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Love Song Posted 10/10/2008 10:03:12 AM Heya, I'm back. My gosh, it feels like an eternity since my last real online venture. I feel detached and disconnected. I missed you guys. With only the bare minimum of online time available to me I have contemplated breaking down, giving in to insanity, but I'm back... I hope you missed me... If not... Okay... Love Song Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (03 October 2008) I sat there staring at the blank pages, waiting for the lyrics to manifest between the baby blue lines of my hard-cover journal. I wish the song within my heart could break free and find its way to yours; I wish I wasn’t wasting my time with these possibly unrequited thoughts. I’m pretty sure you aren’t trying to write me a song, pretty sure that you’re not wasting away at that cracked desk sitting pretty next to your bed. Your eyes are soft as you peer at me from beyond the rim of your cup. “I shall never love again!” You declare dramatically as you replace your coffee-flavored milk upon the rough-hewn surface of our kitchen table. Agape with bewilderment I stare at you. You continue. “I loved him, and he broke my heart. Left me for that other slut he knocked up, now I’m broken, I can’t love again, even if I want.” Your announcement has me inclined to laugh, yet I can feel the sorrow welling up in my heart, slowly making the painful journey to my eyes as the tears wait for their subliminal order. Jokingly I slap you on the back. “I’m pretty sure you will. You’ll find the right guy.” You stare at me, causing me great discomfort. I wish you could see me, see how I feel. I wish you could hear the calling of my heart, the cries of my soul, the unrequited cries. You just stare at me as my attempt to comfort is swallowed by the awkward silence. I clear my throat. “You might be right, but what if you’re wrong? What if I take a chance and get hurt again?” You’re right, I can’t guarantee anything. I can’t guarantee a hurt-free future, I can’t guarantee that your heart will stay intact, I can’t guarantee anything. “Well, at least you have me. If you do end up alone, and I end up alone, we can be alone together.” Your laughter trails off into the twilight. I wish I could express how I feel about you. I wish I knew how to tell you that I love you; that I’ve loved you for so long, that I’ve loved you since that night we stayed awake, talking until after the sun came up. I’ve loved you long before you had gotten used to me, before we walked together, wept together, before we bled together. Remember that night; you placed my hand on your scars, your bare flesh marked in strict, organized lines. My heart beat so fast, as I revealed my own chaotic anger, as I revealed my revenge on those who had dismayed me, my own form of justice. Hurt myself to hurt others. The adrenaline was racing through my mind, and I longed to kiss you, instead I sat there trembling, shaking. I wish I could tell you all this, I wish I could say those three words without fear of consequence. I love you. Instead I find myself steadily losing my mind. There was a time where I tried to ignore you, to push you from my thoughts, to push you away from me. I tried to exclude you from my life altogether, trying to forget you. Even as my girlfriend sat in my arms I would think of you. I eluded you at every turn, trying to turn away from thoughts of you. Even as I kissed my girlfriend you were on my mind. I left her, because of you I left her. I had to. I hated myself, for months. I was swallowed, consumed by self-loathing, the result of the immense love I felt for you. There, I can see you again. There you are depicted in black and white, taking a drag from my Marlboro Filter, the ember blazing a vivid red. As the smoke swirls the room seems to fill with color. Your brown doe eyes are mesmerizing as we stew together in our melancholy. The blood running down the pale skin of your leg is semi-erotic as you sketch your loneliness with the bent safety-pin. I can only stare in awe as you drift away into the ether, your memory fading as I stare at the scars on my own leg. It bares your name. Everything fades away as I regain consciousness. I fell asleep on my book. The page is still blank, except for the date scrawled at the top of the page. I wipe the drool from my cheek, wincing slightly as I get up moments later. Every joint in my upper body aches from the awkward position I fell asleep in, the muscles in my neck and shoulders knotted and tense from the frustration my writers-block has me succumbing to. At least I’ve caught some shut-eye., My insomnia’s been getting worse. Every night I lay awake, thinking about you, the ghost of you keeping me awake, rattling the chains of my heart. Even when I do sleep I find myself waking every few moments, wanting to call your name. I wish I could tell you, I wish I could declare my undying love for you. What would happen though? What would happen if I told you the truth about my feelings? Would it fuck everything up? Would my declaration of dependence upon your emotions cause the beast known as depression rear its head again, its foul breath upon the nape of your neck? Would my words pull you into heaven, or into hell? It’s three a.m. and we’re alone. Everyone is sleeping as we sit trying to blow smoke-rings out the window. Our self-pity-playlist has been playing in the background for at least two hours, fueling our broken hearts with the knowledge that we’re not alone. Just stupid. Why aren’t we milking our depression, exploiting it for cash? If only you could play an instrument, then we could also write songs and compose symphonies to slit your wrists to. I take another drag from the cigarette we bummed earlier from my now sleeping friend. I wish this trembling would stop. “Would you date me?” The question sounded better in my head, and suddenly, upon hearing my own words, I feel nauseous, sick with grief. “What do you mean?” You look puzzled, staring at your toes. “I mean, if I weren’t this pathetic, and we’d never met before, would you date me?” insert awkward silence, continue: “I’m only asking to satisfy my insecurity…” Things are going from bad to worse. You looked confused, and I certainly am. “Well?” You sit smiling, not answering my silly question. I can feel myself drowning. It’s somewhere in the early hours and I’m alone. Everyone is sleeping as I sit next to the pool, in the cold night air, blowing circles into the summer sky. The silence is overwhelming. I’m alone. Somewhere, miles away, you’re still awake. I wish you were here. I still haven’t written you that love song, but I will. Even if it takes a thousand sleepless nights, and a million gallons of nicotine-tainted blood, I will finish that song. Even if it tears my heart wide open, even if I have to throw away an infinite amount of safety-pins and razorblades, drink an ocean of coffee and even more cough medicine, inspiration will come. I’ll force it. I will write that song. I promise. (2) Comments

