Shadowsinthewall’s Weblog

a marble scorn roars through the empty hallway echoing back as it hits the wall shattering the windows into little glittering pieces that falls down from the coldest height of the highest floor to the stifling heat down the bottom below where no one can see a speckle of light or life. only a goat in a well. gravity pulls heavy on the lung and in search for breath faces press rapidly in an image of a long old roll film, shots by shots become grainful passages as prosaic sceneries goes past and leaving place only for mockery. anger is the wing. nowhere is the destination. fear is everything. in the abysmal silence, daring not to even make a pace, the ailing woe lingers on and transcends itself into a wretched bliss of inertia. a wall without a brick and a floor without a ground. still it floats.

i go through such snow wondering and wondering the dreams that haven’t yet to come true and the sun that haven’t yet shed its light to the unending, dark days i clamber with frail steps and weak toes. while not blind, much to the opposite side—eyes open wide with too many a tormenting truths prevailing themselves as one after another a curtain were being torn and one after another actors hang themselves with ropes coming out of their own bottoms, their dying shadows commingle and at the same time reveal the remotely black background where everything is revolving, everything is true—still i find it hard to move. i’m a bird without a wing. an angel prostitute. a devil’s suffragette. i’m the man at the clock, furnishing and gleaming it with mine own inky tears so the hands would stop rotating. i am the man with the umbrella facing a fair day for i’m afraid to walk into the rain.

the calendar is displaying january, yet today is september.

oh, white nights,
amphetamine romance.
heady i am, heady of you.
beauty, aren’t you? beauty before a veil
your veil of your sin, your veil of your ugliness, oh,
heady i am, heady for you.
the sky is falling, the stars are all falling,
falling on my heart.
of mine you are not.
of an angel you are not.
of Nastenka you resemble not.
a witch, a witched witch you are.
and i am the jester that stole your spell.
unto one another we swarm, the water warm, deep, alive.
your pool and my pool. soaking we are. the water drips still,
the water drips still.
puff, puff, puff, a little bit more, puff, puff, the roach, the porch, puff–
oh, i’ll roll another one,
and we’ll dance to another round of vinyl music.
let us faint, fainting on my bed.
save your wicked scent on my sheet.
wrap me up, wrap me up
from gutters we descend. filth, your filth and mine.
from loneliness we meet, and from loneliness yet we’ll part.
oh, white nights
white, witched nights.

outside my hole was another hole
from where a low sob was heard.
mother it was, on the next hole
her eyes closed, sweating tears;
on her palm was a prayer left unblessed.
oh, such idle God can’t grant it, nor can i.
her eyes closed, as all sweating ceased;
dying on her temple was a love never i had heed.

mother, mother, oh, had you took a glance at my hole,
lying was the best i can do!
mother, mother, oh, and had i ever took a glance at yours;
i’d crawl out of mine’s sooner
and reach for yours before they take you away.

weary headlights and weary hearts, caught in the web of traffic jams again. the sun is getting low–very low, sinking, sparing place for a gray tone to cover the dull sky.
weary headlights and weary hearts, rushing they rush to the comfortable existence of their artificial recluse,
shuffling and skidding through clamors of honks and billows of black smokes,
with sweat ablaze under the armpit, with swearing words under the tip of their tongue,
a swearing and a complaining in luxury—in luxury!

alas,
arriving at last, each arrive to their garage, to their hut, with much of a silent sighing, which owes its origin to that fire in their blood, ready to burst itself out anytime given: the languishing angst that gnaws their soul in and out.
yet their face remains as calm as a lamb,
for they have, in their recluse, the best instruments of forgetting and of hiding and of dying: the deceiving comforts of the delicates.

