleasant smile of the air hostess. Going back to the shitty motherland I had the misfortune to be birthed upon for reasons divined by my own mother. The aircraft landed, as I bounced about in the cramped seat pitched up at about 31 inches. After spending the week over at another Asian country with different types of political apathy and inability it was a flight back, with the strangest excuse I've heard without the explanation before.

"We're taking a business class ticket back, because there aren't any seats left in the economy class."

The explanation that we needed to be back in time for the Monday morning rush made it seem less crazy.

The flight from, in a JetStar business seat, was different.

A late morning flight, from a new airport terminal that still smelled of the cement residue not swept into the bins. In a surprise of efficiency, we cleared immigration and security fairly quickly, other than the usual obnoxious Hindi speaking guard.

Sitting in the wide open seat, down the row from my parents meant I practically had the experience to my own 19 year old self. The air craft took off, with a fairly light amount of ball drop that made me nod my head in appreciation that the pilot was in fact, a good one.

I awaited the business class lunch, knowing it would be different. The tiny plastic holes in the tray become separate courses served on a large plate or two. The plain white, hard crusted buns were now different shades and seasons of bread.

I sat there going through the first course, each time taking a different bun convincing myself I knew the difference and my tongue would affirm it, only to have mild changes in what seeds and herbs I chew and swallow. "Like women", I mused, before the other end of my mind kicked in with a harsh reminder. "Yeah right. The only hole you've had it with is the one you made with your left hand when it's clenched."

The next course came in the form of chicken layered with sauce and some rice to give it company. I left the rice a lonely day. It deserved nothing more. It was a normal business class lunch I guess. The aircraft leveled at thirty thousand feet and let the rays of the late morning sun seep through the glass. As they cleared my half empty plate and brought the last course, I waited for what the strange term "Orange cheesecake" may be. As in classic high-class style, it was no larger than my wallet and yet was placed in the same importance of a main course plate. Feeling they were giving the dessert too much self-esteem by allowing it onto a plate too large for itself, I used the tiny spoon to cut into it. Placing the piece onto my tongue, I found that it did in fact deserve its place on the plate. The orange jelly placed on top of the vanilla cheese cake melted and melded into one single taste. It was not layered on top of the cake, but was part of it. They were married happily and one would only know the cake was a different entity from its first name.

Finishing the rest of the cake all too quickly I washed it down with the tasty packaged water only ever found at the stratosphere. As the large tray was allowed to fold into a much smaller one, they placed for me a cup and saucer, filled just under the brim with hot chocolate. I looked out as the sun hid behind the powerful and noisy GE engines. Once could tell an engine make of the powerplant based on how noisy and arrogant it sounded. The clouds shaped no nicely were lit bright white as the blue faded into light and then black as the sky ascended into the deep dark of space. With the handle of the cup being too small of my hand, my pinky was forced out and stuck out as I took, not a pansy sip, but a long draught of the molten chocolate. Letting it slide down the inside of my neck and as the warmth entered my stomach, I sighed softly, my legs crossed, wondering if this was how an adjective such as "heavenly" might have been put to good use.

#Flight #Writes #Alias

Daers' World

Through the multiverse, Have I hopped. And skip, In seconds spanning centuries.

True then is the curse, A boon so warped. Tea sip, Disgust flavoured water memories.

Every possibility exists, Grass is always green. Only more so, If you adjust the white balance.

if the shoe fits, And off slippers you wean. Allow the sapling to grow, Walk into the Sun in vagrance.

Call me Daer, mad-of-mood. Fallen from Desdinova. Eternal light in nothing, When you travel the planes.

Tongues smooth and crude, Worlds I birth from ova. Never of detail fussing, Perfection is sung in vain.

Time flows left for some, Right for others, diagonal. That clock ticks maybe, Elsewhere that tock.

When you here hum, Not with time soluble. Paradoxes such in the many, Into the system lock.

Every plane has three, A collection to identity, The root to the pasts, The branch to offspring.

A soul kept free, Till the destruction of infinity. For nothing forever lasts, Star stuff never lingering.

Flip a coin, More planes are born. Time doth not bear, the children of space.

When both sides join, Nothing do you mourn. The Fabric doth tear, Every one, has two face.

Sometimes more.

