The Boy Who Cried Ghost
A Grief So Great it Lies in Wait
Escape to Where
Live Toadstool
Thirteenth Dead
Wooden Leg and a Keg
Weak of Heart
Space Weight Journey
Blood Night
Dream of Dreams
A Discussion on Evil
Nothing To Sing For( 11/04 )

'A Grief So Great it Lies in Wait'

A grief so great it lies in wait
And plots invasion unannounced
That buried deep, none will unshroud
With red hair, twisted wreath of snakes
Dance shadows light 'round Choly Lake.
'Til old trees fall and grasses bend
Awaits the course of midnight, When
From Hell's gates shall pour as on Faust
In minor chords, beauty throughout.
Through, o'er and under it shall run
A healing wind for those undone
Like Noah's creatures two by two
Rescued from tide, and made anew.
And for those missed, instilled upon,
A raging grief to forever don.


'Escape to Where'

My wings are no longer clipped
My hands no longer bear
Caustic its grip
The crutch of elder

I stretch my limbs
With Joy they sing
Ascends the note
And Heaven rings

Upon shoulders light
Ladened, a full load
The Ox took flight
Nothing sowed

The breath of the sea
Wild and raging
Seeps within
Hurls against rock no more

Fury almighty against
Ghosts know not
Akin we are now
A child no longer sought

Mother I cry,
where? Your loving embrace?
The fury yet
Bites without grace

Wings spread no longer needed
When will is what
The rusted chains
I would not have fought

I miss them
Rustly cranks, biting grip
Tarnished from eternity
Yet past

The glow of fire across my back
Pleasant warmth, splendor
Dry as rock it is now
Yet past

Splintered my crutch
I shall fix thee
If only had it been
Had you not past

When will is what
But all is nought
Forever becomes eternity


'Live Toadstool'

A toadstool sits on the edge of my lawn,
Cries bitterly, long longing for the choice,
And though fine tendrils do not make much noise,
A red colored dot beneath woven scalp,
Marks misery, grief, a naked sore spot.
If the nature of nature were free will,
He'd sit on the edge of my window sill,
Where black shades are drawn when sunlight annoys,
Red curtains open for the holidays.
But the die have been cast, lots fully drawn,
So it sits at the edge of my green lawn.


'Thirteenth Dead'

Souls cycle every seven days
When bells from Heaven ring aloud
When chorus song ascends the clouds
But every thirteenth soul that flees
Must pray in tune with different lieds

Underneath us, they're said to dwell
Where fire and chill become akin
Abode of shadows -- and of sin,
Cast upon like stencil graphs
Iron brand ajoined to lash
It etches the souls of thirteen dead
And haunts the graves of thirteen laid


'Wooden leg and a Keg'

They say that support is for the weak,
those who cannot support themselves, must,
in vile desperation turn to seek
those who're weathered, embittered by dust
The leg that stands on two feet does not
really stand. It only shivers in the wind
because of the cold that it caught
The other leg frail, unsleek careens
dry and withered it yearns for health
But what in nature can help devils
stand circumstances so harshly dealt
I want the lies, the wavering that fills
And then maybe unlame will be you leg
So that you can help bring me that other keg.


'Weak of Heart'

The course is long, the course is harsh
Yet day is short and plenty dark
I hear you sing the distance, lark
Effervescent melody floats
Upon the breeze like swimming boats
As much to see, as much I hear
The waves roar by, but not to fear
Yet arms they flutter, flail and fail
Down into fog, my eyes, full sail


'Space Weight Journey'

Calloused hands grip the tight wheel of death
So begins the journey of tiresome breath
For these are not pebbles of which you think
But more like planets that in water sink
The task to cast with non-weary a beat
A planet to beyond twilight's seat
And if for one flash, it considers wind
Its weight would match a thousand supermen
Like a pufferfish that draws upon jest
It swells and churns with its stomach unrest
And only too high, the eagle's large nest
Must carry without song, this irksome mess


'Nothing to Sing For'

So you look to the sky,
And you question why.
Are things really meant
to be so carefully dealt?

