the zeppelin of burning dreams

after all that brouhaha over keeping in touch with blogspot, and just because a buddy moved from livejournal to tabulas, i go and do a judas on blogspot.

this is just a test broadcast.

i shall later be posting several noteworthy posts from my old blog.

i'm slowly editing this little nook in a corner of the net. some tweaks here, other tweaks there, tweaks everywhere.

my head hurts.

you want the truth?

the zeppelin isn't about making a choice. its about happenstance. things just happen, and how you react to it is how you react to it. at least that's how i see it, as a reader. no matter how many opportunities you're faced with in a moment, the one you take is the one you take.

there's no turning back.

i'm sleepy. too sleepy to think straight. coffee and sugar cannot do anything for me now.

i shall dream fitful dreams of beautiful women and beautiful guitars.

"I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more no less.

Ask me anything you want.

Then I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything."

stolen from dearth.

How evil are you?

by kilawingUWAK


i. an overdrive

It isn’t that the world is ending.

As we watch the falling debris, the wastes of war
hailing overhead, my throat dries as I struggle
against the tumult of words leaping out my mouth.

The only clear metaphor I can give you is this;


su·shi
Pronunced as 'sü-shE also 'su-
Functions as a noun
Japanese in origin
Date: 1893
It is a cold rice dressed with vinegar, formed into any of various shapes, and garnished, especially with bits of raw fish or shellfish


And so drown in the taste of seaweed nectar.
Then – the kick of raw mustard ferments
in your tongue. No, its not that the world is ending.
It might very well have just begun to live, the
last few moments of tingling pain
as wasabi hits your brain.

And suddenly life is a sushi bar.


ii. in the sky

So let the night be one giant nori wrapper.

The cascades of light remind me
of a forty year-old film in sepia. Nearby,
a shower of sputnik-fried metal spare parts
bites the dust in an orbital satellite downpour.
Your body jolts in a sudden convulsion,
very nearly driving you to the
cliff’s edge, but tipping you into
my arms instead.

I attribute my shivering to the cold.
The cliff winds howl at my amazement;
I don’t know what to do. My tongue tastes
of a leather shoe. You stare at the sky as a
thousand explosions illuminate the clouds
drifting like carrots on vegetable stew.
Rice on nori. Dregs of wasabi
on soy sauce. Or a thousand
sushi-shaped space stations,
drifting in the soy sauce saucer
of outer space.

Warps you into activity.
Suddenly, you’re running, squealing with a
squeamish joy, Isn’t this just lovely?!
Your grip felt neurotic, and I am left paralyzed.
Watching your every step. Not noticing how
you lost track of me. What is this?

Satellites chunks careening from the skies echo in reply.


iii. of sushi, satellites, and everything in between

And yet an awful silence.

For now I am truly alone.
The skies have claimed you,
carrying you away, though
you stand a few steps
from where I sit.
The mustard has struck, and I am
relishing its bitter taste in my mouth.

I don’t understand why the aftertaste
is bad. It leaves you longing for
a little bit more – a taste here,
some wasabi there – nothing much, really.
I guess that the only thing I could
really say concretely is that
I’m hungry already.

The wastes of war fling themselves
to the far reaches of the world.
And I’m just watching you watch the sky.

As a thousand lovely satellites shimmer in the night.

Here's some post-apocalyptic lyric poetry to amuse you folks in the meantime.

Heard from a Street in Manila’s Flower District

Well. Shall we dance?
The moon is glowing from within
the clouds, and festivities

ring all throughout this night.
The floods of customers
have arrived in waves.

are the flowers ready? Set the
pails up on front so we can start selling.

Tinsel redecorates
our dusty streets and
for once, outshines

the festivity that
often blows through
these, our thrones.

Tie up the roses and tulips.
Get the sponges ready!

How much is this for?
Does that include arrangement?

The pimps are about.
We have wasted our lives
sitting here on these avenues,

waiting ‘til someone
wanders into our store
and picks us out.

But after tonight
we shall no longer sit here
in endless vigil.

recuerdos from the family;
Is this correct, sir?

Before the cock crows,
we shall lie in a bouquet
arranged especially

for a well-dug grave.

Nuclear warfare has ended the world.

I’m watching the heavens turn a blissful shade of gray, in the company of a dog who has seen better days, and a skunk primed for pelting, a lean, mean flea generator heaving its last heave-ho. There was, literally, nothing left.

The sandy breath of wind’s a slap in the face in the morning storms of pristine spring. I’m just a harmless little turtle-man, wandering with the wind without a will. The constant shifting of sands in rocks below me is a paradigm of this heathen wasteland. Oftentimes in my wandering fits, I would come upon debris that would strike odd tunes reminiscent of done days – (now I recall fondly):

- Mother’s languid slapping of the baby’s behind in the morning as the day’s labors begin, and tempers reach their highest peaks. The thunder of doors play a wicked harmony alongside sizzling pork and poultry melodies, and a slight, ever so faint soprano tune of sobbing.

- I recall this incessant infatuation for monstrous motor-cars roaming the busy avenues of town, their dirt livid on the faces of commuters as monoxide and methane kissed their parched lips (with their wanton abandon) in the intestinal mazes during the barbecue of the deep afternoon.

