Dreams of Consciousness

Used to be one of the decent ones,
And I liked you for that,
Used to be one of the rotten ones,
And I loved you for that,
Used to be one of the selfless ones,
And I hugged you for that.

Now you're all gone, with your make-up on and you're not coming back.

Being the thief, smoking hash, covering rash, from all your friends,
Fixing your teeth, smiling flash, talking trash, under your breath,

Preaching your priest, dyeing your hair, saving up cash, just for a dance,

Wasting a gift, showing off flesh, running fast, with what you have.

Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, fight about me,
Fuck that car, hide that phone, weep on the floor, write about me,

Painted cars, recharged phones, cemented floor, scream about me,

Hold that call, drive that home, knock that door, dream about me.

Dream about me.

I Know It's Getting Late

Rye. And woods wry in the midst of June. Were magic ingredients for what I think is worthless physiognomy that seem to represent what I feel about myself.

I do not want to admit that my weakness seem to surrender itself at the bottom of your vocal chords. In the deadly nights of awkward silences when ants amidst the wilderness of bedsheets were aiming for the only shelter they had left.

I do not, or can not, even grasp the feasibility of why such an attraction exist.

If you would only just talk to me.

Please.

Currently listening to:
Anthems For A Seventeen-Year-Old-Girl.

Christlover

Every night I pray,
And leave my day-by-day,
Endearing to the sounds of May,
And money in the way.

A widow at her prime,
The judge's case is won,
You don't get it the first time,
But you ask for a second one.

That's what you said to me,
Where good things come in threes,
The flesh that roam the streets,
It's not the bread I seek.

The King of Rock and Roll,
Might've gone and sold his soul,
That's what you'll never do,
Oh there's no price for you.

I shall not bear to cross,
The hand when all was lost,
Rise up from the seas,
Of evil in the trees.

Cause maybe there is Love,
And more than that is seems,
But moons they float above,
Tales of sacrificial means.

Every night I pray,
Forget them all by day,
Lucy's in the sky,
I tried my best to try.

Cause neon lights they fade,
When dawn it comes to shade.

Faith comes to me in randomness,
What miracles that fall on Man,
Cause truth becomes a sad old rule,
A law that people love to bend.

In hate with silence of the hall,
That echoes the caverns of the mind,
Of arrogance and pride stood tall,
And charring of what's left divine

She took the road protesting ya,
And drew the last hallelujah,
Awkwardly the doves they fall,
The day I knew ya.

I don't even think of you that much,
But somehow it breeds a godly touch.
Even more than I think of sunrise in the east,
And the coming of the famine and the beast.

If even there's a war to fight,
And doubtful as to which side is the light,
Parts of my heart,
I already gave away to you.

Son, what can I concur?
When David sings a lovely song,
I think I've finally lost my taste of right from wrong.

Idle thoughts they surely were,
Turned to instinct,
And obedience to God.

You could play for your fur,
Like a river on fire,
But you better be sure,
If you're making God a liar,
Who's the devil snake, babe?
Who's the fuel on fire?
So if you're gonna get made,
Don't be afraid of what you've known.

Repentance to no one or other,
Faithfully yours, oh Christ lover.

P/S: I grew to love the silent night of winter.

Wry, The Noisy Capitalists

Battering fingers on the deskboard of yesteryears, I grew awkwardly solemn over the maiden that was presenting the best she had in front of me.

Where was I?

The Diaries of the Ill-Contempt

It's thirty past two in darkness, and I am a drunken man. The mosquitoes hum a song of destitute to my defective hearing, possibly overwhelmed by the bitterness of the damsel's cry of despair. Telling me her story.

Why is it that when she sneezes the dust from my desk stays put, unaffected by the solemn wind from her nasal?

Is it because it has been embedded into the very sheaves or cracks that make up this timber?

Well, this table's only 2 years old at that..

"Please, you don't have to do this. You used to love me. Why is it that you need to leave the rest of the world to fall under your liking?"

BANG, goes the inappropriately cohesive sound of an exploding car across the street.

"I'll talk to you about Mary later. Speaking about the dead bothers me"

Especially to the person that borne the said cadaver.

