Working With Levers

Take me home,
When I'm alone,
Give me certainty,
Not shiny stones.

I've been working,
48 hours today,
Not a-sleeping,
Under the highway.

I lost track in the wilderness and see a darkness,
That warmed me inside,
I couldn't care what was time.

Maybe it's time we get a long,
If I don't come back,
Doesn't mean there's something wrong.

When every plane flies away,
I see your face.

When every streetlights fade,
I feel your gaze.

I don't understand,
How a beast is a man,
But you gave me,
Back my heart.

I believe,
In the secret glow imbued,
In the stories,
Of things I just assume.

But there's faith in what you want to see,
But there's none in this sephia city.

Holding hands in the dark of esplanades,
The trees might've sang a lovely phrase,
Counting ripples,
And dancing through the haze.

Tell me why do I feel like you're letting me go.
Is this black bear too much for your depose,
In the cold white of winter,
The dark sky will find you.

Time is a giraffe,
In the sea,
You can't find the head,
If you don't climb up and see.

Don't touch me,
I'm a plastic poly grade,
A collection,
Adorn inside a case.

Endless pavement or an island of a shade?

And I chose you.

Goodbye Star

Please don't get me wrong,
See I forgive you with a song,
With all the things we had,
But what is left of you,
I know exactly what you'd do,
With all the dreams we have.

If blood runs,
Just stick anesthetics in,
You know,
If it's important to you,
It's important to me.

I'll try to make you see,
Why you won't wanna know,
You don't want to know.

If I don't come along,
Oh I would please with you a song,
To touch, my bad,
Someone asked you to come along,
And now we need you through the wrongs,
"So don't come back" I said.

Oh love don't mean sticking around,
Or anesthesia now,
Is that important to you?
Not important to me.

I tried to make you see,
But you don't wanna know,
You will never know.

What became of the life we led?
What became of the fiends we fed?
Oh, what became of forever?
Now we'll never know.

Please please don't think I'm wrong,
Coz we'll just sing another song,
I call the "Lively Lad"
Yeah, we all bought the ones,
That we thought wrong of,
And the fun,
We used to think we had.

If it falls,
Stick'em back on,
It's easy as that,
Whatever's important to you,
Yeah what's important to me.

I'd try to make you see,
But I won't wanna know.

What became of the things we said,
What became of the dreams we had,
What became of Decembers?
What became of forever now,
Do you even wanna know?

Chalky, Smokey and Forever Friends

--

There I was,
In uniform,
Looking at the subway curves,
My vows,
Like a girls hand,
Will never ever touch again,
Down the forever and ever love system.

He was not as bold as I thought,
He had tickets down to the metropolitan museum,
He asked us what our favourite,
Work of art was,
And never could I tell him,
It was him.

I looked at the ruins and crabgrass,
I liked the drums sinking softly,
She told me she liked summer,
And never have I seen the sun,
As bright as her.

Oh never will I hold another hand.

Honest it hasn't been said,
How heaven's an executive company ad,
Oh, it's never been dark,
A touch of grey,
And a,
"I wish I had once..."

And there he was,
In his uniform,
And that other stuff in his hand,
Thinking about creatures of his heart,
I was just a girl then,
And never have I learned,
His trend,
But I'll never ever love any other friend.

The Man Who Vowed To Catch The Sky

...and never touch the ground.

It's an inevitable feeling when you step on a radon floor as you watch the crowd of libertines minding their own business.

You wonder how one could be in the commotion of anthropoids and feel unease.

The uneasiness of isolation in a grayscale mosaic of plastic inextricable.

But when a pagan closes his eyes and sleep under the trees as the sun washes his overalls on his own.

You don't call that loneliness, you call that tranquility.

When one loses touch with God he loses touch with everything. Right?

Is God the word I'm looking for? Or is nature a more fitting nomenclature for the generic population of voters and dominions?

I dreamt about Vittoria again. As forever I should.

She proved God in a tunnel of atomic acceleration.

I could prove God in an easier way really, by the sense of nothingness.

It's exactly that.

"Sometimes I don't know how much I love my home, until I've been somewhere really different for a while"

Been remembering things again.

Like that time I crossed the bridge from one wooden platform to another.

You've been there.

There were birds everywhere, chirping to get your attention, but most of the time you long to get to the other side before you enjoy the view.

But when you get there, your mother tells you that it's time for lunch and that the birds "dah bosan dah"

Life's an aviary.

Take time to notice the plumes of parakeets, and the planks that you step on.

I can't promise you it'd be faeces-free. No one can.

All I can tell you is that sometimes you're just not looking up. And that you have to try to do so.

Occasionally the planks are brittle, and you fall through to your end.

So what?

Honestly, so what?

Vitamin Nothing

Sometimes we're just unsure of what we're looking at and we overcome that by the power of naming.

Beats "furry thing-a-majig" everytime

Sometimes when I look at the plain parquet of a mosque I see footprints of people sauntering their marking all over the house of God. Makes you wonder "siapalar yang pakai kasut masuk surau ni"

Sometimes when I look through the clouds I can see distant flight machines, remembering the olden days of propelling noises.

Sometimes there'd be two, clashing against each other like two stars in the - not endless really, more of a "besar gile" - godforsaken space.

I see clouds as one of God's most beautiful animated inanimate objects, the malapropism of it all touches my heart.

Foxes in pin-striped coats incarnated into the figure of a fisherman.

He visits daily, sometimes to sneak a few of those nuggets I bought from KFC the day before.

Funnily enough, no one even remembers his name anymore.

