GUY FAWKES NIGHT (1)

GUY FAWKES NIGHT.

(First impression.)

"I think that absolute truth and statistics are two different things. Statistics for the most part suggests truth but doesn't really always tell it. Hence I'd say that statistics and absolute truth are completely independent of each other."

I never do drink at these parties mother...I really only think about how these lonely solipsistic thoughts are effervescent; like soulless and friendless clouds muttering about other sad lights in the dark, shining sadly in distress and writing things on this phone...People are around him.

And now I eat a slice of pizza, which will of course remind him of you soon- laughing about in your cute little dress while I pretend the night was restless and breathless. He couldn't hear the whispers then. They were drowning in the rhythmic and pounding vibrato of young and don't give a fuck, let's smoke a blunt.

Even the cigarettes and beer bottles were drowning as well; in the incomprehensible bass of my apparently misunderstood generation...He couldn't hear the whispers then. I however am typing now and do. I can see your smile; I can feel your hair, skin, breath, no. He hadn't even wanted to go until he saw you. He hadn't even wanted- I can read my novel now.

Everyone's gone home including me. I am now busy dawdling past midnight and finding words and stories. I obviously have nowhere else to find adventure but in dead and silent screens- why are we asleep? Are we not moved by today and tomorrow? Is no one interested in yesterday?

Though everyone had gone home except him. It didn't take much for him to start thinking. He just needed to be walking or talking. If not talking then simply just not talking- sorry, what did you say? Oh, yes, he does think those last fireworks were rather pretty. Did he mention you are too?

I think that perhaps he is still there, wandering and meandering...looking for places, looking for people.

Have I Mentioned Before That I Can Rap?

Well, have I mentioned before that I can rap?

***

Opus. 1
Bruno Smet, Tawanda W.T Mulalu, Roger Waters.


I.

('Is There Anybody Out There?')

Individuality of heartbroken causality
The chest muscle ripped out in bloody fatality
Existence a game that can't even channel my
Code, my blueprints, not part of the lie
Tossed to the other side of the equation
I; the variable to be eliminating
Aware of complexities in calculating
The difficulty in the truth that I am stating
A heaven that aspires and desires to possess
The soul and the mind of my intellect
That speaketh beyond the mundane dialect
To the core of the issue through the soft tissue
But locked up, choked up, pretending not to hurt too
Still, on goes tomorrow like a visual reel
Feast for the eyes, leaving out lies and real
I am a closed system with ethereal addiction
To the stars of the universe and beauty of fiction
But contrast in reality, burden of my entropy
Fissures in my mind reveal that I am faulty


II.

('Swinging Sadness' [Trance])

Distant dreams where I can't find
My ambition and my peace of mind
Aimless wonderings through reality
And lost in words and numbers concurrently

(x2)

III.

('Is There Anybody Out There?' cont.)

Ignoring the need in our precious little moments
For cold, hard logic and all of its importance
The Burden of proof long cast out the window
And result in tumult with its reverbrating flow
Endless, soulless ignorance results of that
And countless, amountless, verbose combat
Our centers struggle to keep rhythm to the score
Therefore, henceforth Muzak played ever more
Sad black credits rolling quickly down the screen
Lack of medics showing swiftly crowns our dreams
To the dirt, and of course your heart hurts
Back to the floor, as your pathetic pressure soars
Everyone has answers but you know they aren't sure
Resolving the problem simply by believing
We find instead the opposite unearthing
The dirt that once covered our lowliness
Has drifted apart, revealing loneliness
The burden of proof- brought back to light
We can now only set our own souls alight


We're dying as we're burning
And we're trying as we're yearning
And we're crying as we're hurting
And I'm sighing as I'm learning.



***


Copyright to Pink Floyd for the song 'Is There Anybody Out There?' from 'The Wall.' 
Credits to Bruno Smet constructing the 'Swinging Sadness' bridge with his awesome guitar.
Oh,
 I wrote the lyrics.

Of course I'm not moody!

Some Poems For a Weekend.

(Ah...what can I say today? 

I remember talking to my unhappy boarding buddie today before I left school. The sky was fast darkening, and long before the threat of rain dwindled down to only mild existential angst. It was a beautiful and sad late afternoon, and when my mom finally arrived I didn't quite wish to leave. My boarding buddie hastily removed the shirt I lent her to save her skin from the mosquitoes: we both preferred it if my mom did not see this and draw out suspicious conclusions.

 Before that I had walked another friend to a combi stop not too far away... and could her the men in their little bus-taxis speeding on; wielding loud and cantankerous car horns... We are talking about 'commitment issues', and heartbreak: this is my fault. She took a picture of a poem from an anthology I was carrying. ('Solitude' by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)  As I watched her go I was reminded of the ghosts that I had told my best friend about, the same ghosts I read about in 'This Side of Paradise' and the same ghosts I feared would frighten me the moment I recalled any word I have written for anyone, anywhere: 

"[and you won't forget any time soon, you will see her ghost, hear her name whisper even during equations, even as you sleep or cannot sleep because you see her eyes, you holding her spectre...asking yourself why and what vision you are seeing... fluttering around like some ghastly butterfly looking for a long dead flower that isn't you... that's how you feel.] "

You have to admit that this particular piece of shameless self-promotion is actually relevant to what was being said...anyhow, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is coming soon to a solipsistic blog near you. 