- Lastly impressed upon my memory are the conspicuous wet markets on Sundays and holidays, and the withered old leper in the cemetery – bustling with an inertial energy despite the shackles binding them to the desperate poverty slowly degenerating their brittle bones. But like aardvarks eagerly searching for ants; it was a paraplegic seeking the blind for a cure for warts that was on someone else.

The blinding flash of light as I rode my interstellar bicycle (so I called it) was the unthinkable last note of the Fat Lady; it was over in a fold of history’s last few chapters. The hail of lead and fart-burned warheads and screams of sizzling man-steaks filled the emptiness of the mountain-nights as the one last symphony ended with a triumphant

boom.
Beethoven would have been proud.

Two moons have passed me by. The last drops of rain have stopped weeks ago; treeless, tainted rocks that this mountain is, it comes to no surprise. Water is almost as scarce as a living human being. The skunk is a solidified mass of carbon. The dog has left me for a rat. And I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the last drop of dew.

Just

Waiting.

bleh.

i can't squeeze another word out of the old noggin.

i have:
2 articles to finish
a lot of short stories to get back to
3 books to ressurect
2 comic scripts to finish

bleh.

sometimes, i want to burn myself alive and see what emotions that would inspire.


on other news. it is now one am. i'm stuck in front of the computer and haven't even touched the bass for the last 17 hours. i can feel the skills draining.

god. eight am. i've got a party to go to by three. we have a pseudo gig.



AND I HAVEN'T HAD A WINK OF SLEEP.




such fun.

all the bottles of beer are carousing through my blood vessels. a disclaimer: nothing much, really, just around nine bottles of light and around half a cup of wine. alcohol, however, is goooooood when you're tripping out on stage.

music is divine.

i need sleep.

lots and lots of sleep.

beautiful sleep to swing my mind in a gently, booze-ordained dance with the hounds of jazz serenading the house as the bottles of champagne explode around me like the cannons of war.

wait . . . . why is everything spinning?

i am falling.

i just got home from batangas. three days of debauchery, and we were all set with booze, drugs for some (nicotene), and rock n roll. however, one thing was missing.

it was a sausage fest.

dammit, next time i go to batangas with those guys, i have to make sure to bring babes. swimming ain't no fun without the vavavoom bodies of babes. maybe you'd like to come along next time? :D we finished around, uh, 30 bottles of beer, one bottle of brandy, one bottle of rhum, one bottle of lambanog, and one bottle of gin in the span of two nights. by us i mean me, bruce, obbie, jigs, louie (on the first night), mark, jay vergara, nell, and jon. the other guys were wussies. wouldn't help us get rid of the ridiculous amount of alcohol. the second night was funny. everybody else was either playing demon hunter x (some rpg) or sleeping due to the wasted effects of a somewhat strongly made gin-pomelo drink. nell got drunk sometime after the lambanog. only bruce and me, resident drunkards, were stuck with the rhum, brandy, and another bottle of vodka. so we were like, "we're goin home tomorrow man. we have a stash of six unfinished bottles of booze at home. goddamit, i'm not bringing home another unfinished bottle of booze." so we were looking forward to a night of just two people finishing the vodka, rhum, and brandy. but we, ah, were saved by reinforcements.

sometime befre sunrise, we finished the last bottle (vodka) in under ten minutes. we got almost totally wasted, and spent the sunrise on the balcony watching the sun peep out from behind the mountainous breasts of islands off the coast of Villa Vergara in calatagan, me and obbie playing an ethnic beat we dubbed the "sunrise song" while three other guys danced around on the balcony overlooking Arthur, the swimming pool. it was peachy and highly intoxicating, watching the sun go up with gorgeous lucid tribal music from a large bottle of mineral water and a sitar-tuned guitar. sheeyet

Burning leaves drifting to the ground;
accompanied by a silence so profound,
save their wails of pain and fury, shrouding the night.
Do say that it’s a lovely, lovely sight -
of a thousand fireflies flapping, their wings
fluttering madly, and singing things.
Songs of wrongs that it has seen,
what might haves that now have been.
The peacefulness belies the bitter fruit
of real times that bloomed from root
and twig and trunk of hopeful dreams.
Ironic now, to think it seems,
to be visions of such pure delight
like fireflies in the moonlight
vines of right burned wrong and bright,
errors fading away from sight --

Ah, yes

the burning leaves are beautiful tonight.

for those Gaiman addicts (corroded, revolverroach, where are you guys? :D) reading this, i just posted neil gaiman's "Eaten", and "Goliath" on my content pages. i've also put up Haruki Murakami's "Honey Pie." two of my gods. read it up at your leisure. :D

i'm slowly falling forher. i know it. and its not healthy. its not good for me. i'm sleepig less, hanging out with people i don't know, receding into bouts of depression that would only come out as simple shallow things if i tried to explain them. i'm slowly losing the drive to survive once more. some fights aren't meant to be fought, some things aren't meant to be touched, and once you touch them you know you can't really stop yourself because going over the edge is simply just the start and once you're there you cant stop.

stop.

i want to fucking STOP!

stop fucking everything.
now.