The Sad Girl Posted 9/22/2008 7:36:13 AM The Sad Girl Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (16 September 2008) I met her on the roof. She was leaning over the edge, staring blankly at the cars below, her thoughts disappearing in the sounds of various parties, traffic and violence. The woman in room forty-two weeping again, I heard it in passing. Why couldn’t I stop and knock on her door? Uncaringly I strolled past her door, ignoring the shouting of her abusive husband. I met her on the roof. She was leaning over the edge, elbows resting on the cold concrete. “Careful now, if you lean too far you might fall…” My words startled her, and she turned around, her gaze meeting mine, her tears held in stasis for one excruciatingly slow moment, her pain shooting through me, piercing my heart. Her frail eyes searched my soul, as I approached. “What?” “I said you have to be a bit more careful, you were leaning too far…” My words trail off disappearing in the haze of the nightlife’s noise. “Oh.” She rummages in the pocket of her faded skinny-jeans, and extracting a battered cigarette, rests it upon her lower lip. “I’ll take that into account next time, you got a light?” I take the Zippo from my own pocket, lighting her fag, we sit down against the wall. “The name’s Max, and you are?” She takes a drag from the Camel before answering, “I’m Leticia, pleased to meet you.” Her expression has changed, from the overwhelming sorrow to one brimming with self-assurance. She’s either an actress, or totally schizophrenic. I embark on my quest, “So, what’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a dump like this?” Smooth, I think, as she smiles softly. “Pick-up lines are so last century love, but since you asked so nicely, and dare-I-say it, almost sincerely…” She paused to take another drag, “I’m a struggling actress… a bit cliché, but true.” I wanted to scream I told you so, but did so silently, smiling secretly to myself. “That’s good, so you’re aiming for Broadway, or the West End?” She started laughing, “Hell no, with all the aspiring actors in our midst I can’t afford to aim that high, the stairs are way overcrowded. I’m just aiming to get paid.” Insert laughter here, zoom, pan left to where I am staring into space, exhaling blue smoke. She looks at me again, her eyes melting my heart frozen by unrequited love, refusing to care, refusing to love, refusing to feel, being thawed by her soft, sad eyes. “What’s your deal? I mean, you know my story, why are you here? Let me guess, musician, right? You’re a musician?” Now it’s my turn to laugh, “Actually I’m a waiter, I want to be a photographer though… Why would you think I’m a musician?” “I don’t really know, maybe because you’ve got that thing around your neck.” She takes the guitar pick hanging around my neck and inspects it with a scrutinizing eye, “whose signature is this?” My heart skips a beat as my mind drifts off to a happier time. In sepia tones I see the black and white romance I shared with Roxy, but the memory is blurred by her betrayal, blurred by the picture of her in bed with Jared, the drummer in her band. “Oh, I don’t know, probably some guitarists I guess… I bought it at a thrift shop.” The lie rolls so easily off of my tongue, my deceit spilling forth so easily into our world. “Cool, cool…” She takes one last look, and lets it fall back to its usual resting place. She’s stubbing out her second fag, and get’s up soon after. “Thanks for the chat; I’ll see you around Max.” She leaves, leaving me to sit back, my thoughts following her down the stairs. Days passed before we passed again, it was in the hall. She wore a dress of red, the color exuberant and fabulous when compared to the drab interior of our inferior building. It was a short dress, and from underneath two smooth legs protruded and ended in red boots, beautiful red boots which made her seem even taller than she already was. “Who’s the lucky guy?” I asked, after letting a wolf whistle escape from my lips but before I cringed at my own stupidity, not for the last time that evening. “Have you mistaken my direction and purpose? Can’t you see that I’m coming instead of going? I mean, really!” For a moment I stood dazed and confused, wondering how anyone could let this beautiful woman escape their grasp. “How do you mean? Seriously? Dressed up but nowhere to go? You should’ve knocked on my door, babes!” Cringe, second time in ten minutes… less than ten minutes. I looked down for a second, ashamed about my failed attempt at flirtation, ashamed that it all was doomed by my over-watching of cheesy late night movies, with writers who get stoned too much and loved too little. I was pondering my plan of action for my evening alone when she interrupted my train of thought. “Sure, where are we going?” I looked up from my old, worn vans-sneakers and into her melancholy eyes, lit up by some strange emotion but still retaining the reflection of the darkness inside her heart. Now I had a problem, a small problem. When I asked her out I didn’t really mean to ask her out and therefore I was unprepared to take anywhere, so my dilemma was as follows: Where to take her? Luckily my instincts never fail me, so I calmly, and coolly and totally collected said: “Anywhere the night takes us!” After the exclamation mark. That’s where more cringing took place. She started laughing, but I grabbed her hand anyway, and we ran out the door. I was ecstatic, I was in love, I was free from the memory of Roxy, I was alive! The police headquarters’ not a great place to spend a