Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Archive for July 2007

links for 2007-07-30

Written by cthulhu

July 30, 2007 at 3:18 pm

Posted in del.icio.us

I Might Not Love You, But I’d Make Love to You

I might be near, but we never been closer.

It’s only by convenience of location, I chance to be in the intimate yet distant retreat.

While my presence taken for granted within the solicitous cynosure due to locality differences.

Perchance; privacy and comfort of familiar scent and warmth is much more desirable. Waking up to the calming morning dew and misty touch of versed cognoscente.

In distant epoch, I see myself as the ascended one from falling in love with the idea of being in love. Petrarchan sonnet befalls on wary heart where the concept of unattainable love twisting, punishing the fool’s naivety.

Apotheosis

I remember you as the apotheosis,
Beauty walking before the springtime sun had set.
Eyes of onyx deep in ivory cheeks inset,
Space-black river of cascading tousled tresses,
Soft lips with smile hiding your thoughts behind guesses.
Such was as I saw you that ancient day we met.
Your face in longing visions disturbs my nights yet,
As long days have been filled with weary restlessness.
But now I see the unkind years on your visage,
The awful beauty that I once beheld faded
With hard life written in every line and time-scar.
Your grace and beauty was no thicker than a midge
Awaiting but the passing moons of life jaded
To slough off showing the cruelty you truly are.

I would love to meet but not when you’re in a rush for more important matter at hand. I serve only as time-consuming obstruction in the time-shift of inbound interest.

I hate to be blame for being a “date”line gremlin.

I rather be blame as deferrer of fate than tempt fate deterring time frame.

+++

Experiencing (incidental) repackaged pop music of melodic death metal or progressive death metal of Scandinavian and Mediterranean origin is like hearing a lullaby from transgendered KISS crossdresser with tag name of obscurely fancy words like Disarmonia Mundi.

Pop punk and post-hardcore is another words for MTV’s schizophrenic death-by-emo-song genre. Naming the band The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus is commendable, provided I’m not the one giving it.

I love spatting to those guys. I’m a big believer in character-building by destroying the morale.

Often when he was begging, Diogenes would be spat on by the people who passed him. Diogenes would ignore this and simply wipe his face with his sleeve. When ridiculed for his passive behaviour, Diogenes said, “Since men endure being wetted by the sea in order to net a mere herring, should I not endure being sprinkled to net my dinner?”

[Source: Teaching of Diogenes (c. 412 – c. 323 B.C.)]

I’m also a cynic.

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Written by cthulhu

July 30, 2007 at 12:34 pm

Nightmarish Residue

Incubus – I Miss You

To see you when I wake up,
is a gift I didn’t think could be real.

To know that you feel the same as I do,
is a three-fold, utopian dream.

You do something to me that I can’t explain.

So would I be out of line if I said,
I miss you.

I see your picture,
I smell your skin on the empty pillow next to mine.

You have only been gone ten days,
but already I’m wasting away.

I know I’ll see you again,
whether far or soon.

But I need you to know that I care,
and I miss you.

+++

It would be a pleasant sonorous effect to the ears IF only my resentful mind didn’t notice how much it reminds me the (almost) routine five days (half of the ten days absence) suffocation of reality I need to endure for the last 443 days.

I really wanted to make it 444 days, and put off this entry for tomorrow morning. Triple number 4 (四; accounting 肆; pinyin sì) to the Chinese means a triple death warrants for me. Yeay, death!

Stupid Feng Shui’s tetraphobia. What is 2 plus 2? 3A. What is the level 24 says on the elevator? 23A.

The (almost) routine 2 days on the weekend is almost as stupid as pushing the 23A button on the elevator. 2 days that transcends to 3 days, and scaling to full 5 days (or worse, full weekend). Stupid prime numbers (2,3,5,7…) sequence.

I woke up to the smell of asphyxiating nightmarish sweat, feeling numb to the idea of tangible lost — being comfortable with the idea of solitary.

I only need to know that my life is not worth to be wasted away for fleeting ephemeral dream.

What ever you did to me, I can articulate it with fitting conception.

Do I miss you? Do I really care?

I’ll tell when I see you.

If I see you.

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Written by cthulhu

July 24, 2007 at 5:19 am

Ich Liege mit Grippe im Bett

Head spinning. Eyes bleary. Ambiance sound deafening. Eastern sun blinding.

I woke up; locking the door behind Kurt. Took the sleeping bag into his room. There’s something pleasant in the darkness of his room: cozy with vague warmth. Must be because I’m freezing to the bones.

Still feverish. I’m delirious. I’m looking for comfort from that someone. Hoping the gloom lighten up.

Head spinning. Eyes still bleary. The din kinder to the ears. Light playing between the blinds.

The three least favourable answer that I would expect:

  1. “It’s too fucking early in the morning to call me!”
  2. “Hmm, yeah?” (Distant muttering)
  3. “Baby, phone.” ([His] voice)

I got the numero uno.

Did I mention the sun’s blinding? Perhaps it’s not that too early in the morning. The oft calls I received from her at pre-dawn is what I perceive as off the mark “early” wake-up call.

I popped in the painkiller, and I found comfort in the generic analgesic drugs instead of her healing voice that comes with cathartic effect. The soothing pampering voice that I much expected, far apart from that morning rebuking tone.

I cocooned inside the sleeping bag. Nose running like cascade. Heart beating with palpitation. Mass of body swirling under the phantom crushing pressure. I descended into the abyss of erkältungskrankheiten.

Sleeping under the narcosis of misery, the mind voiced its frustration, whispering the ersatz infatuation of the fleeting “early” morning conversation:

“Wie bist du Gefühl, baby?”

Maybe I should start looking other way to soothe myself, with my own imaginative cosseting.

Like a forlorn narcissist.

Ich liebe mich.

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Written by cthulhu

July 23, 2007 at 8:45 pm

Posted in life and dream

links for 2007-07-22

Written by cthulhu

July 22, 2007 at 3:19 pm

Posted in del.icio.us