Black and White

The heart is silent
A dead organ, quietly doing its job
Pumping blood all over

The keys lie untouched
White becomes gray juxtaposed
Against the black

Devoid of feelings
Is the status quo
Not to crumble easily

Don't give in to temptation
Play a song of melody
However sweet it may be

Incubus of the night
Drawing you with its charms
Behind it hides the serrated arms

Hypocritcal Cupid
Poison lines its arrows
With an inverted head

Ma Cherie

How I wished I could call her ma cherie
The apple of my eye oh how sweet that is!
Her lying there among the soft gossamer lounge
Looking ever so peaceful and lovely

The beauty of the sunset pales in comparison
Blooming flowers metamorph into weeds in Eden
Her aura ever so addictive
Let Venus be the judge!

Bright orbs of her eyes
Windows to her very soul
Have so bewitched poor me
Turned me into a fit of salivating corpse
Drowning haplessly in her beauty

O but she is not mine!
What a tragedy that befits the jester, the lament of the soul
Rings out through the streets a funeral pall
Bells tolling without a stop in the yonder
“Rafael come back! Reality calls for you!”

Au revoir ma cherie
My heart pines for you so
And we are separated again
You in this world me in its mirror
Hope could never ever bridge the distance

Oh how I yearn! My heart cries out loud!
The withdrawal from such spatial bliss
A feast for all the five senses
Like an angel tearing out his wings
I would give up flight of fantasy
Just for a twinkling of eternity

Condemn myself to hell ever
An angel shackled in chains
Burning in the depths of purgatory
Save for the icy comfort of your company
A cooling salve for my burning soul

Letter #19

I always have a penchant for having random thoughts whenever I am walking from one point to another. Take for instance yesterday. As I was making my slow way to work in the sultry afternoon, I had a sudden inclination to write down some insidious thoughts that had crept into the chambers of my mind. It would look very foolish to the commonfolk, but as I was without my parchments and scribe, I could do little except to imprint its image upon the frame of my mind as hard as possible and once I reach a place with the appropriate writing materials, I could at least hope to put my thoughts into writing. But, for some reason or another, it all slipped my mind and I couldn't remember a single bit of what I was thinking. That kind of feeling is absolutely dreary as you pondered whether you might have lost a gem that was in the making. You never know. I shall strive to put some pens and paper with me at least most of the times.

Somehow, the last article that was on the previous post triggered the moans of my fellow Rhys. The fact that goth was misunderstood by some "asinine" igonoramuses to be of "anti-Christ, suicidal...", you get the idea, is largely misconstrued by that rocker Marilyn Manson. As was stated in the article of Religious Tolerance,

"The public incorrectly commonly associates Goths with Marilyn Manson. 10 "Manson publicly presents himself as a follower of the Church of Satan... He was ordained a priest in the Church of Satan by the [late] founder, Anton LaVey. Many fans refer to him as the Rev. Marilyn Manson." 9 (Actually, Manson is not a follower of that Church; he was simply appointed as a Reverend within the Church by its founder, Anton LaVey.) From this Satanic connection, the perception has grown that Goths are frequently linked to Satanism. There are a few Satanists who are also Goths, but they are rare"

So as one can see, goth doesn't mean anti-Christ, being Satanists or all. Wrongly stated in that article is that many goths were the reflection of popular culture. Do you see it being popular at all? Do you see masses of goths around? The answer to that is a resounding NO. In fact, at this moment right now, to the extent my my feeble knowledge and what I can gleaned from the streets, carrying a crumbler bag is perhaps the materialistic reflection of popular culture. Indulging in idolising boybands and whatever sex bands would also reflect that I believe. Correct me if I am wrong.

Goths do have their own religions, by and large being atheists or agnostics themselves, if not neopagans or wiccanism. Many people I know practises Wiccanism or are neopagans themselves. And don't worry my dear Rhys, goth is not a movement nor a trend. As mentioned in the goth primer http://www.sfgoth.com/primer/faq.html#fad, goth culture has been around for 20 long years and is showing no signs of waning. However, mainstream interest in goth is fad-based, and tends to come and go. Your needs would be better served if you go ahead and check out the primer's FAQ.

