Beware the Sensual Square

The Prophet

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 07:30:39 GMT

There's a radioactivity to your blood,
a defining attribute to your skin:
a slight pallor and sultry disillusion.

You attempt to MASK it with the ink that mars your smooth Carapace:
Circumventing; twisting; black, and blue like that something lost long ago with your first fall,
the vestiges of which still beat solemnly in time to the
thumps against your chest.

Now, with the radioactivity to your blood
you're forced to recognize that time lost--
the time spent groping and hoping in disdain for a pardoning to the inexplicable ache--

Because you don’t know that you’re breathing until there is something
to rely on that smooth undulation—
Because you’ll miss it when
IT'S GONE

With your crooked-tooth smiles and wise intonations: the microphone wraps and coils and twists, binding
you to your modern pillory—rending you hapless--
questing for An Insincere Smile & A Charming Repose

Back in the time when you were not so tired--
when bleached blonde strands didn't Wither and Decompose.
Your hair was your favorite attribute, back in the time when you were only comfortable
in pastel bruises and the swaying of your hips...

And maybe when you’re not so tired—down and exhausted—maybe you will account for all those things you’ve lost—all the lost moments in which you spent down and departed—despaired and ambiguous, lamenting the past and in scorn of the future.

You scream about the time in which you were so lonely,
And in all probability, you still are.
Because in the beginning he understood, could identify
with the exasperated notions.

Now, though, the meaning becomes eclectic
and tired and wasted on an anger unsatisfied and never dormant.
Scream & Live & Persevere

Cause there is an ephemeral way in which he reaches for the sky:
Dry and negligent and wishing for the one thing that he’d been
deprived of for so long--
Here's some water for the dead tree.

叫び生きて耐え抜いた痛みと～～

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 08:44:13 GMT

Your arms around my waist present an incredibly stifling feeling―around my lungs, my heart, my mind, the feeling an unparalleled reminder of those things which we can't help but take for granted―the minute hugs, the minute chances... all indispensable reminders of our losses and unfixable fatigue. Because the feeling won't leave you―will never leave you―it's the most steadfast of companions―the unwanted affliction.

dump . collective . reminiscence?

Sun, 19 Oct 2008 18:22:27 GMT

A collective of musings written using the sometimes present tool of spontaneity. Why? Because "Lorem Ipsum" is terribly boring.

LOWER YOUR HUMIDITY AND DERIVE SOMETHING DIFFERENT, SOMETHING CONTROVERSIAL--EXPONENTIAL.
There you'll see him and his hardy pals of 30-past-eleven, in all of their makeshift personas and alkaline smiles. They'll play something different, just for the sake of any small change, and begin to resent the presence of you & him, because you're both so extraordinary. Extraordinary in your symbolisms and brief testaments to a life that neither of you care to attend to. Because you're laying to waste an existence entirely dissimilar to your own; one comprised of sheet-metal blankets and metal rods and black weights and pastel bruises not all too dissimilar to your own. And maybe when you awake to the notion that there is something beyond the triviality of that despair, that desperate, anguised shriek of a kind all too familiar to the snapping of the branches and the fire as it was all eaten away. But you can't blame yourself -- don't, because it was his FINAL wish, and you were never able to turn him down. Not once, not twice, and certainly not for that third time.

Because there's a certain radioactivity to your blood, a certain pallor to your skin respendent of those days lost in the rain and snow and bloody twilight in which you strove to forgo your inhibitions and look up and into that paper-plastic grin. He would find it there, register it from beneath the folds of his stock-paper mask and toxic-white strands and the expression you know he took years to perfect, because no one so inept could portray that emotion so thoroughly without an extraordinarily stringent drive. Because you knew from the start that he was perfect, infallible in his disreputable wordings, tactile, fitful motions and dilapidating screams. He'd surrender himself there with nothing to take, nothing to behold but the vestigials of a withering spirit and occluded perspective. because he believed what they told him -- he was impressing and charistmatic and beautiful -- always had been, always will be.