Where was I? Oh, yes. So I was getting sick of Night. She used to come home late. And complain about the silliest thing. It was then I discovered my truly cardinal desires of wanting, not needing, sex. Marriage has caused me to perceive things rather differently.
And not in anyway a factor of me staying loyal to the Vow.

I met Mary at a dark alley.

"Haha, you sir. Sir, in the cardigan excuse of an overcoat"

I hated people who made fun of my overcoat. I remember taking out my gun to that slut.

"If you have any business you would like to offer me, or any investigative services that you require off of me, please do so while I'm at the office" hand sliding off the steel trigger. "Otherwise, I'm on my way back home. Where I can...well..definitely take off my overcoat without anyone indifferently criticizing it. Understood?"

She was shivering in the rain. But you could tell she wasn't shaken by the probability of a bullet, because she was smiling. "C'mon there sweetie, I've handled madder souls than yours"

Sometimes the devil wins. But I'm not much of a bible reader. Inhibition seemed queer really, when made by an author only specific to those who believe. As for the Government, and the laws they made...well let's just say everyone believes in the Goverment. In existence, at the least.

She was good.

"So I presume, with the pipe and all, that you sir, are a detective?", mumbled Mary with a cigarette propped at the left side of her mouth.

"This...is not a pipe. It's a wooden carving of one. I'm a surrealist you see"

I remembered her demeanour of never showing her naivety, and always acknowledging the things that come out from my mouth.

"And how much does a surrealist make a month?"
"Sigh, I will pay you do not have to worry on such a conundrum"

*typewriter jams*

"My God"

*gunshot through the typewriter*

"I hate this bloody contraption, always leave things half-finished it does", said I while fumbling my fingers at the broken letters left on the floor

"You really do have a knack for breaking things you can't fix. Leaving at them at a worse state than before. You killed me not knowing how to fix me" uttered Night without any semblance of emotion.

"Shut up"
"You killed Mary when you found out she had AIDS"
"SHUT UP!"

Mr. Witherson? Letter from the Government.

Dear Mr. Witherson,

It is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been chosen to enter the Asylum Of Lunary Hope, as to your unorthodox behaviour that leaves you off of the Consumerisma society normal routine of living.
The last time you shopped, or even stepped foot into the Mall Temple was ages ago. Thus due to these occurences that disturbs us, we have found out that you belong in the shelter-place of the Bohemians, housing not more than 230,000 weirdos.
We would also like to inform you that your term from the All-Seeing Eye Intelligence Agency has been abrogated. Thus leaving you jobless

Yours faithfully
Wry Woods
Capitalist #2849
Government Officer

Have a nice day.

I Wasn't Born In Prison

Stuck in a rut,
Didn't know what to do,
Looking at sunbeams,
Making fun of me too.

Oh my god,
They've seen it all,
Scratching the walls,
And almost I forgot.

I was there to,
When will you do what you do,
And let me out this here place,
And renew my face.

A bloodsucking monster in disguise of a nice guy,
Trying to find more of this life.

Then you wanted to be sure,
You got close and got hurt.

Where were you when the world ends,
When the sickly romance through,
I will get to you.

They say there's a motel of sin,
But I wouldn't trade my life for the one that you're living,
Because I was always this way,
For as long as I can hardly remember.

When you caught me by surprise,
I had to look into your heartless eyes,
Like the moon they never show,
How it is they'll ever glow,
Without the sun behind them.

Because here's the reason,
For all of my treason,
My awkward sense of freedom.

Because here's the highlight,
Of the deepest darkest lonely night,
I put my five fingers,
On yours,
And tell the whore inside,
That the angel wants to ride a plane.

Cause I wouldn't trade my life for the one that you're living,
I wasn't born in prison.

To: M.A.R. :)

It’s not often for one to see a tanned, dark-haired Malay speaking in an Australian parlor, intermittently interspersed with an American accent, whilst wearing a baju kurung,and managing to look comfortable in it. That was the scenario once upon a Raya. One might presume her as a baffled product of globalization, but she would tell you otherwise. She’s Maryam, best living individual in the world.