The Life and Times

Sun shining through dirty window, Tears wet the small face. A boy, a babe learnt to walk, And talk. Guppies in a ceramic case.

"Why O why?" In his voice hushed. "Why is it so?" "Life is time, in circles runs", said she. And down the tube she flushed.

Overcast eve outside modern scrapers, Tears almost wet the unshaven face. Man, the boy learned to work, Green paper cirque. Puppy refusing to chase.

"Why O why?" He grunts over the wire. "Why must it grow?" "Life is time, in circles flows", said she. Voice soothing his fire.

Rains spilled over dead dirt, Freshwater tears, on many a face. Cold walls of church, Coffin of birch. Lain with fine onyx and lace.

"Why O why?" Asking nobody in general. "Why'd you go?" "Life is time, in circles comes", she might've said, Like her words scrape the barrel.

The night shed dark into the house, Wine tears, glass face. Eyes dart as the ring, An echoey "DING!- DONG!" of a forgotten race.

"And that is why" Said his epiphany then. "Life is time. Face circles and hands. Climb and fall. Fly and crawl. Around we go, The merry-go-round of a soul."

Why do you-

Why do I write? Why do I rhyme? Why do I try my best, to stay in time?

How do you write? Where to get inspired? Do you, ever in mind-muck get mired?

These are certain questions, Asked oft, by whom unknown.

I write not for release, In the most common sense. My life is not tragic, My salary not in pence.

I am privileged, I take advantage of my life. I am lucky, I do not endure harsh strife.

I have love of family, Friendship and support.

For granted.

I have choice and education, Ability to speak and be heard.

For granted.

I have extended freedoms, Time is never of an essence.

For granted.

I do not write to lament my life, There is little actually to. Instead I look further within, To a drink of cyanide and dew.

Ideas and philosophy, Darkness consume, afterward belching. Thoughts that shouldn't be, You adorable punk, your head's melting.

These are the things I write for, To smirk and grin, O wicked me! Of death, destruction, and to, Rape, pillage, burn and be free!

Of these things I write, Of heroes who understand pain. Of men and creatures I shape, Who will sell their soul to gain.

I write to create a world, To escape through word.

I write to delve into insanity, Mixed poorly with vanity.

I write, Because I got bored one day. The world of Kronus beckoned me, And thus was born my first lay.

"Bolter, Daemon and burning sky-" The line started, my eyes alight. I brought my world forth, With a pen and a 14 year old's might!

That was then, and this is now. I went through bad poems, And some half good.

I filled books during math class, I was truly very bored, As many of us would - Making the best of it.

I could look into myself, A blurred scope through my bottom rib.

A Rainy Day

Oh rain I hate you so, When you turn the ground to mush, My paths to slush,

With your winds howling, Your watered down emotion.

O Thunder, I hear you not, Awaiting the thunderous applause, A flash doth cause,

The echoes of your life, Bouncing off the walls.

The lightning! Stormbringer within! Smite with force! Harken electrons! The eyes sway in trance,

My life before my eyes, Splitting a tree in half.

The clouds do dark themselves, Heavy with a burden of vapour and puff, Till finally it's enough.

As you lift your skirt, And unleash. Period.

The sun, hiding in fear. He is of no power here, for we! WE ARE THE STORM! WE ARE FREE!

We are the angry stampede of the skies, The savagery as the dust settles. We are the beauty of destruction, As trees burn with water.

Fear the dark, Fear the overcast.

Humble yourself sunny days, Your time is over.

For even when you break through the cloud, The rays of light seemingly victorious. Know it is but a respite, The summer is vainglorious.

The Storm brings life and death. We are the start and the end. The alpha and the omega.

So go on, Dance in the rain.

Lucid

Crash and chord, String and finger. Strum the horde, The screams still linger.

To live is to die, Suicide and redemption. In my coffin-bed I lie,

My headphones save my soul, lulling my thoughts to sleep.

I hit the pedal with my foot one last time, before completely closing my eyes and my head upon my pillow. All that moved were my spider like fingers and the flurry of the right hand in unison. If it was worth overdoing, it was worth doing. The echoes of the notes came back in digital clamour and echoes through the virtual hall my machine build around my head.

This, I decided, was not real. Me, I decided, no longer on my bed. On command I let myself go. My fingers did my singing and my voice did the strumming; vocal chords. They called it right.

