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Hermits In The Clouds

Oh! Just say it, son! We are hermits in the clouds. Life could sweep pass but never rouse us.

Yesterday you told me, you dreamnt of giants from a foreign land, a promise land. But I'll tell you (hey hey, this isn't just a story), I'll tell you about the one I saw last week! The giant, a mere tourist, he sure had his fill. No, not a glutton, but he was always full(in stomach and idealism.)

Ah... I must tell you, son. We may be skinny and somewhat stout, but hey hey hey... WE'VE OUR VALUES! And we damn hell sweat for it!

Your father, my father, his father, her father, of every woman, child, and brother... No one, no one stands alone! (He is always watching)

Oh yes, no one holds his own and no land we truly own, but us hermits and the clouds. (Oh no, nothing we own, but the frivol airs of us hermits in the clouds)

Well, some day you will have to choose.
(To run, to fight? To stay loyal, or stay true?)

But always remember,my son -- we can always be like hermits in the clouds, and that I have always held you dear.

lemme tell you this... ever since i started having an interest in poetry(and more recently, prose) i always thought the most important thing was to be original, stand out, and/or as my secondary english teacher said "be controvesial(sp?)". in other words, avoid cliches. and so i did. i steal and mimic from the most obscure and unpopular/unlikely sources. and what was it all for? i'm still mostly boring, nobody understands me. i write mostly abysmal abstract crap. some people would go as far as calling me snobbish. or just ignore me as usual.

recently i read a short story called "bobok" or something like that, by fyodor whatshisname. "away with shame", i think he wrote. "let us be naked!" yes! to hell with cliches! i'm gonna turn off my cliche filter, and maybe totally replace my semantic and sensitivity nodes with stylistic narsissistic(sp?) ones(if i haven't already done so). how many cliches can an average person recognise anyway? i've had (supposedly) experts of creative writing absolutely fail in pointing out the lines i shamelessly rip off from rather popular dylan thomas poems, and then they berate me each time i write anything vaguely romantic and/or transcendant. yes, to hell with shame, cliches, conventions! i think at least weird al would approve.

and now... a oedipussy essay!!! *snickle sneer*

---

Title: Modern Repressed O

Every night, Odie always went to bed after drinking a compulsory glass of water his mother pours for him. But tonight tonight... he bucked the trend. He asked his mother for two glasses! This unexpected request made his mother feel rather odd. So used to routine, she was.

With a sickening sense of a slightly bloated bladder, Odie slipped into a dream.

Odie awoke in the middle of the very early morning. He did not consciously know what he wanted but he knew what he must do.

He walked into his father's room and said, "Father I want to ..."

"Borrow my power tools?"

"Erm... No. I just wanted to say to you, as cordially and respectfully as possible, that I have made up my mind to rise up the corporate ladder as you did, force your peers and rivals into near-poverty, throw money in your face, and leave you to die alone in a retirement home."

"Oh... That's nice, son. It's great to see a young man with so much conviction. Does that mean I can finally kick you out of the house and have more space for more power tools?"

"Grrr... Nevermind."

He walked out down the hall, turned into his mother's room and said, "Mother I want to..."

"Shut up. I'm watching soap re-runs. The cookies are on the second shelf to the right. I've stocked up the fridge with cheese and milk. Go get them yourself."

Odie stared at his mother, who stared glassy-eyed at the dusty old 21-inch television screen, with disgust.

"Grrr... Nevermind."

He walked on, into his sister's room and said, "Lilith I want to..."

"Hmmm... Yes?", replied his sleepy-head sister.

"May I borrow your Herworld magazine collection? I... erm... I'm starting a glam-rock-revival band and I'm looking for some affirmation... I mean confirmation... ARGH! I meant INSPIRATION! Yeah..."

"Sure, bro. Go crazy."

Odie woke up and found that he had wet his pants.

and now, i shall talk about something i was trying to write, but probably never complete. as usual , i thought of the whole bloody story (vaguely) and came up with a catchy title "Little Time"(which is a hell lot more catchier than the alternative title "Ode To My Casio Watch, Which Had Been A Hell Lot More Useful/Durable/Reliable Than Most Of My Friends"). except this time around, ithought it would look/sound more dramatic if did it in a storyboard format instead of plain olde boring prose. but since i still don't have a scanner or stylus, i decide to use stickman pics to tell the story and see if it doesn't turn out craptastic. it did. MS Paint screwed up on me, it kept on imagining that i was holding down the mouse button even though i didn't. i don't feel like opening up my macromedia flash(i intend to animate it maybe ten years later) just to draw stickmen!! frustrating!!