Friday evening, yet that is where I found myself, feeling great. Now before you get the wrong idea, there’s no murder mystery to be solved, or a date rape charge to be resolved, no… Why am I here though? I’m here because some total ass came up to us in a club and stuffed his stash into my jean-pocket just before the cops raided the place. The pigs burst in, screaming and shouting, arresting the whole lot of us, and detaining us all until they could search us. I, a love drunk drunkard hadn’t noticed the E in my pocket until I had sobered up a little and found myself in a dirty cell. Jail isn’t that bad if you’re not staying for too long, I’m pretty sure it gets worse as time progresses, but what interesting people you meet! Tonight, in the span of five hours, that’s most of the time I was incarcerated for, I met a drug dealer, a pimp, a wannabe gangsta (His words, not mine. I would’ve called him an idiot.), a male prostitute and a young vandal booked for smashing up some jock’s car, and tagging his house with very naughty words. I feel so happy. I wonder why. I mean, a few moments ago I had a head-ache, but Jimmy (He’s the pimp), gave me an aspirin, so I’m feeling much better now. I think I’ll call the guards. “Hey, dude, you in the uniform, I didn’t do anything wrong! Let me out!!” They don’t seem to be hearing me. “Hey piggy, piggy!” “Ey, shut up, we’ve been listening to you for two hours. Stop it, it’s obviously not working!” That was Joshua, the drug dealer. “Yea, before I have to shut you up myself!” And obviously, Sid the thug, or gangsta as he prefers to be called, he only pretends to be mean, I’m pretty sure he’s a nice guy. Finally the guard comes around, probably after about an hour of screaming and shouting. He unlocks the gate and stares at me. “Hey, white-boy, you’re free to go.” I ignore this antagonism from one of our cities fine protagonists, getting up from the small, hard wooden-bench; I get my skinny white ass out of there before he changes his mind. I walk down the hall, astounded by all the pretty colors, and my mouth hangs open when I see Leticia standing in the bare reception room, a vision, a stunning vision of beauty. “What are you doing here?” I ask, dumbfounded. She smiles. “Daddy’s a lawyer, was no problem.” I laugh as we share a friendly embrace; a very friendly embrace, wink-wink, nudge-nudge. The decrepit old block of flats bids us no warm welcome as we enter through the old glass door on the ground floor. Walking up the steps I can’t help but wonder what she sees in me, if she sees anything in me, that is. Timidly she takes my hand. Her fingers are cold as I grasp them in mine, we continue up the staircase to her flat. She unlocks the door, turning the handle and slamming her frail body against it to open it. She turns to face me, smiling as softly as always, as if she succumbed to happiness completely she might die. Without a word she kissed me. Kissed me passionately, mashing her lips into mine. Then she stopped, and before I could find a grip on reality, I found myself standing in front of a closed door. For a week I heard no word, nor saw the solitary shadow of Leticia. I was starting to worry. I mean, you don’t just kiss a dude and disappear. That’s like kicking a guy where it hurts and running away as he tumbles over, clutching his jewels. Not cool. My ego is still sobbing like a little boy… Another week has passed. I wonder where she is. I went to her flat this morning and hammered on her door. There wasn’t anyone home. Someone should call the cleaning people though; the smell on her floor is something atrocious. Today the police were here, they broke her door down. Found her in the bath, stewing in stagnant water and blood, an empty bottle of anti-depressants floating in the putrid bathtub. There was a note. “To whom it may concern… I can’t take it any longer; this life’s too much for me. I can’t face the future knowing that happiness will always elude me. Max, know that I really did like you, I liked you a lot. Almost thought it was love, but you didn’t call… thanks for being my friend. I’m sorry. Good luck with everything. Leticia…” Leticia… My mind echoed her name, echoed the image of her, those sad, frail eyes. How long had she been here? How long? Why didn’t anyone come and look for her? Was her existence truly so solitary and lonely that no-one came looking for her? They say the corpse is two weeks old. Why didn’t I call her? Why didn’t I knock on her door that night she kissed me? Why? I failed the test, and now I’ve lost everything. In a near comatose state I walk up the stairs to the roof. Standing on the edge, I scream curses at the world, at God, at everything. How? Why? Maybe if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, maybe I could’ve saved her… If only I hadn’t spent that first week waiting for her to call me. ‘Your so cool Max, she can’t resist you, she’ll come knocking at your door at any moment’, I killed her. I should’ve called. I should’ve called. I look down, towards the cars and people. It’s quite a way down. A long way down. I remember the night I met her, she was standing where I’m standing now; was she thinking what I’m thinking now? I close my eyes, feeling myself sway. I hear the cars; I hear the shouting of a pedestrian as he notices me standing upon the roof. His words are total gibberish, but his intention is clear. He doesn’t want me to jump. I didn’t want Leticia to die. I fall. Time stops as I feel the wind against my face. I’ll see her again soon. Leticia. I think I love you. (2) Comments