A normal musician may very well be one who cuts and screams and changes lyrics and languages and omits and dances and MOVES—and maybe all others are very much QUEER. And maybe death and decay and withering and misery are the best things to be speaking of because they are very real and very constant, unlike money, fame, and wimmen. There’s a radioactivity to your blood—a certain attribute to your skin—a slight pallor and sultry disillusion. Because the world will suffer eternally for the things that men never find the courage to achieve. So, in the event of your most inevitable defeat, what do you expect to come? A window, cauliflower, and wintry afternoon? Maybe when you'd held all faculties required for the standard composures. But now...Steadfast, because the likelihood is not so grand.

On the moonless night, I started to speak to the wall with my lower half... even past eighteen I still have wet dreams. Speaking of which you're a porno mag. You're surely with me, putting the white powder on the spoon, cook it over the fire, it bubbles up and melts, then melts into this pitiful body. My head spins, the room spins, here it comes. Please god save me, I wanna put an end to it, put an end to my life right way, and hang my pitiful body. Powder, expose my naked belly, the psycho moonlit night and the romanticist. A clean right hand is your hand, gradually getting uglier. From the marrow of your bones GOD the phantasmagoric right brain dictates: "That" I know, "That" I have, "That" I shoot up. BAD. The white bed I wait in, an injection, you, who is only my right hand, entwining fingers, interlocking fingers with "that kind of me" bound in the chastity belt, so very pretty and thin, little by little by little I got sick of you. So I hung you.

Because without you he would crumble. That, of course, is when withering becomes an understatement, and a swift undulation is more of a conclusive application. Because you don’t know that you’re breathing until there is someone to rely on that swift undulation. BECAUSE YOU’LL MISS IT WHEN IT’S GONE. Disdain blooms from the center of your hand, and you unravel just a bit more. Let it strip you down just a bit more, until the marrow is left in stark exposition, and that wish must be enacted. You’d wanted to burn, wanted to scar, but you couldn’t. It’d always been a humorlessly decided thing, at least in your head. 901? Try 304, it’s open, as of now, vacant to the all-consuming aura of the suffering, vacant at last to house yet another snuffed life, or perhaps, to bring about the birth of another.

Evade with care, my fine vestigial boy, be the hero, the insurmountable wonder in your own inexact and imperiously watched tale. Whence he comes, and wither he goes, as they say. For who’s to know how long you will last? Certainly not he who has lead ‘til now, so direct and mindful. But perhaps, it will slip to that— Because without you he would crumble.

But perhaps, it will slip to that— A clean right hand is your hand, gradually getting uglier. From the marrow of your bones GOD the phantasmagoric right brain dictates "That" I know, "That" I have, "That" I shoot up. BAD. The white bed I wait in, an injection, you, who is only my right hand, entwining fingers, interlocking fingers with "that kind of me" bound in the chastity belt, so very pretty and thin, little by little by little I got sick of you. So I hung you. On the moonless night, I started to speak to the wall with my lower half... even past eighteen I still have wet dreams. Speaking of which you're a porno mag. You're surely with me, putting the white powder on the spoon, cook it over the fire, it bubbles up and melts, then melts into this pitiful body. My head spins, the room spins, here it comes. Please god save me, I wanna put an end to it, put an end to my life right way, and hang my pitiful body. Powder, expose my naked belly, the psycho moonlit night and the romanticist.

because he believed what they told him -- he was impressing and charistmatic and beautiful -- always had been, always will be.

the Principles of Uncertainty

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 03:03:47 GMT

Title: The Principles of Uncertainty
Pairing: Kyokao
Portion: Preview

     The labor of his breath stirred him for the first time in years, a jagged testament to his misuses and abuses, negligence and abandon.

     "I thought you'd be done by now." He recognized the voice from an alley far yonder, a time in his life bordering a half-decade passed. Now, the voice had a familial edge to it, a change in tone only adapted with the acquiring of a steady home and a contented perspective. He recognized it, of course, because it was something he'd never have.

     Kyo straightened from where he'd hunched over a nearby trash bin, coughing from the recesses of his lungs. These days, his diaphragm seemed to quest eternally for the purging of that something he still retained; 'Til now, though, he'd had no idea what exactly that was. Swiping his mouth against the sleeve of his petulant, pin-striped blazer, he quelled the instinct to flee. Odd, how he'd grown wary of the faces of his not-so-distant past.

