rgdinmalaysia on Xanga

“The press today is an army with carefully organized weapons, the journalists its officers, the readers its soldiers. But, as in every army, the soldier obeys blindly, and the war aims and operating plans change without his knowledge. The reader neither knows nor is supposed to know the purposes for which he is used and the role he is to play. There is no more appalling caricature of freedom of thought. Formerly no one was allowed to think freely; now it is permitted, but no one is capable of it any more. Now people want to think only what they are supposed to want to think, and this they consider freedom.” - Oswald Spengler

rgdinmalaysia

- Name: rgdinmalaysia
- Gender: Male
- Member Since: 3/29/2008

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Saturday, 28 November 2009

A POEM

THIS IS THE OTHER PLACE

Don’t let them fool you
With air conditioning and weekends off
Standing waist deep in shit
Waiting for the next round of handstands to begin

There is no hiding a palace among the miniature houses of classic suburbia
There is no hiding the dog whistle that only the sensitive can hear
And then only they can see the hypocrisy
Tell us how to live our lives then behave in an opposite way

A fornicating horrible mess
This is the hope for the future?
Used and contaminated
Let them spill out into a used-up world
Grown up children with shocked and blasted souls

Two by two, they enter the palace
Clutching credit card receipts
Bits of string tied around their thumbs
To remind them of meaningless day to day activities
Anything that takes away from the sting of failure

Anything that reminds you of a summer matinee
And responsibilities that make sense
“I work hard, I play hard, where’s my life?”
Debt is the tool of repression

The fat man in the palace with an ominous future and a task at hand
Stroking your hand with grandfatherly reassurance
“There, there, I know how you feel”
He wears a white coat and he opens your eyes
You flinch because you know what’s coming next
“What do you mean? This IS the other place!”

Thursday, 26 November 2009

TWO POEMS

THE FROWN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

Please be genuine
Make me never regret that risks that were taken
And promise no one the time penciled in for the entwined
Evil is passion denied not passion expressed

The devil enjoys flash photography
He likes the filthy moment
He counts on the hard phony orbit of clinging satellites that need a pushier presence to spin around

Oh how we burn
When we can escape the interruption
Leave the windows open but close the curtains
No one will hear us over the sounds of midday

A FEAST LAID OUT FOR ALL THE CELEBRANTS

Snake-like angel, you make it seem okay
To take advantage and lay in bed half the day
A knowledge of what’s coming granted to very few

VIP seating in a house of worship
Stuffing their faces
Their dull snorts
Their hammer like eyes trying to drive bent nails into thick planks of wood and failing

At approximately seven o’clock, the remaining dishes are cleared away
At approximately seven o’clock, the apples shaped stars mate with a fat headed populace

Holding hands, they stand on a precipice of gluttony
Mass murder, misadventure, overindulgence, who can tell the difference?
It’s a good time to be a tapeworm

Saturday, 21 November 2009

A POEM

THE LOVE THAT WILL KILL YOU

This will be the last time
You take an object directly to heart
And this object is just a space filler
A replacement that can’t be bought

This will be the last time
Your blood turns cold and feet are unable to move
A babbling, drooling fool with nothing better to do

This will be the last time
Cupid slew monstrous indecision
Forcing the first few words out
Like a victim of choking receiving a blow to the solar plexus

There is bond that forms
With something potentially fatal
It covers your face and hands with warm, rotten kisses
When you reach a point where you want to break away,
It’s too late for that!

Over our heads then buried under six feet of soil
To find what makes a man/woman complete
Is to find finality
Finality of life!, an addict’s dream!, the hollow person’s burning needs snuffed out!

Saturday, 14 November 2009

A POEM

THE CURSE BABY

All the parents are a quarter past dead
Interlopers tangled in unavoidable fate
The vessel of fate is an unassuming Jonah
The tar baby we hug and the embrace cannot be broken
Cannot get away from a chilly accidental mortality
Which renders us overcautious and paranoid

The creation of new life is a good luck certainty
But after all this time, I find I’m too late with generosity
The misbegotten orphaned name
The requiem once uttered
Then everything else is forgotten for the sake of mental health

Returning to an empty house
Sitting alone in the kitchen in the dark
Adopted the struggle that cannot be won
But adopted is not the right word
I was born into the acting out of a self-defeating scenario
Down, down, lower still, down

Saturday, 07 November 2009

A POEM

CONFESSIONS OF A FAILED DIPLOMAT

I don’t know when exactly your hand slipped from mine
Your arm and body no longer clinging to mine
Falling back into the sea
I caught a glimpse of your head slipping beneath the water
Where were you when negotiations broke down?

Now I live off the earnings of an older woman
And tell my story to anyone who will listen
Global postings form the material for a gifted raconteur
Tales from the bargaining table
She said “what do you have to offer?”
And I said “nothing”

Shot off a flare for a rescue party that’s not coming
There will be celebrations across this regressing country
Victorious hands tearing down all the posters and banners
While the expelled former leaders hide in basements and the country
The two sides couldn’t agree on any of the original points
I broke every truce with the one I love