An unpleasant ringing
Like a pestering hand
Deep, shrill, out of tune
Better stop real soon

You think you're so strong
'cause you can sing that song
Yet there's nothing to sing for
When there's no everafter
There's nothing to sing for
Because we're all sinful


'Blood Night'

It was dark out. The sun had just set, but already its effervescent glow had faded into a dark frozen blue. The stars were not shining, although there were no clouds to shield them, nor fog to dim them. The trees on the bank were swaying only gently in the frigid wind. The brooks were frosting slowly, creeping onto the banks and above, until they reach the trunks of the first trees. I lay there on the silent grass, still as the night sky above me, breathing the perfect breeze that fell against my cheek and withered back like the tides across a sandy beach. Small bits of frost latch gently onto my eyelids, and I flutter them now and then, casting small chunks of ice up at the sky. After some moments, I grow tired, and let the ice cling. Lids droop, but the vision doesn't change. The night sky still screams its silent call inside me. I am awaiting its reawakening.

Then stars start to appear. They twinkle first like spectres in false twilight, then reveal themselves like the blossoming of marigolds in the spring. The light shines brightly from them. I stand up, peering at their fullness. Around me, the dim valley is cast again in various angles of shadows and tints. The dark driven beneath the rocks, blades and trunks of trees. I turn my head around me, glancing at the peculiars of this strange place, for it was not the place I laid down in. Suddenly, my legs twitch. They take strides. I am walking, and my mind tries hard to comprehend why. It searches for the essence of my physical being. It finds none. Soon, I stop, before me lies a glimmering figure.

She approaches silently, walking as if on air, a pale figure, radiating a supernatural glow about her. Her golden eyes look brightly into me. She seems void of expression, yet her eyes tell all. A smirk develops, but she does not smile. And her lips are silent still. Her silvery hands point to a book that she is holding. It is a small red book, its pages yellowed by age. A bright white reads on its cover: Hume. She laughs now; with her eyes, she laughs a thousand laughs, it seems plain to me, but I know not how. Then the ground around her ripples back, and with supernatural grace, she ascends into the night sky.

I follow her. My muscles seem driven by a force from without. The world around me turns bleak white. It fuzzes and falters, bursting forth in sudden eruption of brilliance. Though I am blind, I feel the wind against me still, heating my skin, burning me. But I can do nothing to stop it. And then suddenly, the world changes hues again. A red tone superimposes on the blank white of an instant before. I see her before me, a dazzling reflection of blood. Of the essence of our beings. Her skin seems only to reflect what is around her, not truly a mirror, but very like one.

Where ever we are, it is truly warm. She proceeds to gesture, no words are spoken between us. The book she was carrying had withered through our flight. The smell of burnt pages already past. She takes my hand and embraces me. I turn my head, puzzled and inquisitive. I suddenly see myself from a vantage point beyond. My mind pulses and I try to move my hands. One pair of hands clasp against my chin, another pair of hands clasp around her gleaming figure. And she bends down toward my neck in this primal embrace. Slowly, gently, surely, she starts what she intends to finish. Silver teeth tear my flesh, slide gracefully, deep into me, flooding the wound with euphoric light. I no longer see either of myself. For one moment, I understand myself; I understand her.

Yet images of the world start to fade, obliterated by the red, until all I can see is a warm blood red over the night sky. My eyes gradually swiveled forward, and I look into the sun through flesh. The blood of my veins still flow within me. I open them wearily to the light of day.


'The Boy Who Cried Ghost'

Once there was a young boy who didn't believe in ghosts.