Another Poem for Andy Posted 9/22/2008 7:35:13 AM I wrote this on Saturday, at like three in the morning, thanks again for Friday nights dance, was fun... The Dance Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (22 September 2008) I couldn’t stop staring As I held you in my arms Move with me, sway me Dance with me, Stay with me The music faded away My heart drowning out everything All that mattered was you and me Sway with me, stay with me I wish I mattered more I wish I could move mountains Instead of feeling like one on the dance floor I wish you’d say you love me Sway with me, stay with me Finally the song came to an end You had to leave and left my hand And the only though within my mind Was sway with me, stay with me Tonight (1) Comments

Facebook Posted 9/18/2008 8:36:07 AM Greetings, fellow bloggers and members of my online family... I would like to notify you that I am to be found upon the pages of facebook under the moniker of Andre Attie Labuschagne... If you find yourselves upon facebook, feel free to invite me... Please note that I have not abandoned you, for I will never be able to find a cooler site for pure blogging than this... I actualy link to this sight from my facebook account... Thank you all so much, farewell! (2) Comments

Cold Toast Posted 9/18/2008 8:32:26 AM Melancholy Mark’s musings concerning cold toast Oh, wretched morning ruined by toasted bread! How can such a cruel concept befall me! This morning, after I had awoken from a blissful sleep I went downstairs as if to devour some warm, nutritious substance to provide me with sufficient energy with which to face the day… instead I found a cold, rather hard, and completely unsatisfactory square of nearly burnt bread, its crumbs decorating the table as I threw it back disgustedly unto the plate. With horror I reeled as I realized that the coffee which my loving parent had provided me with was also this morning tainted by the evil that seemingly intruded upon my life. I peered into the cup, my stomach churning as, woe of woes, I realized Mother had added milk to the divine drink I so adore, thereby rendering it impure and too profane to consume. Ignoring the cup I turned back to the hardy meal before me, only to realize that my delusions had once again tricked my frail mind, so weak with hunger, for before me was no hardy meal, but rather an atrocity from the depths of hell known only in the common tongue by the moniker of ‘cold toast’. I jabbed at it with a fork, hoping it would retreat from my life all together, for although evil, this abhorrence wasn’t violent, not on any physical plain, however, the violence exerted upon the psyche by this abomination was incomparable to anything I had ever known. It just sat there upon the porcelain, staring at me… Staring at me… Its presence surrounded me, and finally I could take it no longer. I left the room, my stomach still empty, and my body unnourished, I nearly collapsed. I stood outside the kitchen, my mind racing with possible plans of action, and that’s when I realized that I would have to kill it, decimate the very essence of the dreadful creature. I absolutely hate cold toast! I loathe it with every bit of my being! There is nothing on this detestable rock in the middle of nowhere that I despise more than cold toast! The way it beckons you to eat it, the way it doesn’t crunch but rather bends, the way it nauseates as it slides down your throat… Utterly despicable… I’d rather find myself in an Anthrax Cloud before I even look upon its dreadful countenance, but I digress. First I surveyed the enemy, poking my head around the corner so silently that my heart’s beating stopped every time I spied upon my loathed enemy. My breathing was unrecognizable and my nasal infection caused me no trouble. Silently I crept up to the creep until finally I was upon it. With a lunge I grabbed the wretch, the wretch writhing in my cold, pale hands. With speed I skipped to the nearest window and in one swift movement flung the monstrosity from our home into the garden where some feline or canine devoured it. I jumped for joy as I realized my freedom from the thing’s clutches. I was so extremely My dearest apologies dear readers, for I realize now that my previous paragraph was left unfinished. I have been a bit drowsy as a direct result of mixing medicine with the socially accepted and endorsed drug known as coffee. What a lot of drivel I have spilt upon the screen! There was no battle with a cold piece of toast, nor was there any talk of coffee polluted by the juice of an udder, for I make my own coffee. I do indeed, however, despise cold toast, because of its many sickening traits and the absolutely atrocious taste of it. I would rather be shot in the head before I willingly devour cold toast. I wonder how many times I have used the word cold toast in the last few seconds. The quantity however does not really matter, but the concept does. There is only one thing I despise more than cold toast and that is cold, runny eggs upon cold toast. Why would you want to combine one evil with another to create this apocalyptic event? If there is anyone out there in the universe who does indeed eat, and actually enjoy cold toast, cold, runny eggs, or any combination of the above, I will have to beg you to never visit this damnable rock with its many impressionable inmates. If however you are one of those sad, lonely individuals already inhabiting our planet, I politely ask you to throw yourself off the nearest elevated space, for you are wasting the supply of bread and eggs available for proper consumption by corrupting it with your evil, ignorant ways. Die mouth-breather, die! Feel my drugged minds wrath! Feel my feet! Oh, my, I am surely losing ‘it’, as slang would put it. I better go before I cause some third world genocide all in the name of eggs and toast. Farewell, and if you’re not, get well! (0) Comments

My new book Posted 9/17/2008 1:49:01 PM Joy of joys... I am the type who likes buying things like books and pens, empty books and pens brimming with black ink... Recently my 298 page book, the one I scribble all kinds of drivel saw its last day as it was indeed full. Not an empty page found from back to front... It took four whole days before I could replace it, leaving me with an empty feeling, as if my hands were cut off... Fortunatly I have today bought another such book, and am now proudly about to defile its virgin pages with my pen... Yay!! On another note, yesterday morning I found myself wandering about a charity shop filled with all sorts of odds and ends, when I came about three books which I proceded to buy... 'The Writings of George Orwell', which, as the name might indicate, consists of writings by George Orwell. I also found 'The Happy Prince and other tales' by Oscar Wilde, and 'Tales of mystery and terror' which is a collection of Edgar Allen Poe... I hope you are sufficiently burning with envy, if not, you must be illiterate! Anyway, I must be off now, Farewell and keep better! (3) Comments

Morphine for the broken heart Posted 9/17/2008 1:42:57 PM Morphine for the breaking heart Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (04 February 2008) If rejection makes wise Why am I such a fool? I slowly die, but nobody cares Life is cruel So I turn to nicotine My insomnia cured With an overdose caffeine Cut my heart out The pain is like morphine Cut my heart out Set me free I’m numb I’m dumb I feel nothing Morphine Numb this sensation in my chest This feeling makes me discontent I hate your love I hate you Rejection makes wise Why am I a fool? Give me coffee Give me cigarettes Cut my heart out Make me forget Cut out love Cut out regret I feel nothing Morphine! (0) Comments

Buckle Posted 9/16/2008 9:06:08 AM Buckle Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (02 August 2008) I wish that black-hole would swallow me Tear me to shreds with its glass teeth As my mind slips through the cracks Cracks that decorate the emptiness like veins Pulsing with unwanted life The twitter of birds Are lost in the vacuum of time and space I want to be where no-one can find me Gone without a trace My knees are buckling under the pressure Cold steel shatters my comfort zone My angst is flailing on the floor For all to see Everything crashes down Your words are lost In the vacuum of my mind Along with my hope And unheard cries Unanswered prayers drift in the shadows My faltering faith Swinging in the gallows (1) Comments