Well Rhys, the stereotypes you mentioned are kind of news to me. I have not heard it before. Maybe because I live in my own world. But let all of them think what they want. I don't bother to go around changing other people's false opinions. Let them whisper and snicker.

Au revoir.

Yours truly
Aristocrat


Quote:
Why do goths wear black?

It's such a straightforward sort of color. I never squint at a black tee shirt, wondering if it goes with my black jeans. I never have to get up in the morning, thinking "I wonder what color I'll wear today." And black goes with anything. As long as the anything is black.
- Neil Gaiman

Letter #18

-edited away for hygenic purposes-What I see on the streets are only the latest fashion from Taiwan or from the U.S of A. I see people mimicking their idols, we see people mimicking television series. Perhaps that might explain the proliferation of flared mini-skirts that I see around nowadays. I see people frolicking in their own naive joys of taking photo-stickers. Aren't the humans here shallow? Do they ever entertain thoughts of the universe? Preoccupied with worshipping idols of gold and glory, I supposed they have already forgotten about true spirituality. Anyway, before I started rambling on and on, it is very, if not infinitely difficult, to find a like-minded person. I have already searched high and low, all over, and yet, contact has not been made. Isn't there a single soul out there who shares what I am feeling??

My favourite shade is now black. Or aren't shades black at all? Those shades that linger at Hell's Gates moaning for you to join them, or those by the Siren's Peak? I feel comfortable only in those colours. The only thing missing now is just a cigarette lazing in between my fingers, with the smoke curling around me. Somehow, I haven't get to that part yet. And it is taking an enormous amount of willpower for me to do so. One day, I might succumb. One day.

Increasingly, as I became single yet again, my fascination with goth returned. When I had a soulmate, she took away all my pain, all my wandering thoughts of netherworld, and transmutated it into some other stuff. My time was spent on her. However, that ceased to be. After over two years, I became a rock by myself again, standing in the midst of the lashing ocean, against the tide of time I braced myself. The bone-resin gates against the thundering pounding of my insane thoughts have opened again. Let the pain begin.

Are there any like-minded people out there? Souls with the same calling?

Enough about yours truly already. I do not like to explain myself to the zillions individuals out there. What is goth? People always, by a reflex action, associate goth with satanism, which is totally wrong and off the mark. Far off the mark as I would later point out.

Take a good read at this site.

http://www.religioustolerance.org/goth.htm

And find out for yourself.

The wonders that exist out there beyond your feeble imagination.

Yours truly
Aristocrat

Letter #17

Dear Reader,

As I was walking in the early wee hours this morning, when the tranquility of the atmosphere hit me like a brick thrown squarely in the face. I had seldom felt such calmness. It was as if the sea was beside me, and I could hear the waves soothing my perplexed senses. A sense of calm had washed over me, and I felt detached from the world. It was akin to an out of body experience, except that technically, I wasn't out of my body. I felt like I was looking at the world from outside, from the void beyond at the hustle bustle in the city. The people moving around hurriedly like ants, from point A to point B, determinedly with a sense of purpose. However, something was still not right with the people I could see. Even from such a heightened plane, I could sense that they were still incomplete and imperfect in the Lord's eye. Forgive me for I am not a saint myself too, but just a sinner, and an immortal one at that. Where is the emotional core of Man? Where is the spirituality in the golden ages? Every now and then, there would be these New Age hippies that sprout out like mushrooms after the rain, smoking hash and gibbering nonsense to the people. Except that it was not nonsense. They are the only people with enough sense and spiritual ability to ascend the physical plane and elevate themselves into the sixth plane. They don't speak nonsense. They speak the truth. If only those people would bother listening to them. But with the age of rationalisation, the governments seek to "protect" the people from these labelled as weirdos. The hash they called it drugs, detrimental to the body they say. Not so if you use it correctly.

