Masquerade

Must it end this way?
A sea of hopelessness,
Aroused by aa storm of self pity,
They all laugh,
The same laugh as always,
Wheezing in a fit of ectasy;
Yet I had always deduced abjectness,
Concealing their inner demons.

They'd mask it of course,
Their smiles and merriment being lies,
Deceit acting as a guard for something that cannot be guarded,
Something unspeakable and denied;
Yet it is prominent,
Contrary to their one atom of sanity.

Grab your partners for a dance!
They would oblige,
As each of their movements are fables,
For which they do not find the moral,
They instead smile at being contemtible,
Their worth underweighs their desires,
Being shrines of accursed duiebty.

The masque is over.
Sadly, their masks continue,
Each step forward is two back,
Hatin their bogus gaiety;
An insult to their crumbling psyches,
Caught in a devilish reverie,
That haunts them evermore.

Trapeze

Smiling is officially a charade;
Hiding some profound subliminal sadness,
The root of it cannot be cured,
Or even found,
Yet they perform each night,
The audience celebrate their frivloity,
Mocking them;
Reducing the performers' hearts to liquid,
Devoid of sympathy or emotion.

Then they have a glint in their painted eyes,
One of self pity; the very essence of their inadequacy,
Immortalised in their illustrious faces,
Merciful and merciless, they perform once more,
Winning an applause,
Of both joy and sorrow,
As the clowns perpetually perform each night,
For the same present: a packet of peanuts and a sparse appreciation,
Then it is back to the circus of humiliation forever more.

Loneliness

I'm being lazy today and posting an ancient poem of mine. It was the first I posted on my Myspace blog. It is dated 7th October 2006, so it is one of the oldest poems I have on record that has escaped the mass burning of my old work. It is called 'Loneliness:'

A child was born,
Would this little person destroy the world?
From the mother's womb it was torn,
Into the London Underworld;
The child stands,
Tall and hated,
The forgotten land;
The child laughs,
The child conspires,
The wretched photographs of his departed parents,
Placed on the fire.

Animal Conference

The air stinks of putrid humidity,
The roting carcass of the baboon insults my nasal passages,
It is not just the primate's doing,
It is the intruding sunlight through the foilage,
Making a barbecue of the knave.

The flowers, so redundant in their indomitable beauty,
Radiate more light than the flamming rock above me,
An aurora of colour and light eminate from them,
A collection of crimson red and sunshine yellow,
Projects itself on the morose brown ground.

Not alone in my admiration,
I am joined by various different species,
Tucans, snakes, tigers and many others more,
Gather and revel in the fun,
So much so that they forget their differences,
Both in genus and belief,
Infatuated with the aesthetic of the jungle.

They seem to chant to each other,
In a variety of strange tongues,
Foreign to any human,
Yet just as fascinating to any human,
It is a ritual beyond my comprehension,
Proving that peace does exist,
At least to those we all primitive;
Something incapable to humanity;
Making me evermore guilty of killing that baboon...

Here Lies Integrity: Deceased

Like dominoes,
Cluttered in their individual plots,
The gravestones stand.
Beacons of all that was,
Sombre, solemn reminders of the past,
Contributing to the shadow.

The three or four odd lines on each,
A poem without a rhyme,
A brief synopsis of the man's life,
A dilute, edited description of their existence,
Sadly most are erroneous,
The posthumous hyperbole of grieving relatives,
Had little bearing on the cadavers underneath,
They always remain constant,
Static, yet gathering age.

Pendulum

Time, the incurable disease,
Aging, deaying everything in its wake,
Everything we once loved,
Everything we once loathed,
Everything we used to idolise,
Everything that shaped our primitive beliefs.
Now gone forever.

The virgins, the children and the wine,
Victims of sodomy, atrophy and sourness,
Unite in a clock of change,
They stand defiant,
It is useless,
The stream of time drowns them,
Burying them in the sea of progress and evolution.

Today things are no different.
The wrath of time still strikes upon us,
Soon we will endure similar fates of our forefathers,
Our flesh returning to the vast nothingness that is the beginning,
Sadly our only hope is that we will be remembered.