I did not fly into a dream nor see myself anywhere. For a time I saw the music, As the child August Rushing said.

It started low, a whispering thunder in the distance of pianissimo. Constant picking, constant shouting. You cannot get out, they are coming. E minor hear my call!

Heavy, and hard. They march in line. Beaten and scarred, On fuel they dine.

My left hand moves down and on the same note not long back dark, comes back white.

I play the same key, and chord. I play the same snow as I would play the grass, as I would play the sand, rolling into the dunes the winds command.

Stop the march! Listen for a bit. Feel a new rhythm, Circadian grit.

Mirror images, My fingers draw. Wood and steel and electricity. Through the amplifiers' maw.

Loops and turns, Straight roads lie. Truth seekers, Are never on their backs.

Hoops and burns, Index and thumb ties. Glass wine beakers, Never survive the cracks.

Find the lone note, My fingers bend. And no mistake, Is too far off to mend.

As the lucid dreams we have are the same. As the shades of black are not

every time I close my eyes.

Is it dream or reality I have lost control of?

And as I lose control of the dream of which I held the remote, my fingers lose control of the melody they constructed.

The lights get switched on, as my eyes open. The air warms with my sigh.

Unplugged, to rest myself. Upon the springs of Ikea. I write melodies, not sins. That is my tragedy.

Fayn

I knew a lass,

A loving soul. Of kindness and bubbles.

She was the voice in silence, Who urged the nothing. To be rid of their troubles.

Large in heart, and body. In voice of semi-joy, Sang her tale of life, but seventeen.

And then through strife she fled, And ran through the field amok. Through her kings, a prince and queen.

She left. She. Left.

She died. Does your silent brain get it? Does your rotting corpse, 'neath the veil, understand? Do your rude lifeless eyes staring, From the soft coffin, Comprehend?!

That you would sail into the blue, Out of the blue, Was not as shocking.

As to find that you let yourself, By yourself, That got us talking.

It split a group you held, By thine gravity. You dubbed us boob.

"We were breast friends" Said you to all.

The audacity you had, To almost make me understand, Another person.

The boldness you had, To throw away an anchor, Make my darkness worsen.

To uproot and cut, To burn and oust. It took you 3 breaths, To think yourself Faust.

All you left, Was a shitty last Tumblr post. Barely seven words.

You didn't even bother to tag it, Under #suicide. Even afterwards.

So now that you're, Rotting in the earth. You did at least one thing, true.

You taught them all, Even in death: It still. wasn't. about. you.

Don't you ever come back, Your haunting is officially over.

(she)

He was mad about her.

She went through his every Thought. She lived in his every Breath. Since he met her long ago.

I say meet. He knew and she did not. He knew much, much more.

She walked the same paths, Every day. He walked the same shadow, Every night.

He liked to to call it, Brisk Strolling.

He was mad about her.

He wanted to tell her, About himself. Save his constant habit, To doubt himself.

To profess his heart, Pour it out. To open his ribcage, Rip it out.

He wanted this emotion, For himself. He wanted this emotion, Under his control.

The day dawned anew, And his shadow did walk. He caught her between, The blocks; to talk.

She looked taken aback, It was cold. He knew it tasted bitter. As he was told.

He was mad. Madly in anger with her.

He wanted this anger for himself, He wanted to control his anger.

She lay in the pool, Of red. He looked at it out his window.

The barrel was cool, She was dead. His song softly he crows.

"Saint anger 'round my neck. He never gets respect. Saint anger 'round my neck. Is it me? Or is it fear? Saint anger 'round my neck."

His anger was around his neck, Rope is often colder, Than the trigger.

Life was the draw of the deck, And as you grow older, It's just a figure.

Reforeom 2 - St. Charming

Shoot me again, I ain't dead yet. You can't kill the unliving. So all the shots I take, I spit back at you. All my love to you I'm giving. Dick move, Right there. Ignorance is your 'special' bliss. Isn't it? Answer me, Every harsh word is a special kind of kiss. Every passive aggressive, Tweet and twat. Every unrelated word, Why, who and what. It will haunt you, And I shall accept that sorry. That one day you offer. You're indifference, broke. Your indifference broke. You sit crying in the coffer. For to err is human, To forgive divine. To forget is folly, Drink naught of that wine. These bullets, Are an acquired taste. Which in other words means, That it's shit, And your tongue filters that bit. Your mind of it cleans. Born into attitude, Asleep at the wheel. Through the fire, stand there. That .45 that's in your mouth, The dirty chested whore. Tongues lick you bare. Look it's me, I can't be free. Too young to focus, Too old to see. Lock and load, Don't you dare miss. I get 10 bucks from the bet. C'mon then love, Shoot me again, I ain't dead yet.