So we just call him the ever glamorous name of Pak Mat

The way he dreams of owning a ship as the words are dictated through his rotting teeth, makes me smile with my perfect ones as I sit under the cherry tree.

I think smokers need their own culture.

Drugs had it with their junkies.

Sex had it with their Democrats and Protestant.

The colour of their lungs don't bother me at all really, it's more of the demeanour.
How the fogs of monoxide shroud their faces when they talk beatifically (no matter the usage of vocabulary) of what they did out in the ocean or in their office.

Even the mundane ones tend to be more interesting, coughing out their seemingly last breath, and continue on laughing at you when you bring your something from home to eat.

Sometimes I wonder who's laughing last, but I guess it's kinda amusing when a person carries a portable exhaust pipe in between their phalanges WHILE bantering about the current fossil fuel economy.

As the petrol price rises, so does their blood pressure. Literally.

An as an avid aficionado of literati and countercultures I dare say that "The One-Toothed Fisherman" will always be the closest to my crackling soul of copper.

Oh, god this was a very jovial post.
I'm gonna go bomb a christmas tree.

Massalam

The White Of It All

"And so the man called his wife and told her everything was alright"

After several trips down the well of confetti, I caught a sign that said my name.

GARY DESILLIA

It's been a while since anything self-related was publicized in deliberacy, doesn't matter if it's fountain pens or amplified humiliation.

It has also been a while since I've realized the coincidential fragmentations of words such as humiliation and humid to the acuteness of embarassment faced from urinating in public.

Self-awareness.

By The Man Who Is Everyone But Himself

Since I veered off of infancy I've always had a fascination with everything infront of me. Subsequently, I become fascinated with what in actuality does a person mean when they say 'I'.

Is there a puppeteer in our mind that makes up our individuality?
Or is everything a mere flow of atoms drifting through the myriad of particle arrangement trying to make sense of everything it touches?

I don't know about puppets but I know that when a boy of six plays with action figures that is modelled after an American in khaki's he doesn't analyze what's outside of it, but what is there to make from it.

Creating from the creation.

I think about God all the time, I believe everyone does, one way or another.

Since the discovery of chimpanzees, Englishmen have been trying to embrace what these hominids created by the laws of nature are proving to the structure of rationality and the ever popular slogan that goes along the lines of 'Being Human'.

A summary of the rediscovery of mankind divided into pre-chimpanzee research and post-ditto.

Humans are the only creatures who make and use tools
Wrong.
Humans are the only creatures who have the ability to pretend.
Wrong.
Humans are the only..

You know what, this was suppose to be a travel log of awkward degrees and abnormal resolutions, but it turned out to be a thesis, or an antithesis for that matter. Of awkard degrees and abnormal resolutions,yeah.

I don't know what I'm saying now. Or trying to say.

I don't believe in good or evil, I believe in what is necessary and what is not.

Deep inside everyone's like that, thinking who'll they grow up to be and how they'll find a way out of every single jigsaw puzzle that doesn't have a piece you understand but in turn it fits anyway.

It's just that spontaneity becomes a part of everything you chase for, premeditated or not.

I laugh to myself as I stumble upon and adult shop that advertised uniforms for the purpose of role-playing sex.

I don't know, really. Fantasizing about having relations with a nurse have the power of increasing the syahwats of a particular group of people, regardless of whether that nurse even has a medical degree or professional training from anywhere.

It's a simple pathetique, that the definition of nurse is overturned after the vagueness and absurdity of our 'imagination'

The mind is it's own place.

No better way to put it.

I remember my mother telling me a story of me crying for no particular reason when I was at the zoo during the age of 8.

"Probably it was the animals"
"Macam kena rasuk dengan jin"

Trying to remember how I was at that age, I remembered my interest in pan paniscuses then were more avid than it is today (or maybe it still is avid, after all, adolescence comes with the inclusive package of denial).

And I remembered asking if animals went to heaven.

I still look forward to looking at our biological relatives whenever I'm at the zoo.

But subconsciously, I don't.

Sometimes tears fall out of the crenellations of my mind, thinking how sad it was that one could look at a sunset and only seeing light refracting through the atmosphere.

The other sad thing is that I can't express this thoughts clearly.

Because after all I'm just another person.

Just like everyone else is another person.

I can't write anymore.

It's thoughts like these that makes you realize that there are worse things than sinning and death and hell and..

Thinking about it, I don't think there are worse things than anything.

And thus this declamatory ends with

"It makes a heaven out of hell and a hell out of everything"

And back to the panorama of sexual fantasies.

I had to laugh really.

I don't know why.
In the setting of the sun and the dimming of blazing light rays,
I know that the lions couldn't possibly be pretending .

Shampoo Vision (Losing)

Born, yeah they will be,
Tighten to old streets,
Making the lights set,
Down on the arms raid.

And we'll at least sit down,
When the tide and soul is,
All that's in this town,
But they've never seen the light,
And time is none by their side,
And pain will have no sound.

Tell me a story,
Make it a poetry,
Satan is every,
Man in their gold seats.

And we'll concede it now,
Where the sun and spirit's,
All the feelings gone,
To the white-eyed and the faint,
And time is on our side,
Where there will be no sound.

Be awake,
'Tho the shades free,
Be still,
In the pale breeze,
And you ask
Where's that somebody,
To share me this oak tree.

Oh I'm just waiting now.

Presents and folk hymns,
Dust and the sobbing,
Babe, you're just beating,
Shrubs and confetti.

And we won't be around,
When the city has lost it's children,
And vacant lots,
Then only candle lights will
Brighten our dry sky,
And you'll be safe free,
From the people with sunglasses,
And their lights won't blind us,
When there will be no sound.