Nightingale

Her footwork, complimentary,
Her élan, admirable,
Her poise, aimable,
Truly she was the master.

My scruntiny had been more than appeased,
For her grace had shrouded me,
Into the trap of animalistic lust,
Into the shame of silence.

The music of the ball,
Usually dignified and inspirational,
Suddenly became blaring and superfluous,
My focus was on her.

She outshone the lamps,
The impending dawn,
The motives of her immediate company,
And enlightened us all.

Then of course, she opened her mouth,
With the deference of a nightingale,
She produced notes of elegance,
To an audience of tears.

More Annoucements

I apologise that I haven't posted anything for a week. It has been due to personal issues; the depression that I suffered with two years ago has returned. Also I lost five poems I written as I accidently wiped my phone which notebook contained my poems.

Hopefully next week I should be back on track. Tomorrow for Valentine's Day, I'll post an old poem which hasn't been published anywhere, except for my notepad. Unlike my usual work, it's about romance.

Enigma

Puzzles and riddles,
What are their purpose?
To tie up brain cells,
To ponder upon the meaning of existence,
To realise our minds are primitive;
Vast in scope and imagination,
Yet narrow in knowledge and experience.

Imagination we seem to dwell upon,
Absurdities make more sense to us than the truth,
Chess in heaven?
Salvage in hell?
Impossible but not implausible,
At least to the average human.

Knowledge is learning,
In a society based upon theory,
How is this possible?
Cognition is kept alive by sense,
But is killed by derisory creativity;
Abridging Man into a paralysed, idiotic idealist.

The System

A sea of blonde hair,
A sordid collection of blue eyes,
A paradigm of six foot humans,
Bred from obedience, corruption and callousness,
This is the future.

Diversity is blasphemous,
Contrary to the gods of the government,
Hypocrites.
Playing snooker in their penthouses,
Smoking reefers, drinking gin,
Being frivolous.

One day, this will be a democracy,
Overthrowing the black haired,
Bug green eyed fascists,
Like the snake, they slither,
Poisoning those closest,
With the venom named conformity.

The scars inflicted upon each is deep,
Denser than the emotions of the System,
Cool, calculated and idiosyncratic,
The System always wins.

Forest

The trees, brittle and poor,
One day they were tall,
Standing proudly amongst the sun,
They sulk and shrivel now,
Underneath the malicious moonlight,
Life seems indifferent to death.

Like the withered hands of their planter,
The trees collect dust out of duty,
Crouching with hunchbacks in their soil,
The insects crawling upon them have more life and purpose,
Photosynthesis is now obsolete,
Industrialisation is the norm.

Lost and dazed in their mysterious presence,
The trees eclipse the purple land,
Creating an ominous shadow,
Scaring the creatures living there,
Ants; dung beetles and lice,
Suddenly, they move,
If only realised their intention.

The trees: formerly a gift of Earth,
Presently an extraneous mass of pessimism,
They sit.
Examiners of the foolish humans;
Invigilators of the force of nature,
Archaic in their manner and role,
Fragments of Man’s life.

Gravestones of all that was:
All that could ever be,
Subliminal in their relative absence,
They continue to live their death,
Until they die.

Mega Man 9 Review

The Mega Man series of games is a series of platforming-shooter type games where the player controls the protagonist, Mega Man, whose job is to destroy the warped Robot Masters, controlled most of the time by Dr. Wily. Mega Man 1-6 were released on the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES), Mega Man 7 on the Super Nintendo Entertainment System (SNES) and Mega Man 8 was released on the Sega Saturn and the Sony Playstation. They are often considered to be among the best action games ever, with Mega Man 2 coming 33rd in a list of 200 games. If you’re wondering Mega Man 3 is my favourite, which I'll review one day. Anyway let’s cut the verbose nature of this review and talk about the latest game Mega Man 9.

I waited for MM9 with bated breath. The first 8 bit Capcom game for over a decade. I believe the last Capcom game released on the Nintendo Entertainment System was Mega Man 6 in 1993, but I could be wrong, regardless it was never released in Europe. Anyway, Mega Man 9 is available on Nintendo Wii Ware, Xbox Live Arcade and Playstation Network.