Mark makes an inquiry concerning his existence Posted 9/16/2008 9:05:16 AM Who am I? What for am I here? Why do I find myself tortured and tormented by the annoyances of daily living? Bold questions for one who has been an inhabitant of this world for but a short span of time… I, dear friends and fellow inhabitants of this Hell, am a figment of my creator’s imagination, a cruel device devised for one purpose, and one purpose only. I am the cruel joke played within the subliminal. The reason for my existence is to be the brunt of my author’s yarn, for without me he cannot write endless tirades against certain concepts that perturb and often nauseate him. He does not retain the right to rant about every single invention under the sun, and thusly I was created as a loophole in the laws of logic. Through me he can rant and rave, shout and behave in a way that reveals his cynicism to the world, all through the guise of a ‘fictional character’. He is not allowed to moan and wail about his terrible family-life for his home is a happy one, and he cannot shed a tear for a lover lost, mostly because he’s too apathetic, or so he says. You will never hear him bewailing the burnt book, or bemoaning the butchery of English, for it really is not his concern, or at least that is the thought he wants to impress us with. I am the outlet used to oust his suppressed emotions, I am his sorrow and pain taken to the extreme, my friends and I are all just metaphors for the people that decorate his life. My problems are but similes of his existence, and my weeping shall find no end, for mine are the tears that wash his face. Currently he is staring at me, straightening the creased contours of his beaten, but beating heart by letting mine shrivel with every breath I take. Pain is all I know for I am his, I am his pain, his torment, his torture, his insomnia, I am his depression. I cry so that he may laugh. I am his therapy, the end of apathy; the search for love continues in the pages of my diary, as he struggles with shapes and stains, blemishes upon his heart, tearing his mind in two. Friend, you know who you are, he loves you, you are his Liza, you are his cyanide, you are the bleach that promises redemption, the promise of a past erased, the promise of forgetting ancient affairs, and losing lovers. He loves you, and cannot bear the thought of you finding out, and thusly I do not even utter your name for fear that you might realize fully who you are, sweet author of wickedness, muse and despair embodied, he loves you. He weeps for your soul, he weeps when you despair, he weeps, and promises that he will always be there, he won’t leave, yet you remain oblivious, yet you remain ignorant of his feelings, which is for the best, unless you can promise that the regard he holds for you, the affection carried within his heart, the song upon his lips, is not unrequited. This is his subliminal call for you, my dearest, as his frustration and emotion bleeds into this world and rains down upon the streets of London, the dirty streets of London, washing away the dirt, the dust of unreciprocated love. Liza, my Liza, know that I love you, and that I feel no feelings for my beloved, know that I shall break it off with her as soon as my creator gives me the opportunity, for he is struggling to comprehend his own triangle and has thrust me into this nightmare, the nightmare that is teenage infatuation. Wherefore art thou so evil in your ways, fair creator, that thou must twist the dagger within my heart all for the sake of your mental anguish, that you must torture me because of your situation? Sadistic, yet masochistic as I am a facet of you, a partition of your heart portrayed in terms of a fictional kind. I hope your Liza finds you soon, I hope your Liza cares, for if she does not my heart will break and continue breaking. I’m contemplating this dire situation, the dire situation of a confused teenager, baffled and bewildered by that enfeebling concept known as love. The desire to know what it is, the need to feel it, the craving that knows no limits, but all the time remaining as naïve and impotent as he was when his quest began, realizing that it is a hopeless dream, and giving up much too soon. His heart stops beating as he realizes that the current affair he is caught up in is a lie, deceit of the worst kind, that the chemistry is but a stomach churning with disgust, and the butterflies were but flies caught in a masquerade of the worst breed. He finds himself contemplating the last few months and realizing that his best friend is the one who truly holds his hearts attention, that she is the one that stirs the beast within, the true feelings that threaten to devour him completely when he looks into her eyes; that she is the one that soothes the savage atrocity of insecurity and disposes of apathy, that she is the one he loves, and the thought that she might read this entry fills him with fear, for her reaction is unknown, but he will take this leap, all in the name of sanity. I am his sanity. That is who I am. That is the reason for my existence. (0) Comments

Pills Posted 9/15/2008 7:22:39 AM For Andy Pills Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (04 September 2008) She said she’s considering pills To eradicate the black swill Society has washed her in She’s tired of all the lies Finished actin’ Erase the faded lines Wipe away the charcoal, boring Emptiness is a drawing Fill it with red The drip, drip, drip in the wash basin Fills the void of her heart, achin’ Her hopes diminished, erased and faded Love replaced by selfish hatred She drinks the water Taint on tongue Greeting a place where she does not belong Far off, away, her lover cries Wondering why she didn’t say goodbye Remember how to smile Remember how Remember to smile When you think of me Remember how to smile Forget my deceit Remember to smile When you think of me (1) Comments

Bloody Mary Posted 9/15/2008 7:21:36 AM Bloody Mary Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (06 September 2008) This love’s bleeding Mary dry She won’t sleep until she dies Spending each night, crimson tears staining the blade Mourning the love fate forbade Mary’s bleeding Conceding Her comfort found in the arms of Death Mary’s blood stains the bed This love’s bleeding her dry Mary cries Her head aches Pain induced by the pain within Behold her beauty from afar The forlorn girl, broken, scarred Shed a tear for Mary Love-torn, forlorn Mary Pretend to see her pain As she tears at her veins Shed a tear for Mary Mourn the lie she lives Shed a tear for Mary She’s just like me (1) Comments