Refereoem #1 - Forward March

The dirt and wit,

Sergeant talking shit.

The barking of machine gun fire,

Of the sound ears do tire.

Back to the front!

Soldier boy, made of clay.

Now an empty shell.

Twenty-one, only son,

But he served us well.

Do what I say, and when.

You're bred to kill them all.

Question naught and wonder not,

A servant till I fall.

Back to the front!

Choices close 'fore you,

And your hand is forced.

The trigger is cold,

Medication with no remorse.

You won't remember anything,

You won't know if it's right.

The line is smudged,

Once drawn by principle might.

Back to the front!

Mindless and selfless,

Respected and objectified.

A tragedy and a hero,

A murderer, so have you died.

Do you hear their voices,

Can you hear their screams?

Oh warrior! Oh brave man!

Doth sleep grant you dream?

A Man walks in to a bar, with unbridled enthusiasm

The doors swung inward, the figure dance-stepping through, before swinging back outward into a pendulum motion. The doors flapped back to a normal state as the man took in the sight of the bar. His smile seemed stuck onto his face, a constant grin in a room of grim. He strolled up to the bartender, a beard and bald head cleaning the dirty glass with a not-so-dirty cloth. He grumbled, words losing themselves in his chin-hair. The happy man said simply, "A drink my good man! For myself and a round to everyone sitting here today!" The announcement caused the heads to turn and the frowns to turn slightly. Some even applauded and shouted loudly words of praise mixed with words one usually wouldn't use for praise. The drink floated through the pipes into the glass as the bartender slid it toward him. He grabbed it, pinky slightly aloft, and in a single swig took half the liquid. "You might have a name, so I can thank you for the free drink?" Asked a voice behind him. The man turned to see the stubble and half-nose before simply saying "Ned. I am called Ned." He was still smiling, although his eyes were slightly dizzy from the swig. The bartender chucked the stranger his free drink before moving to give everyone else a refill. As the man took his seat beside Ned, he looked at the still smiling face next to him. "Ah yes, sir. I am Lug", and raising his voice "Hear hear for Ned". A cheer went up as the clinks and a bit of the drink was spilled, and the rest downed. "Is your wallet really that full of credits? This isn't fine star wine from the inner systems, but synthesised liquor for the entire room costs much no?" Ned seemed to swirl his drink a bit, his smile slightly smaller. He looked up. "I am going to die." It wasn't sad, nor melancholic. It wasn't fear which spoke nor a sense of foreboding. It was excited; enthusiastic. The anxiety that everyone feels before many things social. "No point giving it to a charity since it doesn't solve anything and no point letting it go to waste on the useless family of mine. Why not make a room full of angry, alcoholic system workers happy?" "You seem rather happy about dying. Not that it would be strange in this day and age, for a being such as yourself. Rather that you would go out with a gesture as simple as you are", Said Lug, taking a sip of the dark liquor as well. The bitter taste bit into his brain. "It's a new adventure. Were you not filled with such enthusiasm on your first day at the inter-galaxy college? I wonder what shall happen when this spaceworm crawls out of my toe. It shall be rather interesting." Thusly speaking, Ned took a final swig of his glass, threw his entire wallet onto the counter and strolled out of the pub. Lug did nothing but watch him leave, all while still sipping his drink. It seemed slightly sweeter.