Contrary to most games which strive to appeal as photo realistic as possible, MM9 takes us back to the past, to relive the world of colourful sprites, slowdown and flicker. The difficulty is also reminiscent of an NES game and in my view, surpasses the insane difficulty of the first MM game. It is designed to be frustrating, to make you continue playing to perfect some of the tough parts of the game, mostly being pixel perfect jumps, or robustly stubborn enemies. The soundtrack too complements an 8 bit game. Some of the tracks, such as the Robot Master selection, menu and weapon initiation are taken directly from Mega Man 2 and is no doubt nostalgic to people who grew up with the games (sadly I didn’t as I was born in 1992). Of course, it’s not all stock. Quite the reverse. The score to MM9 is amazingly authentic. Sounding like previous MM games. Personally, my favourite pieces of music are Galaxy Man's stage, Tornado Man's stage and Splash Woman's stage. In my opinion it doesn’t sound as good or catchy as MM1, MM2, MM3 or MM5 but I think it kicks the music of MM4 and MM6 out of the park.

Robot Masters are constantly the point of interest of established fans. As usual there are eight to fight (except MM1 which only has six) and they are Galaxy Man, Jewel Man, Plug Man, Hornet Man, Concrete Man, Magma Man, Tornado Man and the first female Robot Master, Splash Woman. They sound ridiculous, but nowhere near as bad as some of them in the past: namely Hard Man (MM3), Dust Man (MM4) or Tomahawk Man (MM6). Names like Jewel Man are designed to be satirical, Capcom know they sound absurd, yet they include them as another tribute to the past.

To conclude, it’s very difficult. The disappearing blocks of MM1-3 make an unwelcome return. These may be discouraging to new gamers, but veteran gamers will be able to traverse them with relative ease. It may take a few hours to complete the game on the first time as you may be overwhelmed by the madness of the game. If persevered with, the established gamer can negotiate it within 50 minutes, while an uneasy gamer may clock up 90 minutes. There is longevity with Xbox style Achievements. Some are impossible, such as completing the game without firing once or not getting hit once, but I’m pretty sure at least one person has completed the list 100% with little satisfaction. Also there is downloadable content available. You can purchase additional difficulties. (All harder. Surprised?) As well as other modes, like endless play and you can even play as Mega Man's brother Proto Man who has the slide (MM3-MM8) and the charge shot (MM4-MM8), both removed for Mega Man in MM9. Sadly Proto Man takes less damage than his younger brother.

Overall, Mega Man 9 is a great game, which will keep away the casuals and attract the hardcore gamers.

9/10

Virtues:
Looks and sounds great and is authentic.
Invigorates the Mega Man franchise.
Game designers finally acknowledge the retro, hardcore gamer.

Vices:
Will be too difficult for casual gamers.

The Forgotten

Before I get to the poem, I have some announcements. With the new Red Dwarf specials coming in Easter, I'll be posting retrospectives of all eight series in the near future to celebrate the return of one of my favourite sitcoms. Also I'll be reviewing a video game soon to see how it pans out. The clue is that while it's a new game, it appeals more to retro gamers like myself.

I apologise that my first post this month is an old poem. Basically I'm still re-drafting my new ones so much so that they are not finished yet. I wrote this poem when I was suffering from chronic depression, so it mirrors my wreckless attitude I had. Like the subjects in the poem, the meaning is subliminal. so it's up to you divulge meaning from this poem, as I have no set guidelines to what it's about. It was written on 29th April 2007, so it's nearly two years old, and I've never been happy with it. Maybe modern scrutiny may be beneficial to it, but I doubt it.

The Forgotten

The foilage continues to grow,
Making the kingdom subliminal,
No one will rescue the inhabitants,
As their planet is forgotten.

Hostages of the world,
Suffocating under their own words,
They dread trepidation,
As their world is forgotten.

They are displaced by the glamour,
Suffering as a metaphor for life,
Finally their world is shrinking,
Why have we forgotten their society?