I had messaged him on Facebook about the ghosts  (that exact same message actually) to help him get over his break-up.  He thinks that I can give him advice since I have 'experience' in such matters, so I thought it might be a good idea to tell him the blatant and painful truth about all. After all, I am so obviously and shamefully 'experienced'. Unsurprisingly, his response was an insinuation that I should go fuck myself... I cannot blame him, obviously.  And even earlier, before the walking my friend to the combi stop I talked to another girl in my Form who happens to have the same French tutor I have. We sat there at Thornhill Primary School, munching on french fries as I told her silly things about how I feel and shit. But that doesn't matter. 

Even before that I called my girlfriend on my French friend's phone as my English teacher has confiscated mine for a week, though that's a story for another day. (Regular readers, if I have any, might be confused about WHO this 'girlfriend' is (she is NOT a robot, program, sex doll, book, etc)  especially considering all the fuss I make about everything on this blog. To save yourself the trouble it is worth considering the chronological order of  the blog posts 'My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep' and 'Second Love.'). 

It was interesting: hearing her whisper her through the phone...parental fear is a transcendental quality of life. No racial or cultural boundaries can deny a child of parental suspicion and punishment. When will I see her again? I think.  She has gone so abruptly, so paranoid thoughts start seeping in... 

Like I could possibly resist using this picture again. Sorry Tao. XD

I'm talking to her now as I'm writing all of this. I miss her of course. Yet now I seem to be quite emotionally stunted, having put all my emotional energy into all of this writing in the first place. I'm really sorry for that. I feel like I can be such a horrible boyfriend at times... I wish I could just tell you these things rather than put them up here. Why don't I? I probably should. I should. I will.
...After I'm done posting this blog post. 

***

Damn. You're asleep. 

But even before this I had-
Fuck it!... This is supposed to be a post about poetry!

So here we go. )

SOME POEMS FOR A WEEKEND.
Tawanda W.T Mulalu [1997-]

_____________________________

Happy one month darling.
______________________

CLASSROOMS.

When eyes meet, lifetimes flicker

into brief birth, in seconds.

They then disappear, switched off

fading from glow as they look away.

And those small daydreams,

memories and ghosts;

diffuse off, dead.

Like momentary winds or clouds

shadowing the sunlight, sweetly.

...or the times I should have

talked to you but didn't.

Instead we had then looked away.

***

I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TODAY.
(or even wake up tomorrow)

When did life become so mundane;

so lifeless, soulless, uninteresting,

painful.

Was it when God became unreal?

Or when I had started to base everything

around  axioms and atoms

               neurons and synapses

               numbers and words

               pen and paper

               keyboards and page breaks

               dead poets and their self-written eulogies...

then       Wolfram and Wikipedia

               Newton and Einstein

               Socrates and Camus

               Hemingway and Fitzgerald

               prose and verse

               e^(i*pi) and F=ma

               me and her

               me and you

               me and us

               me and I...
                            

    Or of cloudless skies dawdling in black nothing

with savage stars, drops of white glistening ink,

crudely flicked into existence by old used paintbrushes

    Onto a large and empty canvas, once colourless and dull,
from a tin of primordial paint in stock since creation

from youthful minds too bored to find something else to do

but observe and listen
    to his own little brush strokes. 

***

TIME.

A wall in some school. Hidden in shadow.

T T. Crossed out. T A. Crossed out. T H. (rubbed out with tears and rewritten again...Crossed out.)

R T.

So now we're all waiting, for the next cross tomorrow.

***

SENTIENCE.

The dog was unaware of the beauty of roses, as it ripped them to petals, blossoming shreds.

Existence is such: a wonderful thing. 

***

MORNING ON A WEEKEND.

He is woken up, rather savagely by his dear, sweet mother. Church. Exasperated, and desperate the poor child registers the coming torture of the Gospel and to himself he sighs: "Surely even you mother, tire of the Lord sometimes." Still he wakes from the bed like an undead creature. Still he gets into the bathtub as would he his grave. Still he shakes his head at the holy bred preacher. Still he lets his fun be undone as he lets the brave, Congregation sway him, side to side, in the rhythm of above. What do they see? Or rather what do they need to see? All the poor child sees is a beautiful sky. And that's all he needs to see to smile.

***

ONE MONTH.

I am trying to think of beautiful words.

         Trying.

And I can't have used up these feelings already
        I can't have.

I still have far more to say...

...

Is my mouth dry? 

I kiss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

Is my heart empty?

I miss you.

Will the words come out now?

…

'Darling I love you,

do you know that this is true?

That I stick to you,

as a toddler gets the flu?'

...

                     Am I sick?

These can't be the words!

Those can't be the words!

So please…

let me try that again…

…

'Dear lover,

It is hard to be

poignant, poetic, romantic;

this early and this soon.

Perhaps it's better

if I just buy you some chocolate;

before shops close- too soon.’

...

And so

I'll just leave it at that:

I know I adore you so much.

Even though

I cannot say it

particularly well at all.

______________

Fin.

______________

Oh yes. Paint DOES make for artistic masterpieces.

Anyhow, see ya around everybody.

NB: 

- For non-African readers a 'combi' is a minibus used for public transport.

- In the poem 'Time' those aren't my tears. Just saying.