but soon, an imperceptible nightmare awaits them behind the snoring of the pillow–soon!
a moment of truth, a moment of fear and unfulfilled wishes, let rattle and tremble at their deepest peak of slumber. they lurk beneath the blanket and the silhouettes of the bed without a success to escape it; one can see it with ease at their frame; their brows wringing, their hearts drumming, their lips murmuring in dread.
a nightmare. the unraveling of their universe. the unveiling and the uprising.

the subtle dawn arise and gave cease to that terror of a night to play and comes in package also, from the small gap of the window, whom curtains were not properly closed, a fresh breeze of light.
illuminated by the light, their waking face seems transfixed, lost somewhat as if in an obscure confusion.
yet, how could they not?
felt awoken from some wondrous and enigmatic and perplexing journey–a long journey to their own abysmal abyss–which seems to have happened decades ago, they inquire themselves to look for a clue of that journey: at the ceiling, at the crumbling bedsheet, at the soaking pillow, at the curtained window, nay, all fruitless!
except, save only, at the instant their eyes met the mirror: by which they see a face laden with tears.
and all the burden, all the dreams, all the pain, all the fears, all the bounds, all the lies, all the woes, came streaming down their cheeks.

it was the agony of truth they couldn’t bear.

once i was content,
until now i’m awake.
who dares disturbs my sleep?
you—to whom you obey?

dream dreamed
grim reaper that gleams
on the moonlight shore
seems so familiar
with the rhythmic rhyming
of its deathly grin.

i got to know,
i got to peep,
the curious face
behind that gimmick facade of a mask
that glares with two sole hollow eyes.
with
two.
sole.
hollow.
eyes.

and the abysmal depth
buried beyond it–
along with its complex sagacity–
i shall reap.
and to its soul,
i shall eat.
and to its wisdom!
i shall seep!

a mystery no more
will he seems to me;
in a horror no more
shall he comes to me!

yet ticking
and tocking
was the omni chiming of the clock,
naying
and notting
was the murmuring echo by which i flock.

oh, oh, what a hollow life–
what a witched life!
in the glory of a halloween
he comes,
and he goes;
and the black moon sinks;
the black sky dims;
the sun fast roar;
soon a bright malice soar–
no more!

i hold his cloak tightly
at the nano-second he took flight,
right before he melts back
into the inky hue.

trailing over his brisk departure, i soon
gasp;
i gasp for breath;
i gasp for life which is fleeing from me;
the life that once played and rattled on the screen of my window;
the life that danced and feast in a graceful swarm for long;
the life which melodies i hearken gayly and merrily,
while i sway bodily on its clearings.
now they all weather,
and they all fade;
as a heavy gravity fell upon my eyes.

and for a vague,
vague, instant
i grasp;
i grasp my breath;
i grasp my dream;
and the grim, along with its deathly grin;
and the eyes, and the mask that it disguise;
and the depth, the saga borne within is naked flesh;
and my life; to which i succumb to it not—-
but to its bosomly friend,
my death.

oh, oh, a sweet ecstasy—
a quiet secrecy.
i felt myself dissolving,
into
a slow, slow awakening.

shook me as you please, but
wake me no more.

from dome of clouds of an unimaginable height,
from a place so sublime so immaculate it is doubted to exist,
from among angels and devils and gods whose names were never lighted, i descend,
on a divinely task to rescue a world in terrible need–
a world of distraught blight,
a world abandoned by its abandoning creator,
that wails and cries and prays for help–
to bring to it a peace and bliss never it has attained.

yet,
as the sole of my feet brush against its land,
a horrible aching was felt; my feet, it wrinkles and shudders in a trill never felt before.
it was a land swallowed in such epidemy,
a world laden with such fault;
a fault not at its nature,
but at the understanding of it.

walking further to a part of the land crowded with sad figures,
instantly i comprehend the cause of the disease:

the land is filled with creatures,
whom mistakes themselves as human–
whom with all their long efforts of folly,
strive, in vain, in futility, in a leaping of an unleapable abyss,
to become just a little bit too humane.