He had been leading a normal life, not particularly eventful, but not completely boring either. The boy never believed in God, Hell, ghost and everything else supernatural. He thought that they were just conceptions created by man to fill a void in their existance. A void that had been created with the first asking of the question, "Why are we here". No, the void has always been there, but it was man's powerful intellect which first brought it into the light. And man  has suffered for centuries debating this question of existance. The boy understood why religion had been formed. Faith was neccessary to ease humanity into accepting the fact that some questions just cannot be answered. But he never needed it, faith. To him it was for the weak, and in this secular age, he had plenty of alternative ways to lead his life.
          Yet, no matter how much he disbelieved in angels or devils, a certain doubt about their non-existance always gnawed at him. Did they really exist?
          And one day, he asked that question aloud.
          He was lying on his sofa in a comfortable position, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. Thoughts were passing through him like bullets, hitting hard, fast, then fading to a place where his long term memory would never pick up. Then he asked the dreadful question which would later get him into great trouble, though he knew it not.
          He asked aloud, "Ghost, spirit, demon, devil, whatever I might call you, show yourself, for I would like to see you, to make it known to myself that you do exist."
          He was alone in his apartment, and the darkness of the night unnerved him, as it often does to all of us. But he felt that being scared would be silly, after all, there were no such things as evil spirits. Or were there? That's why he had asked the question.
          "Come on, I dare you, show yourself," he repeated.
          He wouldn't be scared, he thought. Even if one did suddenly appear, a ghost rising from the ground or floating from the ceiling. To him it would be a great revelation. He would be in awe.
          "Damn cowards, if you really do exist, that is."
          "What is it you'd like to see laddy?" shot up a voice above him.
          No matter how much he had prepared himself to see, to believe, he was shocked upon laying his eyes on a grosteque face smiling wide and ecstatically at him. Everything about the face was horrible, except the smile, which seemed perfectly loving and ever so cheerful. The boy grimaced, what the hell was this? he guess there was something true to that quote, 'Be careful what you wish', as well as something true about ghosts.
          "Well, you asked, now I'm here. But don't think for a moment that your taunts or motives concern me. I thought it would be fun to see how one as unbelieving as yourself would respond."
          The boy was still in awe. His mind flashed, can demons read minds? That would be a better way to communicate for he found that he could not move, his back was stiffened, and all over, his hair was on end. He definately could not speak.
          "Yes I can read minds somewhat, but not what you would call reading minds. I sense how you feel, that's a better way to put it. Your face contorts in different ways with every thought. Nothing, of course, which a human could see, for your lives are too short to decipher from experience the small discreptancies."
          Silence, or something flashed again in the boy's mind which the demon had not picked up.
          "Well? What now? I'm going to just vanish if you're going to be such a poor sport."
          "You exist!" the boy started, but that had been confirmed. "No, you could be something from my imagination. Something I made up unconsiencely because I had truly wanted to know whether you exist or not. And if you appeared it would confirm a fact, whereas if you hadn't appeared, that wouldn't change my wondering; and so I subconciously brought you up to ease my frustration.
          "How can you prove that you're real?"
          "A true unbeliever. I'll tell you what, for now, let's not question my existance. Take it for granted, follow me through with religous faith, and after I have gone away, I shall try to leave behind a physical mark for you to acknowledge that I do exist. And if I happen to try and fail, well, I guess I don't exist..though that suddenly feels like a frigtening thought, but I'm quite sure I do exist.
          "But look at me laddy, see my face? Tell me where you've seen it before. Tell me if you could ever concieve of such an image."
          The demon was right, her face was beyond any human imagination to think up. It didn't look human, and was so horrible that you'd believe you were staring at Medusa herself if you hadn't realized that you weren't turned stone yet. And the smile, so beautifully formed made the face all the more terrifying.
          "Ok, let's say I believe for now that you do exist -"