Final Thoughts: January 2009

Well, it’s been a hectic month for me. I’ve flunked my English and History exams, I’ve started reading Dracula (I’m enjoying it by the way) and I’ve realised that Paradroid for the Commodore 64 is one of the best video games of all time in my opinion. Poetry-wise, my mind has been puerile and you can read the evidence on this website. So after each month I’ll be frivolous and name my worst (there are too many contenders) and favourite poems of mine for the month.

The worst poem this month is ‘Void.’ It was called formerly 'Ambiguity' as it was ambiguous what the hell it was about. However thinking about it, I wanted the title to be clichéd so I changed it. If you didn’t know it involves me trying to create an allegory between a dark night and a science fiction staple; a void. However I’ve never been satisfied with the final product. I managed to write a somewhat more successful version in 'Rings' posted exactly a week later, where I made it a straight science fiction poem, rather than a fantasy one.

My favourite poem I’ve written this month is 'Lights.' Influenced by the images of ’Perchance to Dream’ (The Twilight Zone, Charles Beaumont, 1959) which involved a man having a continuous nightmare of a theme park which had an enigmatic showgirl whom he believed she wanted to kill him. I changed the perspective to the park being the horror towards the narrator. I couldn’t really dwell upon the park too much as it was merely a poem but I’m going to write a short story adaptation of this poem for my anthology of tales, which I hope to write in the first person narrative and evoke more emotion from the unnamed protagonist.

So that’s it for this month. For February, I have some weird ideas and I’ve actually written two poems which will be posted next week. So expect the unexpected...

Rings

The event horizon led to nowhere,
The disintegrating galaxy had seen better days,
Millions of sentient lives were perished,
Into the black hole,
Enforced by fear.

Its golden circumference was lying,
The evil, callous, black nucleus,
Consumed billions of useless lives,
Death was its breakfast.

A cruel trick perpetrated by nature,
A manipulation of reality,
A hole in the fabric of things,
A dropped stitch in the tapestry of existence,
It continued to gorge itself.

Robust in its impundence,
The last particle of the galaxy digested,
It had little purpose now.
Satisfied it finally retired,
And left space alone again.

Arrows

Daybreak,
An isolated field,
Gorging itself on action,
The men led to their ends,
An unflattering fate.

The tears of the doomed men,
The sweat of their foreheads,
The determined endurance of them,
Was worthy of medal,
Sadly their commandants were miles away,
Polishing their bookcases.

Unaware of their men’s bravery,
They smile and take the credit,
Dismiss the battle as a laugh,
Place the controversy as experience,
And drink the blood of the tragic.

During war the men had tolerated fortitude, honour, and equality,
Afterwards they had to undergo much worse,
Callousness, indifference and hypocrisy:
None hurt more than the betrayal of their ‘superiors,’
It was worse than an arrow to the heart,
And it penetrated deeply.

Lights

The sea of colours greeted me,
Reds, blues and greens beckoned me,
'Come in!' they seemed to be shouting.

I was indeed welcomed by a musky smell,
Of hot dogs, pizzas and candy floss,
My eyes were met by too many colours,
They were hypnotising and made me nauseous,
Coupled with the amount of activity happening at that time.

It was something from a nightmare.
The circus waltz from the fun house made me feel sick,
The jagged skulls outside the haunted house made me vomit,
Even the jagged zig zag pattern beside the helter skelter made me choke.
The wheel relentlessly circled; a solemn reminder of the repetition.

Mesmerised, I drew my attention on the patrons.
The children dillgently wore bright colours, designed to taunt me,
They shouted and laughed without sensitivity,
They sounded no different from the ghoulish automatons of the haunted house,
Ironically, they were enjoying themselves.
I tried to speak to one of them but they could not hear me.

Annoyed at the exterior, I tried the hex house.
The usual things that notoriously scared me were somehow tame,
Skeletons, witches, spiders and bats? Oh, Please.

It suddenly came to me in a flash,
The horror was outside, among the faceless children,
Among the relentless lights,
It was a fairground of evil.
It must be. Am I insane?

