HMMMNNNNNN.... how could such an irrelevant piece be a huge booster to a man's ego?? give it a shot for yourself and see what loads of crap they'll tell you. I'm tempted to believe them though.. kekekekeke..
adieu and farewell
-Ben Dover
hahahaha the praises are expected again, this time....
signing out,
-your messed up captian
Standing here in the deluge of water
as inundated by the heavens itself
breathing through the air that the rain lets be
ponder the significance of certainty in puissance
stare up to the once azure sky
cigarettes moist, flames yet ablaze
pointless ruses to sustain man's yen
for judgement on animus, inane and vain
(how insignificant we are to the powers of the world yet we stomp around like two bit gangsters in china-town.... we don't forsee change, yet we dwindle how much we choose to know. Please note that this is a draft. Dreadful writers block again, as i am un-mused)
Je suis de retour...
the pain through the arms
of he who strikes
the flawless note
of a violin
the strings though wrenched through spine
accosting tears hidden
clandestined to stagnate
the pain of acoustics
reverberating through every inch
of that which makes us be
the cries of plight
from the solace of deep within
burys the pleasures of a million silk beds
delectations as caressed
on the nape of the neck, the thighs
the calves and the space running down one's chest
as this note struck encompasses
and all is deemed lost but the island where the note is derived
the violinist's vehemence
upsurging the staccato
as the legato loses ground to the imminent triumph
the triumph of man
defeat the dark and the light alike
as a simple breath is drawn
in the big hush
as voices carry through the airs of neutrality
as hearts decimate in a din of nothing
the promise of love ensues from undecided truth...
the beauty, the pulchritude.
(I'll give you guys three guess what this poem is all about. Clue = fundamentals of procreation)
The dry spell is gone i am reinspired. and am reminded of the epidermic feel, the human contingence. Like cradling fragile crystal flues, setting them gently on satin, to the bulldozer-like motions our physique is made capable of. Brutal and beautiful all at one.
And the feel of hearts incontiguous. How i am reminded. How old i have become. Damn, a few more years, i'm gonna look like letterman.
one of the few i'm writing, happy.
I happened upon a blog that truly does the effort of bringing together the un-judged, un-adulterated, un-bigoted and true blue expressions of the inner self via poetry.
here, you can find the raw, unstudied styles of penning (that's a compliment), that somehow achieves to bring you close to the sense of the word it self.
and on this blog, they did a post where we were to contribute a stanza to an ongoing poem, which abruptly ended with my two-bits. cheeeyy... (my part is in blue)
From Poet's Who Blog
It's bleeding skin, visible sin-
a haunting and obvious chorus.
Weep for us, weep for us.
Toils in stone and dust, and
crimes of love and lust;
now scarlet gash binds us all
Memories faded, lives wasted
woven sins and joys infested
we tread along, we trudge alone.
in the hopes of the joys unknown
Wounds and burns still live on
still we tread along, we trudge alone.
to trudge along these shores ajar
baren woes, like smoothened pebbles
worry all that which carries no weight
worry none for the shores afar
First three lines by Sara from The Shores of My Dreams
Next three lines by Nishant from Absorbed
Next six lines by Soham from The Soul and the Witness
Next four by Ben from Resonance of Reverberations
After reading this, i expect praises from everyone. I'd praise myself but that'll make me appear to be narcissistic and vain, and that is not the message that i'd like to bring across. Self praise is no praise after all.
So please, let the flattery and the accolades of adoration pour in and flood this poor little struggling heart of a portfolio manager.
Salut! Je ne fatigue... ZZZzzzzzzzzz......
St. Augustine once said that evil has no embodiments...
evil has no manifestations and has no form
evil was but an absence of good. Man's true self is good, but when he chooses to commit an evil act
he is but turning away from good
from who he truly is.
I SAY IT'S A LOAD OF CROCK!
through my vast research into the human psyche, extensive exercises of deduction, and the multitude of emotional pursuits i have performed via experimantions vis-a-vis theoretical imperatives, i have found out the following:
There are no humans. There are only monkeys. The axiom = if good is found in man, good does not exist for there is no man. there are only monkeys.
Rationale: When one man brutally murders or rapes another human being (for example purposes), they say his act was "heinously inhumane".
Inhumane = lacking the qualities of a human, i.e. compassion, pity. Animal like.
animals do not rape, do not murder for the 5 dollars, do not take pictures of naked children, do not torture masses of populations by means of terrorism or kill in the name of God.
Ergo, if the arithmetical probability of the axiom is correct, here is no man.