I feel like I am born into the wrong time. I have came into being in this world too late to experience the wonders. No one feels the same thing as me anymore. All they care are materialistic pursuits. Where is the spirituality? Does anyone even know about the lore? Wiccanism? Who practises it anymore? The institutions have drove it far away into isolated corners of the world to prevent the people from seeking out the light. We all live in the darkness now. And everyone is amazingly still contented with their lives. If only they have eyes to see the wondrous things. Call me delusional. Perhaps I am. But my world is more real than yours. In my deluded world, things exist in their correct elements. Not so in yours. Pollution. Natural disasters. Global warming. Sea levels rising. Soon we'll witness the extinction of Man itself, and it will herald another coming age for Earth. A new species will rise up to take over the mantle, and perhaps the vicious cycle will repeat itself all over again.

Yes, I agree. I can see that you are looking at each other and complaining that I am preaching too much. But who cares. When I see your dead corpses flung over the ends of the world, I would be above you and laughing at your stupidity and foolish hubris. Pride will be the end of Man.

Yours truly
Aristocrat

Suicidal Hell

Loneliness claws at my heart
Like an ill-gotten wrench
Of the seedy taverns beyond
Tugging at your purse strings

Tears leave my eyes
As I think about what was not
Drive them away the images of deceit!
Easier said then done

Free thyself from the vicious cycle
Sace yourself and forget about me
For I face a dead end
Of spikes and stakes

It is but a haunting enemy
Leaving no traces
Comes and goes
Like will o' wisps of Calavern

I cry out in surrender
Seeking deliverance yes I will repent!
Suffer me this no longer
Lest I commit myself to hell
Thy will be done!

Have you ever, in the middle of the yawning night, in the dead silence amidst the voyeuristic stars above, feel an ache? An ache in the heart that will never go away. An ache that yearns to be comforted, to be given care. An ache that hurts so much tears involuntarily comes to your beautiful onyx eyes. A yearning to be feed. A bloodlust to be fulfilled. A wish to go into a rampage. Madness.

I feel that some nights. Why? I do not know. Sometimes I feel like tearing my hair out, or punching my fists into the wall and see which one is harder. I feel like testing my strength, my will against his. Blasphemous ain't I? That's the way it is dear reader, that's the way it is. Go away if you fear, go away you God-fearing creature. Like the overcast skies above, my hopes are gone.

I wish to escape from this world, this world of pain. This revolving world of madness and stupidity.

Escape.

To Arcadia.

My Utopia.


Yours truly
Aristocrat

Futility

Wordless
A stony stare into space
Dark depths of the void awaits
A happy release from the
Palpable sorrow of the chains of mortality

Motionless
Except for a motion barely perceptible
Trying to change the course
Break the chains of fate
With a miniscule knife

A sense of numbness overcame me as I was reading this pathetic softcover book titled "TSGS 12". My dear R, you deserve to be flamed, much like your publisher. You call your book the "True..."? Well, I could have pardon you for your egostical trangression the first time round that you wrote or put together a flim flam of stories in your so-called Book 1. However, time and time again you test us, you test our ability to strike back do you? You test our existence, however much we do not like to be in the limelight. You test our immortal patience, you test our iron wills, you test our anger and ceaseless fury. I tell you, we are not bound to anger easily. We are not as fragile and submissive to hubris as you weak humans. However, do not seek, I repeat, do not seek to test the limits of us. You will not like the repercussions of such trespassing. Don't try new stunts R.

Your book is jarring to say the least. Preposterously insulting and demeaning! Never ever label this kind of low-graded humbug trash as true. For it is not. Don't lower yourself to hypocrisy as the others dear R. I know for a fact that you are not that. Flip to the pages of 137 if you will dear readers out there. Go and take a look at that falsely labelled Special Story. Does it not remind you of a Chinese B-graded cheesy movie? Surely you can be better than that R. Did you not filter your stories? Or has wearing the hood cut off the oxygen to your celebral organ? Or did you even possess one in the first place? I don't mean to defame you or what my dear, but somehow, this really strikes me in all the wrong places. How could you ever let these people rape your book with senseless stories that are full of falsehoods? I pity you. I pity you that such a work of art (or not) has stooped to such low standards. And your team of ghost writers. Yes, I do believe they are ghost writers. Writers that do not exist, false writers.

Falsehoods everywhere. False prophets. Anitchrist. Doomsday. Armageddon. Hypocrisy rules the Earth with his sword and shield. And you all humans are blind to see it. Blinded by the shades of Greed and Lust. I pity the world. What a sad state that you all have landed yourself in.