ok. it goes something like this... an 8 year old boy watches tv really loud cause his parents are arguing alittle more loudly than usual. he doesn't hear the digital chronograph of his watch ringing and goes to bed late. he goes to school a little later than usual(he usually goes to school an hour earlier), and barely remembers to grab his watch before he leaves. he shoves his watch into his pocket instead of putting it on. he still gets to school early and takes a little nap on the staircase at the highest level which leads this little area which has a door that leads to the rooftop. insert self-loathing misanthropic emo crap here. fast forward to recess time. the boy goes up that sheltered roof area again to eat his biscuits(and take short power nap). he notices that the door to the rooftop is open. a janitor to sweeping the rooftop while whistling. insert self-loathing misanthropic emo crap here. boy wakes up when his watch rings. the janitor looks down at him sliently. boy runs off, drops his watch.
fast forward to the next day. boy is late. we actually hear the characters in the story talk for once. teachers ask why he's late, boy says he overslept, teacher says it's a lousy excuse, boy says "but it's the truth". boy automatically puts down bag and stands outside the class since that's the usual punishment for lateness(and just about everything else). teacher pulls him back in and tells him that form of punishment is only for those repeat offenders who never attention in class anyway. boy stubbornly continues to stand up at his desk until the boy behind him kicks him for blocking his view. boy's watch rings. janitor looks at the watch on his hand and says "oop, time for lunch!"

killing an arab.

i am the stranger killing an iraqi.
i am my father's son, i am a man.
i ain't no funky art graduate working in retail.
i am a man.

i am the stranger killing an iraqi, in this foreign land.
i am just making an honest living.
paying off my college loan.

i am the stranger killing an iraqi, in this land that's conquered.
hang me up and put me in front of the tribunal.
i don't want nobody else taking the blame.

i am the stranger killing an iraqi.
and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
'cause i imagined nick horny told me i was,
"as close to being a nihilist as doesn't matter"

absurd is my last breathe on earth.

eh , wot? what the heck are you doing in my thread? nobody is suppose to comment on my poetry except goths and drunks, esp not gamers. erm... sorry. just not used to having gamers show any interest in my writs. i'm not gonna stop you anyways.

as for my latest "pull out of my ass" thing. it's not original and i can't really say its from personal experience(like reality tv *gag*). i'll tell what inspired it(rip off... rip off... rip off...):

- killing an arab by the cure.
- the outsider(AKA the stranger) by albert camus.
- high fidelity by nick hornby(one lousy line from it. and i accidentally called nick HORNY. dman freudian slips.)
- webcomic artists.
- my own military experience, which didn't involve killing anyone.
- the situation in iraq.

yeah... in that order. and imho, nothing can be truly original when you know enough. hypothectically(sp?), a idealistic utopia full of intellectuals would be utterly bored to death by themselves ,by the limits of of their own existence and reality.

A burst of light washes the walls of a dainty but poorly kept room as a passing truck rumbles its way into a distant haze. A man in green sits beside a table by the window, the only source of light he allows into the room. He has been there two days, going over and over again, the details of his current assignment.

Items of a dossier spread across the table top, seemingly left there to flutter to the draught, which stirs the man in green from his sleep. Pages of paper, photographs, copies and prints. He awakes suddenly and takes them all in his gaze. Then names, words, dates and mental maps. They fill in the spaces as his consciousness returns. "Who is he", he mumbles to himself, not questioning but commanding. And the answer comes sharply, "HE COULD HAVE BEEN ME!"

Unless his client had purposely fabricated these records (to provoke, to confuse, to challenge, to entice him), his target shares almost the same history as himself. His hometown, his schools, his teachers and peers. He can vaguely recall a similar name. He may have seen him before. He may have even shaken his hand. But the details of the activities his target had participated in, for the last few years, told him clearly that, "Where he had chose idealism, I had chosen professionalism... No. I just got away with what I could afford." He reads the name of his hometown aloud, and stares at a mug shot of his target for a while. Other words, he will later think irrelevant, flows through his mind, "Was it so much more important to be loved, than to be understood?"

For a brief moment, the man in green feels nothing by empathy, but then tonight one must die. "Would it matter who? Perhaps tonight, fate will decide which path destiny chooses. Free will of destiny, and when it is done, let's call it 'fate'! I must be going insane."

A man dressed in green, dark green and baggy, with a hood concealing his face, emerges from a shadow of a wall of a building he knows well. He pats the weapon within his coat for the last time and strides in through the door. "There he is", he recognises an almost shapeless figure sitting alone at the bar, with its back facing him. And he hesitates, "The only one in red. I could take him right here and just leave!" He walks on, towards the figure, uncontrollably drawn to it. (His footsteps light, he felt surreal, as the light reflected on the wine bottles behind the bar sparkled and formed a motif around the shapeless red.)

"Yes, I know you", said the man in red.

A moment later, glass shattered, a man fell back, dropping his weapon, and it was over. The man in red left quickly. No one had a good look at his face, or his body, for it was covered in thick layers of clothing. Outside the building, the man in red would have turned his coat inside out and cover himself again in grey. Tomorrow, outside the city he left, he would have a different name, a different life, a different point of origin, and another perspective. And somewhere else, another dossier on the man in red.


"Red...
Red destiny. Red destiny. Red.
He...
He spoke to me."
A man died with a satisfied smile.

steady syrup flow erupts from hand of stranger glow
illuminating a viral strain that passes through.

me, a carrier , a passerby.
i remember when a touch meant so much.

to he or she who brew this cruelty,who's father or mother bears a child's sin, all can wait till worms crawl in and make us, but vengence's stake awaits all who play.

the venom that slays is no stranger's blade.
it is dearest and closest laying on my bed.

she or was it he pulls me close
to death, to death
we come.