Only monkeys.
hahahaha... today i am feeling irrationalbly resourceful, due to the reciept of a boost of inspiration from a past shadow.
a tiny crumb
on a chest of burden
a bag of pens
yet heavy the hands that steer the quill
stood a arbiter
the social isolation of an individual
stood the voice
of a thousand in one
ajar, the hat atop the head
tributaries part from rivers
of ink
of a crumb
of burden
(i need redemption from the writer's block. it's been omnipresent for far too long. if anyone can tell me what the poem means, thou shalt have gained my undivided respect for life)
-the lost captain
I have hence encountered the fearsome writers block but in the transition of literary mental secession, i have begun to doodle... : )
I was awaiting the the arrival of the highly unreliable public transport and my brain was irredeemably restless. I pulled out my pierre balmain pen (which traditionally writes like crap but looks good in my breast pocket, and was also a gift from a dear one) and started doddling on "the sun" paper.
Through theories of deduction and processes of elimination, i have deduced that the only time art is good is when it comes directly tied to an apparent emotion, e.g. boredom, fear, sadness, rage. I know it's a commonly know truth, but never did i expect this to be with such discernible truthness.
When we sit down with a pure intention to write, the abominations that result are horrible. But when you paint (either with a brush or with words) out of extemporary action, the beauty shows.
The beauty shows in honesty. In it's pure crystalized form.... With social conformity set in man's minds, these simple truths have expended into walls upon walls of superfical constituants. Simply put, when we truly madly deeply become our true selves without the need of any external factors, beauty always prevails. It is inherent in ALL of us, but for some, it's far too deep to retreive.
PURSUANT to that, i come to my point. I would like to boast a doodle i did this evening. It is nothing compared to what i used to be able to do, but i think with a little bit of honing, i may yet again retain my sketchers touch. This was just inspired by the strong wind that blew through the station.
(I know that this mile long explanation does not justify such a simple doodle, but it makes me feel good and i'll boast nonetheless)
p.s. now that i have deduced this, coupled with some pretty good advice from dreamer idiot (eugene), i shall be posting more poetry which i have jotted / doodled in my little black book, to subject it to all of your scrutiny and seasoned criticism. Truly appreciate it.
This is a tribute to the mind. Where beauty mixes with gruesome horror. Where regardless of the efforts of man, beauty doesn't always seem to prevail... especially nowadays. And people seem to use their ding-dongs less and less; common sense is no more common.
evidence of the mind
found among anger's deformations
which little chokes, whence attempting to find
sanctified beauty within imaginations
to estimate malice
the short distance travel of thought
the foresight of grandeur
merely a breeze blown in a draught
fecundity of the mind
engage in greatness
waste not wisdom to conform
the power of amplitude, wastes not the will of percipience
daydreams fill the day with dreams...
this is Ben signing out and setting my brain to hibernate and defragment (sleep)
I dug up some of my miscellanous papers that have been cluttering my room for the past few years and was about to dispose of them when i chanced upon a few sketches i drew 7 years ago. I thought it would be worth showing off and make me feel good about myself for a while, albeit my personal reveries being short lived, for (God forbid) i can't draw like this anymore. Practice makes perfect, and no one's perfect. So screw it. So tell me what u guys think ok? I don't think i'll be chancing upon many of these in the future.
SHOULD YOU WISH TO PURCHASE ANY OF MY LABORIOUS MASTERPIECES BELOW, THEY ARE PRICED AT A LOW FLAT COST OF $(RM)25,000.00
small price for the development of the arts.
: ) si c'est bon!!
P.S. - forgive me for the substandard images for i shot them with a poor quality camera
P.P.S - there are a liiiiittle bit more but i won't post them all now, for fear of overshadowing the real stuff... ahhaa..
fights of bane strewn pale
colors point far to the lands of hope
hearts of leaders stay left for sale
why we pursue, this fear of fear
close our eyes, advance the sword
through the bond of men
men who cannot hear
brothers be, after a war
brothers don't stay, anytime else
(let's stop the crap. shit, i feel like John Lennon now)
how heavy these bones
that carry the skin upon which it rests
oh the apathy for the lack of motion
when all is languid at its best
attempts to attempt
none but dormancy prevails
inertia swings form left to right
attempts are to no avail
oh how lazy these bones
that try and try
yet like bricks and stones
the once powerful clock scratches with a sigh
save me from torpescence
no aphorism may state the unstated
for this state remains listless
(shit i'm so lazy... even typing this out has been an ultimately sluggish effort and my fingers defy me by staying faineant. somebody help me! take me out of this slump!)
-socially maladroit
Sit here,
sit here and you shall be whole.
sit here and all is good.
sit here with me, without me, it doesn't matter.
this chair is yours
sit, rock and sway.
this chair is comfortable
this armchair is plush and soft, but the rails are hard.
this armchair is velvet and hairy, suede at best...
rest..