Yours truly

Aristocrat

Drought

Bouts of happiness abound
Like some sickly old fool
Prancing in an ill-gotten wheelcha

The pen lies forgotten
Upon the dusty parchments
The nib caked with dried ink

Cobwebs clung
To every spectre of life
Refusing to let go
Shrivelling away From the
Taint of joy that dries up the Source

Paralysis is compulsory
When you choose the beaten path
And you get to sit
In the wheelchair too!

Innocence

Dead of the night
At the height of winterchill
Smell of kerosene burning
From the lamp in the perpetual darkness
In a wood shed yonder

A infinitesimial speck of light
Trying its best to
Drive away the dark

The little girl curled in the corner
Red cloak in tatters
Mindless of the cold
Dead to the world
Dull to its stupidity

Dancing
To the great feast beyond
And riches of the mind

Dance of The Dead

Half a silver of the moon
Hanging upon wisps of purple clouds
Casting an ominous presence upon the earthly figures
Dancing on the shores
Transcending reality into ecstasy

Mortifyingly unfolds before you a scene of
Sins and excesses
Mass orgies of the mind
Oblivious to the surroundings
The stick figures carry on their transgressions

Take a closer look at their faces if you dare
Zoom in for a mind-altering experience
Observe their hollowed expressions of happiness
Their skins no more than husks of shriveled consciences

Haggled faces greet you with glee
Eyes that see but are not seeing
Sunken orbs of stone
Faculties deprived of use
Stone lions guarding the looted homes

Limbs a’flaying left and right
Swaying to the Devil’s movements
Invisible strings
Puppets in a play

A grandiose play if there was ever one
Set upon the vast stage of the globe
You the sole audience in its balcony seat
Viewing the horror of horrors in all its blackest glory
The Devil the flourishing conductor beneath

Take a closer look than before
And stifle the heinous pumping of your guilty heart
Are you shocked
To see familiar faces hanging upon the heads?


Entangle themselves the figures in the thick threads
Of insatiable wants and desires for all things golden
Cutting off their only way to salvation
Death comes and meets them for a coffee session

Empty husks upon the shores lit by a full moon
And if you look closer and
Horror doesn’t strike you

Figures devoid of faces you will see
Hanging lifelessly
Like slates wiped all over for a fresh start
The conductor looking for fresh blood

Auditions have begun
All over again

Letter #15-Irony

Darkness, I don't think I can live without it. For Darkness my dear, she is my Muse and my inspiration, my fountain of wealth, where all my knowledge springs from. All I know of that is if Light appears and Darkness retreats, I'll have nothing to speak about, nothing to write about. Which is what is happening now. Absolutely stupefying! How do you write when there is nothing for you to write at all?? Impossible senoritas!

Just to give you an example of positivity:

I just love my workplace. Can you imagine a bar wherer when someone asks you to rinse a pint glass and draft a beer for him, the bartender uses beer to rinse it??!! Lol..I love my bartenders man..

That was a very terrible example. It just gives me the shivers thinking about it....

Little Pieces

Satin red blankets around curves,
A little bit of blood around the face,
Oh my such a beautiful moment,
Let me perforate your little heart.

I can't let you scream around here,
So put your pain inside a little kiss,
Wrap your lips around my knife,
So that your skin can fall apart.

Eyes wrapped in crimson blood,
Fingers raping every single pore.
Let your screams be your death,
I want my knife to take your breath.

And this music of your screams,
Makes this moment a perfect drug.
Voices echo your gentle shrieks.
I think I am falling away to hell.

Slowly twisting your fragile bones,
I hear little cracks inside your flesh.
Metal nails make a hole on your chest.
I want to rip apart your gentle breasts.

Let me desecrate you one more time,
I wonder if my kisses make you numb,
And if my touch makes you brake apart.
Let my fangs be your noble redeemers.

Pale neck with purple swollen paths,
Ready to be caressed by my ripped lips,
Let me step on your bleeding heart.
And then I'll boil your blood and drink it.

I just want to be taken away from hell,
I guess blood becomes my addiction,
Little drug of mines let mi kill you softly,
I just want to cut you into little pieces.

Courtesy of DeadlyReaper