     "Niikura-kun." He entertained niceties as he adjusted his collar, quite certain that he looked just as fine as he had when he'd left his apartment that morning. He predicted that a smooth drawl would find its place in his voice momentarily, but until then... Niikura Kaoru, guitarist gone family man, stepped forward. Sensing his companion's return to prior confidence, Kaoru pushed the remains of what had been calloused, tattooed fingers into the brims of his jacket pockets.

     "I spoke to Toshiya yesterday," Kaoru intoned in his deep, surrogate voice, demanding the other's attention as Kyo strove to pick the few traces of alley grime from his lapel. The shorter man nodded in what seemed to be lethargic disinterest, but no one seemed to be able to tell any longer. Kaoru continued pointedly, “He spoke to Die and Shinya, also. They want to meet, maybe go to dinner.” Behind thin, transparent frames Kaoru's gaze became almost beseeching. Kyo, however, lacked even the slight enthusiasm he'd hoped to see. The former Dir en Grey vocalist rubbed idly at an eyebrow, feeling for the remains of the small hole and scar. He frowned.

     “Go and meet them without me.”

     “Kyo...”

     The younger man shrugged, disguising the gesture in the adjustment of his jacket. He felt the corner of a packed, unopened carton of cigarettes itch against his hip and was almost overcome with the urge to growl.

     “What's a Dir en Grey reunion without the vocalist?”

     “A successful one, maybe.”

     Kyo gesticulated goodbye, turning in blatant dismissal, ignorant to Kaoru's sigh and mumbled curses. Kaoru, feeling particularly adamant, prepared to call for the vocalistーprepared to present all of the simultaneous frustration, unacceptance, and anger into the other man's name, but alas, the sound issued from his lips in a setting entirely detached from the current situation.

     “Kaoru?” A woman tapped lightly on the bridge of the guitar that lay precariously across Kaoru's knees. The guitarist stirred slightly, startled to be torn from a place he'd deemed to be entirely real. Luckily, his wife righted his guitar before it had a chance to fall from his lap.

     “Kyou...ko.” Kaoru blinked up at his wife, allowing a somewhat wary smile to lift the right of his mouth. She, too, gazed at him expectantly, wondering what had spurred the odd bit of irresponsibility. He'd fallen asleep, his favorite guitar only millimeters away from tumbling onto the hard-wood floor...

Kaoru shook his head as if to rouse himself, setting his instrument vertically against his desk. He leant down to pick up a smattering of loose music sheets that had dropped to the floor.

The Prophetic Collector

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 22:10:29 GMT

The Prophetic Collector
Piece: Intro.

     There wasn’t much left of the island when he was assigned to collect there. Only red sunsets, red sands, and hot tiers of genetically augmented rice paddies dominating the unchanging environment. In the midst of it all: two towering plateaus of red sludge and deep-rooted trees, stood a house.

      Newly sided, newly varnished, trim cut lawn and white picket: the veritable shebang. Occupied by one, maintained by one, he sustained his days standing barefoot on his front lawn dyed red by the perpetual twilight, looking in through the only entrance and only exit, watching the stagnant earth crossed by few.

     He anticipated those who would cross this partition and bring with them an inebriated mind and teeming subconscious. He smiled at the prospect, for then all of his work would slip easily across the border of fruition, and maybe then he’d find the one.

     It wasn’t a very common occurrence for someone to stumble into this land; no one wanted out, and no one particularly wanted in. However, as he lifted his hand to a red-baked forehead in the last scan of the early night: there it was, a telltale sign of disturbance in the air. A musty wavelength made its stolid appearance a half a mile or so south.

     He almost exclaimed in excitement. However, remembering his inherent purpose, he stalked quickly up his whitewashed porch steps, shucked and latched his boots, and made his way to start walking. As protocol insisted, he must welcome the newcomer thoroughly.

The Decomposition Disposition

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 01:02:46 GMT

Thursday regarded Vix with an operable stare.

"Enough about Classes." He insisted, biting into his sandwich. He noticed Osten watching him for a moment, but disregarded it.

This is it.