-armchair
You should know
that there are pieces of your mouth
left here unintentionally
it follows around
the shadow of you
and it costs the world to breathe
today i'm thinking of you
with some new memory
and some gray old history
i trip everyday without thinking
just with the shadow of you.
sweetnesses in my life are ripped away
i'm here...
marvels of nature
lay not in the great
not in the vast
save in the seas of slumber
hit the sack
catch some shuteye
waddle in slumber
steal sixty winks
from who is it stolen
for the thief marvels
in the great, vast
seas of slumber
-shagging the sack
if life is important
then why is it so fragile
why is it so hard to hold on to
when living is what we do best
you have taught us that life is worth living
the sheer power of living to the fullest
live on
you always will
farewell friend
orphans of silence
words append the forehead
speak as you may
of the diefication of truth
where the truth lays indiefied
repudiate as you may
of the semblance of truth
succinct formulations of principle
consice verbal brevity
beauty of tongue points not to truth
for truth is furthest
from tongue itself.
-ben, threatened by pens of falsehood
A peach is a peach
A plum is a plum.
A kiss ain't a kiss
Without some tongue.
So open your mouth
And close your eyes
And give that tongue
Some exercise..
Hah! A classic revisited.. Pucker up!!
they can't move
they won't budge
what the hell
benumbing, this sludge
deprived
from this power of motion
what the hell
let's stand in place
-captain of the ship (means i'm still sane... still the captian)
conceited bastards of common prose
breeches the pillars of that which is good
slatterns of sermon
upon the stretcher
the breeched pillars unbreeched
all significance unteethed
harrowing stench of forks on the floor
worry all, that which carries no weight
why why
what does it matter
stay away, stay far
u see no heed through minds ajar
the allurement stands trapped
snagged on a muse, a muse of a toilet
speak for ur word holds but dictum
worthless you are, hence
stay far
-captain ben
i sit here on your wings,
the winds of love scattered across my face,
i sit here bleeding white,
bleeding for the pains of what faces us.
the hangman smiled at me,
i sit here on the wings of the hangman's daughter,
the hangman smiles a million arrows,
how dare i toil with this precipice?
should i fall,i shall remain smiling,
for here i sit,
on your wings.
for here i sit onyour heart,
here i sit trying to make sense of this wind i feel,
smiling in the face of the hangman,
who has dominion of all but the wing which i sit upon.
the wings of your love,
so it is
so it is.
this unfaltering, comfortable bed of feathers
burying faults and flaws in the rows of natures creation,
painted by the winds of your love.
step off from the end,
step down.
step away from the end and let the days fly by.
spread your arms and fall.
rattle the rugs
tear the empty pages.
fall free.
drop on air and smile,
not on your knees and cry
smile all the way down.
why be sad when you can fall
off this edge of blackened gold.
turn all that is belief
turn it to my relief.
fall and i await you beneath
i have grieved.
i too have grieved.
-not a matter
left at the end of a tail
leave at the end of a sword
what is real when all else has failed
what is real, what is a word.
how immeresed, holed up in a lair?
the flower stands, lone, in a jungle
to disburse and be left bare
she waits and waits, and all he does, blow the bugle..
the world she could have, swimming by her ankles
what she chose, has left her arms in shackles..
selflessness = foreplay
the blatant disregard of self.
charity, ex-egotism.
philantrophy.
it's a cold and lonely job.
but someone's gotta do it... : )
The clown is a clown,
the clown remains a clown.
such a beautiful smile.
it's a shame the things he hides behind it.
laughter is the best medicine,
the clown is a doctor.
the clown is sick.
such a shame.
- smile
draft a word to fill it up
squeeze the stone to hear a cough
shut the din for a good night's sleep
peel the orange to thicken the skin
dive dive deep yet it's dark from the start
trading the wings for sticks
the breadth of burden
slow down the scene
point the needle to the north
i can't she says
i can't see
i can't find any hold yet
slip through the leaves
slip through the night
where
where is the Sun tonight
hold on hard not to fall from the line
whispered out my mind to find that it wasn't mine
free to see, yet eyes unseeing
what sinks below shall rise, far unscathed
far from clean
not so pure
in the blood of smiles they bathed
in the red moonlight they reveled
they walk all over me in satin feet
liberated, nevermore.
smile smile
the world jeers behind ur back
far from perfect, far unscathed...
Light a candle in the attic,
blown by winds of change.
but to reignite a flame forsaken,
burn a light true, pure, pellucid and lilly white.
a man travels the world to find his home,
when all along his home has always been the heart he knows.
this is home, i have found mine...
When the moon hits sky,
like a big pizza pie.
I sit at the side and stare,
at the world in which i will eventually play
all i do is live,
all i do is caffeine.
I stand on your shoulders
and the world is smaller.
i live on smiles,
the nutrients of guille.
pull down the sky,
blow out the stars,
clear all the calendars,
dispose of your watches.
you stand in a breath,
seems i see to your shore.
pull you close,
and we'll sing
...dinggle dinggling, dinggle dinggling
When the scarlet fails
and pale falters,
When dead men smile
and strands ensue,
Strands of sorrow,
misery expound.
When grasps of wind fall
extricated from contempt,
To carve a worship
through the clear,
Of men and women whom shall paint,
with the brush of fathom
left intact.
-Benjamin Samin