I eventually left the house and was once again at the epicentre of the fear,
I rapidly made my way towards the section marked 'Exit'
I tried, but it was locked; not by a padlock but by those lights,
Again and again I tried but I had similar luck.
Desperate, I shouted 'Get me out!'

As I write this, I'm still there.
It is perpetually night,
It is forever ravishing with activity alien to me.
I seem to be eternally trapped within these walls,
A prisoner in an amusement park.
Even I laugh at such a suggestion.

Without a clue or inclination as to why I'm here,
I stare at the nearby rollercoaster and it is called simply:
'Judgement Night.'
Amazed by the absurdity I look at the next ride's name:
'Purgatory.'

Perennial Solitude

These clothes I wear, strained from toil,
Devaluate as I sit here, just like myself,
My features suddenly disorientate,
Morphing into something I do not recognise.

My eyes are two cesspits, their shine mocks me as I stare,
My nose protudes outwards,
Why? I have not told any lies.
My mouth opens spontaneously,
Allowing me a risqué look at my rapidly degenerating teeth,
Like my jealousy, they are green and acrid,
The very essence of desertion.

For I am completely alone,
Miserably, abjectly grovelling in my own solitude,
I dwell in my disquiet,
And it has rejected me,
Just like the people I once knew.

Must I forever endure the omniscient silence?
The bellow of nothingness insults my ears,
Perforating my defences, leaving me shuddering with both fear and anger,
Laughing at my impotency.

I live this dystopia everyday,
Each passing day is a wasted opportunity,
A figment of what I could have been,
Isolation is my only ally,
As I am compelled to be alone.

Always.

Echelon

This is another old poem and it was the last I wrote for my Myspace blog. It was written two days before I started this website, on Tuesday 16th December 2008. I've always wanted to post it since then but I haven't had the time to post it as I've been brimming with creativity this week. It is dedicated to the soldiers who gave up their lives for our freedom, much like 'Thicker Than Water,' but I prefer this poem a whole lot more.

That's it for this week, next week, expect more original poetry.

This poem is called 'Echelon:'

The piercing radiant moon,
Shone without purpose on its dead observers,
Its rays confused; it eclipsed with guilt.
The mist was no better, it was a solemn reminder of death,
Of paralysis, of impotency, of cynicism,
It helped none.

The landscape was a sorry sight;
Dark and imposing, like the war it represented,
Grieving relatives came to identify their cadavers,
It had an opposite effect;
They were considering who they were.

The bodies themselves were generic,
The typical young man killed for the promise of glory,
Regressed to a number and statistic,
Their insignia and I.D cards disintegrated,
Just like their owners.

Freedom, formally a word of peace, presently, an anachronism,
Mankind can never be 'free,'
For they carry the weight of their heroes,
Look towards the aloof sky,
Then beg for mercy through the same tears their heroes had to endure.

Void

The void of the night,
A symbol of menace and corruption,
Had grown upon the world,
The darkness was inescapable,
There were no outcasts.

They were destined to perish,
Reveling in their own fear,
Obtuseness was bliss,
The insatiable children were silenced,
The great catacylism had commenced.

Oblivion finally seemed possible,
When they were in close proximity to it,
Their interminal destruction was imminent,
Two millenia of progress,
Regressed to memories and rubble.

Why has nature foresaken us?
Have we provoked it?
What unforesable powers does it posses?
Have we any hope?
No? We'll all die together.

Behemoth

Its jade coloured eyes shone gallantly,
Reflecting the milky white beam of the moonlight,
Its feet moved prudently upon the moors,
Each step complemented its elegance.

The village on the cynical horizon,
Lay odiously underneath the night,
The citizens separated their swords from their sheaths,
As a creature was expected.

Cloaked in the darkness,
Ostentatious in its discretion,
Precise in its scrutiny,
It sat and waited in the hunting ground.

It was not invisible however,
Its foolish complacency had located its tail under the moonlight,
Its back towards the villagers,
It was a considerably effortless target.