I am an alien Posted 9/15/2008 7:20:46 AM I am an alien, a stranger to this grievously strange planet and its customs. It all happened a week ago when Andy poked the skin of my neck with a glowing finger, and I felt the surge of electricity coursing through me. Overnight I grew tentacles, my eyes started glowing, and I lost all of my hair, which is a shame since I had such perfect locks. Gary (Gary’s nice), said it will grow back in a few days, but it happens to all the newbie’s at some stage. Together we have decided to take over the world, but first we have to go upon a top secret mission to unravel the mysteries of the paper bag. What makes it so papery and baggy, I ask of you? Oops, I just realized that I made a mistake, there is no top secret mission, it’s all a lie –Twitches and eyes surroundings nervously- I’m normal, really, I am. Andy’s a cat lady! –Covers mouth, as if to keep other secrets from spilling out- We do exist, really. You know that crazy guy who lives next door and locks himself in the attic with all kinds of monitors and recorders, and computers? He believes me, why don’t you? We exist… I’m real! Philosophy might beg to differ, but poke me and you’ll see that I am in fact real, a real alien with tentacles and everything. Unfortunately I must take my leave of you now, we’ve planned to assassinate agents Scully and Mulder, not to mention Paris Hilton and Superman for giving aliens a bad name. Peace out, and remember, we exist! (0) Comments

Please, Teacher Posted 9/14/2008 2:07:11 PM As I sit here, waiting for my unnamed sibling to return from his necessary duties, I realize that there are but 2 hours of viewing pleasure left, and after that space of time has completed its cycle I will have watched the entire “Onegai Sensei’ series. ‘Onegai Sensei’ translates as ‘Please, teacher’ which in an odd way seems to explain why the title of this short, inexplicable waste of space was thusly chosen. The plot line is about a beautiful alien who comes to earth on a mission of universal interest, although not a matter of life and death, important none-the-less. Her extra-terrestrial status is then discovered by one of her students, and they get married, as to ascertain the secret being held as such. The series shows their struggles to overcome doubt, and insecurity as well as the ever-lasting search for happiness. It has its fair share of drama and comedy, and is a must. The only flaw in my plan thus far seems to be the fact that watching Japanese anime with English sub-titles for hours on end has left me with the strange delusion that I can actually speak Japanese, and more horrifyingly, that I am actually one of the characters. Imagine my terror as I realized this afternoon, after waking up from a extremely real daydream, that I am but a mere man, a real human, and not some animated figment of Kuroda Yosuke’s imagination. For hours I stared at my fleshy hands, until reality set in and found its place in my poor, desolate mind. I am now filled with jubilation, for my brother has returned, and so we will sally forth once again into Japan and its beautiful couple. Farewell and good tidings. (1) Comments

Mark and the triangle Posted 9/14/2008 2:06:25 PM Oh woe, how can I live any longer with the angel of death standing prepared to deal me that fatal blow, to touch the strings of my heart with its decaying touch! I am torn between two fates, torn between to lovers, and I do not seem to be capable of making a decision. On the one end of the cosmic scales rests my earth shaking affections for Liza, on the other however sleeps the figure of the girl I am currently courting! For the life of me, why is it so hard being an adolescent? Could no one before had written some sort of guide for pubescent man? Why must we struggle so with all these changes and emotions? Why has the Creator been so cruel as to curse us with thinking minds and feeling hearts but no idea whatsoever of their potential and usage! Like I have stated before, I am torn, as if pulled by stampeding horses in various directions, my limbs attached to the bodies of mature stallions, and so I am defeated, broken, in the filth that is my insecurity! I bleed, beloved, savor the view, as I bleed, I bleed for you! The Razor blade glistens, steel painted red, and beloved I bleed, I gasp, I die; I am dead! Oh woe, to be forgotten by those held dear, knowing that they were never there for you, especially not upon the day of your untimely death! They found her in the bath tub, her blood staining the water as tears smudged the make-up of her mother, as it smudged her mothers mask. Beautiful, is it not? The idea of death eliminating all facades, decimating the lie that breathes its corruption upon the bare skin of our necks! My previous beloved died, bleeding, alone, drowning in the hate, drowning in the apathy, drowning in the bloody water as she passed out after slitting her wrists! The day Maria died, the day my beloved was torn from me by the icy grip of suicide, I died. My heart beat its very last love song, and instead started pounding out a dirge of unequivocal beauty. For more than a year I mourned my loss, I mourned the loss of my dear Maria, unrepentantly I cried, screamed at the Heavens as heathens do when trying to evoke the power of rain. I cried out for peace, and love, and God, the Great Almighty, sent me an angel. Her countenance comforted me greatly as I beheld her in the hall, those sad brown eyes glistening with tears not yet cried, her black hair covering her face, as a veil does that of a bride. My dear Liza; at first I thought no more of her as you would your neighbor, but soon my affections grew, and we became dear friends, near inseparable. Weeks later I met my beloved, a girl so beautiful and near to me that I dare not utter her name in public, but alas, Liza has a firm grip upon my heart and will not relinquish her hold. I can not seem to forget about her for even one fragment of a moment, the blood racing through my heart carries her name, and I find my head pounding with the realization that she might be the one I truly love and adore. What, though, I ask of you, will become of my beloved if I do indeed yield to the temptation that is Liza? Will I be damned, doomed to exist in an abyssal purgatory where love is but a figment of the demented mind? Is it indeed worth it, worth the risk of losing the attention of the one person who might truly care for the possibly false promise of affection from another? Is it worth it? Can my heart take the fatal blow of rejection (if it indeed progresses that far?), or should I swallow the cyanide now, while I am alone, and broken. Should I accept solitudes invitation and die? Should I damn myself to Hell? Should I? I’m eyeing the bottle of pills as I type, sweet freedom is only a hand’s reach away! I can taste it upon my frail lips; the decay of affection felt no more, the deceit of promises untrue! Lover, I bled, I bled for you! I wish for want to scream! I am in dire need of relief! My mental anguish bottled up within my mind, the suppression of oppression is quite taxing when the oppressor and the suppressor are one and the same! I want to scream at night! Scream for my want of love! Scream until the ghosts answer no longer, scream until my lungs burst! I bleed for my beloved! I sever the veins in which her name is carried, trying to forget the feelings felt for Liza, I am betrothed, at least in spirit and mind, to my unnamed love, and therefore any other affection felt is abomination, atrocity against the one I have proclaimed my love for! I die, slowly, but only in spirit and mind, my body stays intact! I bleed in the name of unrequited love! I bleed for her! Farewell, until later. (0) Comments