For a person who would pass off as a Caucasian – on the phone at least – Maryam’s height is a great example of sexual dimorphism in nature. In other words, she is short. Her beady eyes has become a distinctive feature, for the fact that all of her sisters share the same trait. Adorable as that might sound; she is not in any way ‘vulnerable’. Despite the petite impression she gives, Maryam’s confidence can scare the heavens out of you. With all of that in the picture, Maryam has still managed to keep her poise and charm decent enough in any given situation.

To describe her as boyish would be lazy journalism. In fact, Maryam’s sense of style surpasses most seventeen-year-old girls. A self-proclaimed connoisseur of the arts, the range of Converse and Gucci she has on the list, has become to the object of envy and admiration amongst both genders. She is a girl of principles. In this case, its feminism. Trivial matters like playing hockey with her male peers, turns into a global debate of discrimination. But at the end of the day, her distaste for disputes and her awkwardly alluring sense of humor overwhelms the gravity of it all. “How many feminists does it take to change a lightbulb? None, because they can’t change anything!,” she jokes with the world.

It’s the myriad of characteristics in her personality that has driven me to write this essay. The reality of her being female has often made people mistake it for post-menstrual syndrome. But her ire and assertion is not without substance. A tornado on the run; as when it all recedes, the sun would shine like it has never shined before.

The truth of the matter is that Maryam, since she moved Down Under two years ago, I haven’t even seen the outline of her countenance. I was disappointed to discover that the Razak family came to my house when I was too busy socializing in the outside world. Disbelieving the notion that I had a childhood friend (because I remembered being antisocial as a child), I sent her a letter. It was a torturous attempt to avoid awkward statements, like implying that I’ve known her before, would make me sound like a desperate stalker.

But Maryam’s unorthodox way of behavior has proven me wrong once again. She answered it, remembering the address and the name given to me, so nonchalantly. She was the same old Maryam, surprisingly so, despite the maturity. I laughed my head off when she arrived at the airport not too long ago. “Hello, 6-year-old soul mate!,” she cried. Memories of how she spoke Australian attempting to imitate Harry Potter came rushing back.

She was a parable to conclude. Teaching how friendship is not a matter of material expressions, but the warmth when two friends would fall silent in the middle of a conversation, as though communicating through telepathic means. Maryam Abdul Razak, if you’re not nominated on the list of Person of the Year, then there’s always a reason for that. But seriously, you would always be the ‘Person of My 17 Years of Living’. Salutations, Maryam!

Exciting Lighting

I was looking through my playlist,
And noticed that the last time I listened to The Strokes,
Which is supposedly the nominal favourite band of all time in my opined gesture of a post.
Was 2 months ago.

It was less of a sad revelation, then it was a disappointing one.

It is all winning glory when my career of structuralised arguments put into moot ends with a happy episode of pride and relief.

Relief....hmm.

That was it then. I did not want to let it go.

Because isn't that what relief is about? Releasing. Sure, struggles were meant to be part of the dogmatic package of hope. But the thing is without the toil there wouldn't be the oil that became the source of light...the source..

Of endlessly incoherent poetry.

You see, as an individual, I was never much up for planning..anything.

All of my poems are drafts, my thoughts subconsciously thrown into forms of words.

Until debate came and ruined that sense of randomness.

And now, when I try to revert back to erratic disclosure of expressions and feelings.

I actually feel...awkward.

Maybe I just need to learn how to tune my guitar.
Maybe I should just leave it entirely, making it of as a trail of youth that I shall walk away from.

Under one umbrella of conformity, you couldn't even call that melodramatic.

Success comes with a price of complexity.

Especially when quotes, are only deemed quotable, when other people think they are.

Not when a self principle rules that it shall thus be a gimmick of the mind.

On to the show.

---

I'm not much up for ecstatic,
Or anything cinematic,
I just hope that the rain would stop.

Because the signboard on the left side,
Of main street and the nightlife,
We left to get a life for ourselves.

I'm not much up for anything at all,
When the city people,
Want to forget who they are.

They say u can't run away,
From civilisation.

I told them,
Who's running away here?

Not much for reconciliation,
When the pitiful left their stations.

Exciting lighting,
They will sing,
The electric thing,
We used to dance to.

Committing crimes,
With as much value as a dime,
Is it a waste of time,
Says who?

Great people make great mistakes,
Not grave mistakes.