#Wordplay #Writes #Alias

Books

There lies something special, In my books. Not a Kindle, that swindle. Nor lips to fill, The crannies and nooks. There be something nice, To call it mine. Not actually, and factually, It is another's thought, Creating ideas; define. O it smells, Rather nice; the mold within growing. Aged paper, fresh ink. O it looks, Beige and black; light bulbs sowing. Old raven, new quill. O the taste, Bitter-sweet; Dust from long ago. Ancient trees, book-shelved. O the sound, Soft the scrape; Say to you hello. Rotting hand, heard young. O it feels, Liberated. /it/ feels, more than I can. For I only accept its words, Written by the hands hidden. My brain only shaped by what it says, Fueled by connections forbidden. Where in the solace of a void, Feels filled to a brim. And in the crowd of stone, Your voice calls out grim. Close the back, hardly covered. The world around you crumbles. And the voice booming just now, Reduced to whispers and mumbles. There is nothing to do, Nothing to see, smell and hear. To feel; Tasting only fear. "Whatever shall I do, And what shall I become. Barbaric and wild, perhaps, To Yolo swag succumb?!" Hands tremble. They sprint the spines. Judging them on covers; blurbs even. As I recount this then to this woman, Terrible in beauty before me. I end as such. "That's why I had to spend all my money on these books, mum."

The Company

Prologue

Ere the dark clouds gather,

Gloom and Doom for sight.

Did the men a'gather,

Spoiling for a fight.

Coarse was the tongue, harsh words,

Taunts and jeers and phlegm.

Divine was thus conjured,

And spoke unto them.

"Ye fellows shall draw no blood,

Lest I curse thee to fire!"

"We but fight for the gold,

Swords and shield for hire!"

They did say so,

To winged Heaven-sent.

So thus to its cause,

Their will it bent.

"Wicked and mean art thou,

And to me shall ye be bound.

Draw thy swords, and thy palms,

Let thy blood drip to the ground."

So thus the men did,

And their life-force pooled.

The God then swooped down,

And the wounds were cooled.

It drew its own blade,

And cut from the wrist.

The blue blood did spill,

The ground then did twist.

In place was a fountain,

Its liquid pure and clear.

"Drink my curse and thy boon,

Be of power, knowledge and fear!"

So ten and four men that day,

Did drink of the holy waters.

They felt themselves grow in strength,

And The God was now shorter.

A Demi-God he had become,

As he shrunk in size and grew his sex.

But immortal still he was,

Much to a devil's vex.

For this Daemon, was aware,

And saw what had come to be.

He then set in his own plan,

Of his own curse to free.

A friend and ally,

Once of the Gods was he.

Exiled for a Truth,

For what the Heavens refused to see.

His name was Maleficus,

Though he was most unlike.

For the mischief he did commit,

Was for his own ends and like.

He was not wicked for wickeds' sake,

Nor mean for meaning of name.

For sometimes he did ask himself,

Were not Angels and he the same?

Nay, thought he then,

For I think for my own.

I am not anothers' will,

Mine own seeds are sown.

Peering upon the men and demi-god,

He chose to bide his time.

For he would wait eons,

For Justice on a Gods' crime.

The men and Aravalar,

For that was his name.

Did then form company,

Their wills now the same.

The party a dozen and three,

Roamed forth the plains

And hills. With swords.

#Alias #Writes #Poem #Lay

Mondays

It was the start of the end. Sighs and shuffles as the mind asked the body to get out of bed and into the water. The alarm went off snooze again before being slapped off the table, into silence. A yawn let out a wave of lethal morning breath. Cold water awoke bits of the sleepy face.

Was it just hatred of the Monday? Loathing might be a better word, spoke the mind to allow the lips a slight smile. Hands slippery with soap and hair slick with shampoo clogged the drain with lather. Stepping out, a towel did dry her petite figure.

Mondays weren't actually that bad, mused her mind, as minds do most often. It was the coincidences that Mondays had hassle and things and stuff that made them especially bad. Twas nothing to do with the start of the week.

She almost wanted a Monday Bag. A huge case to take all the extra things she must lug. All the extra things she must do, for the sake of polite smelly etiquette. A shower a day would have been enough, would they not make her smelly for another one in school. Thus within the bags with books were clothes as well for change, in line with smelly etiquette. Hassles and shuffles and travels and hustle was what a Monday was.

They should move it to Friday and see if people would still smile for TGIF, mused the mind once more. She tutted, mostly at her musing and distracted mind. Packing the annoying bag she hoisted it up and left her room. The bad isn't actually what was annoying, thought she, silently apologising for abusing her rather helpful and loyal bag. She corrected herself, lugging her large bag for the annoying Monday.

5 more days, the countdown started.

#Mondays #Writes #Alias #Word-Story

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