Mark and the coffee stain Posted 9/14/2008 2:05:33 PM Oh, how atrocious! What a terrible wrench life has thrown into my works! This morning, as I was paging through my favorite tome of English literature (a collection of Edgar Alan Poe’s short fiction), I discovered something that made my heart beat like a primal drum, threatening to explode with even the smallest disturbance! I stared at the brownish dot, overcome with outrage and incomprehensible grief! It was a coffee stain! As sure as there is a Hell, there was a coffee stain within the pages of my beloved book! How, and from whence it came to be will never be known, but this lack of knowledge does not relieve the suffering mind I am forced to be tormented by. The only reason for the existence of this scandalous smudge is my dear, but not so dear anymore, friend Liza, who borrowed said tome for a week and returned it to me approximately four days, two hours, and forty-four seconds ago. If my obsessive, and rather compulsive, memory serves me right, there was a faint hint of coffee upon her breath that morning! Oh, woe! The treachery! To be so betrayed by one who has declared her undying loyalty to you as friend and fellow pilgrim in the world is insufferable! My word, if every so called ally of mine were to borrow a book and bring it back a mutilated ghost of what it once was, I would have to burn my entire library! That, dear fellow, would be the equivalent of razing an entire rain-forest! Never in my life had I expected this treacherous behavior from you, Liza, never had I thought you were capable of such evil! Liza, if you are reading, I want you to know that I never want to gaze upon your countenance again, and no more, never again, will I spare a thought, or even consider the consideration of you! My pardon will not be granted, my exoneration of your sins will never be! Hatred is all I feel for you now, burning brighter than a thousand suns, you are dead to me! I will never forgive or forget the destruction of my favorite tome, fated to become but a memory, a sad remembrance, ashes of forgotten lore, its pages will never see day again! For now, I will have to leave you hanging on a cliff, dear reader, for I hear the percolator’s bubbling and hissing no more, and I must leave to check upon its progress! Be patient though, dear fellows, I will return, in the next paragraph, and not a moment later! I have just realized, as I was sipping the rich, black potion I so adore, that I might have made an error in my judgment of Liza. As I was walking back to my study, taking the scenic route through the old living room decorated with linen-covered furniture and old oil paintings of dead family members, I realized, as I felt a dab of wetness upon my finger, that coffee is quite an easy thing to spill. Could it be that I am the culprit, the foul villain, causing myself, my own mind much distress? Could it be that my denial of any such sin was my subconscious trying to redeem me from the vicious claws of self-loathing? Was I a bit rash in my judgment of Liza? Oh, woe! This terrible pain within, as I pace up and down, wearing out the rug, trying to exorcise the guilt from my mind, it will not leave! Alas, Liza, I beg for your mercy! I was too quick upon my high horse, too quick to blame you as the felon responsible for the degradation of Poe’s works! I implore your compassionate, graceful soul to forgive me my transgression! I have forsaken you when you were innocent, but I pray you differ from me; do not forsake me, for I will surely perish if you do! My heart will not be able to take the strain of losing a loved one! Please forgive me! I am back yet again, after a moments rest. Telling tales both true and tall can be a wearisome task. I called Liza upon the telephone that decorates the wall in the otherwise barren hallway, and poured out my heart. Astonished, she started laughing, probably because of the shock, and said she’d see me at school tomorrow. The next moment the empty, static buzz of an empty line filled my ear, and she was gone, swallowed by the abyss of a dead connection. Alas, dear reader, I will have to say my farewells to you now, for my mother is calling. It seems I have neglected to do the washing up, and must now go and suffer through the torture of neglected chores that all youths seem to be subjected to, but that is an issue to be addressed at a later time, for it is a lengthy issue, the subjugation of the young, and our proceeding slavery and forced labor by the iron clad hands of our cruel parental units. Farewell dear readers; keep breathing! (1) Comments

Breakdown Posted 9/11/2008 1:59:33 AM I’m sitting in front of my pc, listening to the great Jack Johnson doing his thing. Hear me singing along… “I need this ole train to break down, oh please just let me please breakdown”. Head bobbing and banging to the music. I’m feeling very relaxed, extremely so. You know those stoner-stereotypes in teen-movies? I’m like them, except for the fact that I shun the standard stoner methods of getting high, by not getting high at all… I’m so cool… Imagine that, a stoner that never gets stoned… I’m totally that guy. The song just changed… “What would you do if I wrote you a song, would you give me some loving?” (Tomorrow morning by Jack Johnson) I wish I could just break down, just for a day. Break down in the middle of nowhere, take a look around, re-evaluate my life, maybe write a few chilled songs, learn to play the guitar properly, and just have a good time in the desert (I always picture the middle of nowhere as a desert, thanks to endless indoctrination by the media). I am a very paranoid person; everything is society’s fault… Besides being paranoid, I obviously have the tendency of talking to myself. Like right now, as I’m typing this poppycock, I am dictating to myself silently, and typing this not for you, dear readers, but because of pure boredom. I am grievously, sincerely remorseful, but I will write something for you, the readers of my blog (or whatever medium of broadcast this finally reaches), something especially for you… Just give me a few suggestions ‘bout what you want to hear… By the way, you folks in America, you’re like 6 hours behind us… Its afternoon here but morning there, its heavy random, so if the post reaches you at 2 a.m. there, it is in fact 8 a.m. here where I am sitting… Very strange indeed, but awesome none-the-less… (1) Comments