The villagers approached perfunctory,
Rigid from fear and foreboding,
Frantically and frenzied they slashed the glacial air,
With the prospect of obtaining the creature's prized hide.

Perseverance prevailed,
The incisive metallic twang perforated the midnight air,
Estranged from its cadaver, the head impacted furiously upon the ground,
In disturbed unison, the people exclaimed: 'It's a cat!'

Blood on his hands, the killer took his own life,
The women and children wept,
The men bowed their guilty heads,
Who would have thought such a well meaning animal could cause so much stress?

The men suddenly heard some heavy, morose footsteps...
It was not over.
The expected creature pounced upon the pathetic, abhorrent party,
They had endured a fate worse than the feline.

Life Through the Bloodshot

This is an old poem I published on my now obsolete blog on Myspace. I believe it's the only one worth salvaging. I wrote this on May 3rd way back in 2007. I had conjunctivitus when I developed this poem and my bloodshot eyes were a perfect inspiration to someone who's dying. Tomorrow I have homework to write a poem about a cat and of course I'm going to make it the bloodiest bloodbath ever so be sure to check back tomorrow as I should be able to post it on here also.

This poem's name is 'Life Through the Bloodshot:'

As I lie here dying,
There is an intruding thought corrupting my mind,
I cannot even see my own feelings,
My own will,
Or my own destination,
I've tried for years to hide my thoughts,
Even I cannot even find them.

I have served my corporeal life,
Now I must prepare for my celestial death,
My life has been a terrible atrophy,
Arguments, fights; unloving,
I am experiencing life through the bloodshot,
The perpetually scarce dimension.

It is time.
At last I have joined the...

The Subtle Being

The being, majestic in its malevolence,
Contained within a dimension,
A dimension constructed with impenetrable obscurity,
A barrier of scrutiny.

Its omnipresent presence was provoking,
Its very mention was scolded for being ungodly,
Responsibile for murder and pilliage,
It showed no mercy or distinction.

Its movements were impossible to trace,
Despite leaving destruction and death in its wake,
It was subtle and normadic,
Ignorant of its deplorable deeds.

It left a relic of a society,
A victim of hysteria,
An unprecedented order of mourning,
A scar on the vicar's hand.

For Sickness was its name.

Thicker Than Water

This is an unpublished poem I made back in November 2008 for my sixth form, commemorating Remembrance and the lives of the soldiers who gave up their lives for our freedom. It is not a carbon copy, I have added some lines to it, despite that, I have never been happy with this poem, and I'd appreciate your feedback (I know I haven't any fans). The poem is entitled: 'Thicker Than Water.'

The waterlogged field, sitting ugly under the dusk,
The tragic fortitiude of men, from security they are torn,
The once garrulous face of the human,
Reduced to the obscurity of silence,
When will it end?

Bullets produce our want of disquiet,
I tried to stop him, beyond my reach,
Now he is beyond everyone's reach.
Get down!
Our sorrow immortalised in splintered wood and broken dreams,
When will it end?

Victory! Victory...
How do we define the word?
The answer is scribed in the blood of my consorts,
And of my own,
Has it ended?

Annoucements

Sadly due to two exams weighing heavily upon my concentration, I cannot commit to a new poem just yet. I have a plan for it and one verse, however I cannot finish it yet. It will be up sometime next week.

It's an ample time to discuss my writing style. I have a strong preference of gothic and supernatural literature and my poems are invariably written in this style. My last poem 'Charades' was my failed experiment at romance, a department now spared from my erratic pen and mind. The poem I intend to post next week will revert back to this style of being dark and edgy; themes omnipresent in supernatural and gothic literature.

Also worthy of note, I have several ideas for my novel. It will be a collection of dark short stories addressing different themes, from archaic historical values to psychology. I'm grabbing at straws, every part of my work has been utter drivel and shovel ware and I'm sure this will be no different.

Most importantly, it's time I gave a big shout out to my friend Sarah. You can view her work at sarahf09.edublogs.org. She has political views so close to my own it's phenomenal. She is American so her views on American politics are parallel to my views on the British government. Not that her blog needs advertising of course.