          "But you're scared still. How's this?" The demon contorted her face, and suddenly, the boy was staring at his long dead grandmother, with the beautiful smile fixed to her as if it were naturally part of her. The boy dug his hands into the soft couch. He was completely disturbed and showed it.
          "Or this," laughed the demon. Her laugh was melodic, like beautiful music woven by the soul. All the more disturbing. The face was now changed again, but this time to the image of a young girl, her nose sprinkled with freckles and her eyes wide and lustrous. The smile was not as disturbing now.
          "I feel more comfortable -"
          "Really..then you would like this," she giggled as she transformed yet again, but this time she seemed to teleport as well, right on top of him. She was an infant in yellow pajamas, not more than 6 months old with that hidioeus smile still attached.
          The boy was taken aback at having the demon's round head not more than 6 inches from his, especially with that horrible smile staring at him. He lept to his feet, and with such reflex that the infant was hurled across the room.
          She suddenly appeared again right beside him, the young girl.
          "Well then, let's get started."
          "On what?" he was starting to keep his fear and anxiety under control now. "I wanted to see a demon, now I have, go away now and leave behind some sign that shows that you've been here. Something that I couldn't have done myself, for a scratch on the wall would mean nothing to me." He didn't like the demon, and now his mind had become practical again, he would not let the demon intimidate him.
          "You've asked to see me, but I've come only because I thought it would be fun to do so. You shall make it fun,  there's no question about that. I will not leave.
          "Now to start, I plan to take you through a tour of hell. Would you like to come? Of course you would, I need not threatened you because you won't be able to resist either way." While she was speaking, the familiar surroundings of the apartment room vanished to give way to a new wonder: The Fires of Hell. So  the dead do have an afterlife, he thought. There is a Heaven and a Hell.
          "Oh no, not quite like that, I only call this hell because that's the only word in your language that can come close to describing it. You have no soul my lad, there is no heaven, only a Hell. Well, I don't think there is a heaven anyways. And your soul does not come down here anymore than it goes up anywhere else. When you die, you're dead, oh truly dead. I'm no wandering spirit. I've been here, always, as long as I can remember. Or I do not remember what created me or when I was created.
          "This place my lad," She waved her hand around, the room was had now become not a room at all, but a landscape, alive with the blood of the earth, hot and exquisitly beautiful as it rushed through the veins of the land. "Is called Char," she continued, "in your language of course, but it's conotation here is different then what you'd expect. It's called Char as you call your planet, so full of 'earth', Earth. For this planet is made of lava, set and flowing, forming an endless cycle of melting and hardening and remelting. A beauty is it not?"  She did not wait for him to respond. He was, afterall, too awestruck by the sudden transformation of his cozy apartment room.
          "And now I shall take you to our leader." she cried. Then she laughed, a wonderous laugh. She held his hand and suddenly they were before the thrones of Char. A castle formed completely from ever cresting molten lava, flowing still through the archways and pillars and somewhat on the tiled floor, which was formed of rather set lava, and had the appearance of being tiled because the molten lava was still flowing through every other square foot of it. The thrones seemed delicately carved, if that is the word, for it would seem carved if it were wrought of any other material such as wood or metal, but it was made of lava, bright with ever changing patterns on its surface. But no one else was here.
          "So where are they, and why have you brought me here?"
          "My lad, how clear do I have to be? I think it is fun to bring mortals such as yourself to realms beyond your wildest imagination. To see how they react to the stories I tell them, how very similar these stories can be to their own stories, yet remotely different. And whether they are awe struck, terrified, enthusiastic, or outraged by my taking them here, I find in each effect, lively enjoyment.
          "In this world, set apart by thousands of light years from yours, we beings are immortal. Our numbers have always been the same since the beginning, and throughout the years we have grown weary of each other. We have learned to twist our expressions to however we want to feel, and not how we feel. Then life becomes a lie. And I grew weary of the lack of true expression."