alas,
to waste not a time longer,
i took a flight-back to my clouds
leaving the land and its dwellers rot still, in its inevitable self-destruction.
for it was a world, unable, forever,
to be rescued.

here is the beautiful garden of the world–beautiful only at its gate–
we enter warily in tip-toe so as not to wake the snoring bum.
in a festive spirit we play the clown who’s hiding his frown, causing
the bum to startle and recites the culling song; alas, all drop dead.
and here is the cemetery in which we wept by in silence, side-by-side
endless shower of black rain soaking the napkin, the flowery soil, the naked flesh, the epitaph;
the sad leftovers of a lifetime’s legacy
sinking slowly into the belly of the warm, damp earth.
and here is the vacuous clearing of road that trembles in the heat of our parade
posing as a demonstrant we lay endless claim of rights
fear pose in a gimmick of reason
excuse pose as another excuse
to justify, justify and just–the very polar of our being.
and as everything now’s been reduced into prosy standards
clashing within our belly, was the multitude demand of our soul,
the fainting rage of our angst; declaring
a cold war, between us and them.
and let our flights of fancies be forever unblessed;
failing to flee as it be shackled in the monochrome sieve
let the songs be sung, the prayers be chant, the sighs be rap,
to a wall without an ear; soon to be seared!
and let everything be meaningless and empty,
groundless and expendable,
fearful and hopeless!
let the mirror be the only possible thing to point our fingers at;
fear only for what it doesn’t reflect
let this ocean of oil looms below our fragrant surface;
inky and bitter to one whom plunges into its dismal solitude
let us delight in our ever-righteous prophecy;
gods after gods evolving, multiplying, vying
and dying;
tolerating none of each other, while they are such alike that of a brothers:
growing from the same womb, suckling from the same nightmares
and moaning to the same, old, eternal quest:
to find, to find, and to find themselves.

we’re never a whole
always a hole, a whore
to another drip slipping
from her mother nature’s floor

never be real
never still
always a tool, a fool
wiping the filth from her mother nature’s drool

never a feast
never the gist
would we reap even if it exist
toiling with even the hermit’s tact
her mother nature shall stay intact

never present
always absent,
a fragment in our fleeting presence
a dawdling, daydreaming whim
matters not to what end her mother nature bring

ever so weak,
ever so alone!
wake after wake
praying to be reborn
to flank from the earthly race
and land to her mother nature’s grace
where she is asleep
she is none!

i am not my father’s,
nor i am my mother’s son.
i’m the son of a ghost,
the ghost of the century
the ghost of the universe
the ghost of the time
which looms endlessly throughout the curving line.
cycling; infinitely round
born, reborn as energy, in eternity
in new sets of fathers, new sets of mothers
still the son of a ghost

one sip to embark on the creaking trolley;
the black and rusty one,
going round and around!
one other sip to slip into the gutter
mutter and mutter, not a sane sense of word uttered
but blame it all to the clanking of the obsolete trolley, and you’re free!
one sip to get up; one sip to stay down
take an involuntary glance at the moon, the lonely, grieving moon
woe, woe, woe this fleeting gloom! let it be still! let i drown in the chill, the thrills, the pills!
one other sip and poke a head, an anonymous, baldy head
and when it turns red choke own’s neck
and fake a death, fake a life! why should one anyway ought to strive? (and take no shame, for this is the point of the game)
one sip
and speak like nothing as when one hasn’t sip
dry the tears out of the pillows; the billows; the dreams; everything as it trully seems!
dry it out of the state when one’s awake!
one sip and no need guilt
for it is not a merit; nor a sin
as one shan’t prove or claim truth to their docile god’s gullifying grin!
one sip
one last, long, vapid, burning sip
do me good, do me bad, make me feel like a shrinking tad
right through the bottom; forget the glass; since it’s made out of plastic
make it an empty bottle
stop not until your throat throttle
and forget all that i’ve said, dears;
i’m drunk.