'Dream of Dreams'

Sometimes you wake up from a dream shaking - hot and warm. Things that seemed real moments before have suddenly faded into cold fantasy. But you ask yourself whether you're actually seeing more clearly than before. Was that dreamlike state you experienced just as physically real as the what you percieve now? Are the sheets that you now cling tenaciously to really there? Or is it like, like the dream, only a figment of the imagination. Was it the past future or present that you saw, or all of them at once? The mind rapidly wanders only to settle on the most rational answer. It was only a dream.

But what makes a dream. What makes a wish? The rational answer again. Our minds work on association. Any desire becomes manifest as a series of recollections strung together. We dream of the future because we watch movies and read books describing the future. A better answer, dreams are the source of all inspiration and spiritual being. Not exactly answering the same question, but it makes more sense.

Dreams are like flowers that grow and wither in your mind. They sing of love, cry of misery, and whispers after the muse of imagination. I wish I had more dreams. I get up from my bed, touching the bland textures of wooly carpeting beneath my feet. I stretch and yawn loudly. My mouth smells horrible! With laxed strides, I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Looking at the mirror on the wall, I see a dim visage of my own reflection. Dimmed by the transistion from wonder to reality. I sneer, make believe that I was arnold schwarzeneggar playing conan a few thousand years ago. No, that can wait until tomorrow at the arcade.

My teeth are yellow from not brushing the night before. I had instantly fallen asleep. The warmth and comfort of my bed had made no difference then. The exhaustion I had gone through was too incredible to allow a moment of conciousness. And that was when I saw golden feet taking strides in the ocean, slowly licked by torqouise splashes. Refreshed became the mind, eager to see more of this strange new world. Another vision lays upon me, meshed with the image before, a golden flower swaying in the wind. My mind races, daring to see more, and again and after, a collage of images explode out into me. Whatever two dimensional or three dimensional suddenly was another collection and not time. It was one vision sharing images from different times, different instances in one blinding flash. It was like your life running before your eyes, except it only came to stay. Wonderful and breathtaking to see so many things at once, to touch and feel as several people to be timeless and omnipresent. The mirror glistens back yellow. But it's only a dream of course. A dream within a daydream. Ask me again one day and I might recall what it was really about.


"Behold then all human faculties developed, memory and imagination in full play, egoism interested, reason active, and the mind almost at the highest point of its perfection. Behold all the natural qualities in action, the rank and condition of every man assigned him; not merely his share of property and his power to serve or injure others, but also his wit, beauty strength or skill, merit or talents: and these being the only qualities capable of commanding respect, it soon became necessary to possess or to affect them…It now became the interest of men to appear what they really were not. To be and to seem became two totally different things; and from this distinction sprang insolent pomp and cheating trickery."
- Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the origin of inequality

The root of all evil, as Jean-Jacques Rousseau describes it, is the invention of property. Whether intellectual, material or an ability one might possess, property distinguishes men from each other. It makes men unequal. To thwart this inequality, men invented lies, drew lines of social status that were not there before, and became in lust of 'commanding respect' from his fellow peers. In a way society became like a jungle for men, where only the fittest, in ways of command, survived.

What would life be like without the concept of property? If all things were shared, would everything really be as peaceful as Rousseau describes? "Men were at a state of peace." He claimed, before the invention of property. Yet, the algae that lived on rocks near the ocean waves fought amongst themselves, even before the first man was concieved. They fought to claim rocks, they fought for sunlight. Nature is itself a state of constant change, to be at peace would be to never have happened. The algae fought for the rocks, baboons fight for their mates, the great chain of being, from the lowest life form up, seems already like a state of heirarchy.

It seems that evil is imbedded into the very nature of our beings. Animals in the wild truly compete for their own survival. They are at heart greedy and selfish, most especially when their own lives are at risk. We, on the other hand, have enough command over nature to be ensured our survival. Why then do we compete at all for an artificial social status. For us, the term survival has been replaced by immortality. Immortality in historical texts and other documents is the closest we can get to becoming truly deified. What motivates us to corrupt actions is not property, as Rousseau argues, but rather, the concept of an all powerful, all knowing being. As in Milton's 'Paradise Lost', the aspiration to become 'like God' drives us to evil.

Adding a God to the list of creatures and objects that inhabit this earth only forces a categorical structuring of that list. One of the definitions of God is that he is all powerful, a being in complete command over every other being, and therefore, higher up in 'being' than other living creatures are. From there, it succeeds that Humans are before animals because we can control a greater part of nature, and so on and so forth. Yet, if one would even consider adding the concept of Chaos Theory, where one small thing affects another until a whole chain of events leads to a universal transformation of situation, then a macroscopic virus, not even classified as a living object by modern scientists, has control over life all over earth. Without a God, the state of nature is competitive, yet only for the sake of survival. Adding even the slightest hint of Deism brings out an evil, beyond the understanding of the seemingly thoughtless creatures of this world.