Melancholy Mark Muses upon the dreariness of life Posted 9/10/2008 8:07:19 AM What a dreadful day indeed! It has left me with the strange, inexplicable but all too familiar urge to drown my sorrows with a generic household cleaner. Why should it be that life has a tendency to swallow one whole? The optimist might say that you’ve been left un-chewed, unharmed, but I say to you, dear, disturbed, naïve fool, you haven’t reached the stomach yet, the belly of the beast, where you shall be digested by the acrid acids, the absolute perverseness of your situation. Love has left me scarred and empty, I bled out all affection long ago, and now I am alone, fated to die within the confines of my solitary existence. My beloved has forsaken me, thrown me to the metaphorical wolves, as it were, and my dear Liza does not seem to care at all whether I perish or continue suffering, she says I’m just being melodramatic, but what does she know of the abyssal doom that grinds my very essence into dust? A fine grey dust. My heart knows no solace, my parental unit refuses to take time from their so-called demanding schedules to accompany me on this treacherous journey I must face, seemingly unaided in my quest for popularity and acceptance. The provision of physical needs seem to be more important than the need to be nurtured spiritually and mentally, and so I waste away amongst hoards of unwanted, lavish gifts, when all I truly desire is an embrace. What, I ask of you, use has a teenager for a television? Television, that oh so corrupting evil found in every home able to afford one, and in a lot of cases, homes which can not. The world is in debt because of this fatal fraud of reality, children are taught to lie, steal, kill and most frighteningly of all, surrender to the corporate god, a devil in disguise. Dear readers, I ask of you, how can you allow young minds to succumb so easily to the lethargy induced by daytime television and obscene game shows with no real moral integrity. Where is lingual decency? These so called actors can butcher any language they want with no dire consequences what so ever! I say, bring back corporal punishment as retribution for this heinous crime, hang ‘em high, and burn their scripts! As I sit here bleeding and tired, scarred and faint from the day’s torture, I find myself feeling a little better, less bitter, than I had been moments before. The thought of televisions being thrown out of windows, and actors being lynched among burning talk show scripts, makes my young soul fly. I’ve decided to return the bleach to the kitchen cupboard, for I have no desire to end my sad, solitary life cycle, not when I might be able to usher in a new era in television history. How wondrous it will be, librarians and professors of philosophy marching together through the streets of London, marching to the erratic beating of a mohawked punk banging on his black drum as bands on black parade boats play their marvelously chaotic dirges, hints of Mozart and Smetana found in the undertow. A Church organ will play melancholy notes as the Pope reads the devilish brute known as television its last rights. Poets will recite odes to the one who ushered in this new age, and authors will write books proclaiming me the savior of thought. Artists will immortalize me in paint and stone. Wood will be decorated with my countenance as the altars of the consumerist overlord burns as pyres, standing as a tribute to Bohemia, and kept burning as a metaphor for freedom. Oh, how wondrous an occasion this revolution of mine will be! Imagine, literacy becoming mandate, and the proletariat forced to become equal with the previously defined bourgeois! No excuse will remain for the communist to seek equality, for through education we can all become equal, through strict indoctrination of certain values we can become one literate mass. Suddenly, after a moment’s reflection, I was smitten by an epiphany. The results of my revolution should remain as is but for one mere change. We shall not become one literate mass, but rather a collective of intellect. All individual yet connected by a common purpose. Oh, how wonderful, this dream of mine has yet to be realized, but I can taste the victory already, as sweet as honey upon the lips. Where to begin though, dear reader, by protesting the broadcast of certain television shows, or burning down the many studios, burning down these dens of iniquity? This last suggestion however brings me to the following plaguing thought: is violence truly necessary? I think not, for I am a pacifist (Cowardice my father calls it), but I am willing to sink to certain depths to attain absolution from this slow of mental enfeeblement, even if it means a disregard for my own moral views to accomplish a new era of understanding and insight, a new era of creativity and art, a new era of unhindered thought bolstered by total intellectual freedom. Fare well. (1) Comments

Music Lovers: Answers to 'name that song' Posted 9/10/2008 8:05:44 AM Finally, a new post, it's been a while, but finally I'm back. Yay. As promised I'm posting the answers to my paragraph-thing last week. I really enjoyed reading your answers, some very good answers. I’m a bit embarrassed to announce that I made a bit of a mistake. I asked you to name songs and artists, instead of asking you to name the songs I referenced. In some cases I used the actual names, but in other cases I used characters and lines. Here is the paragraph: I’m sitting here on a cement floor, wondering where my mind might be, maybe it’s somewhere out in the Caribbean, drying itself on a bloodied dress hanging from a cactus tree. Amongst the debris of fallen castles made of sand my mind swims, disappearing in the purple haze, the mysterious and dark ocean that your heart resembles. Your daddy, the outlaw, takes it upon himself to speak with the joker and the thief, who is in turn asking your mother and sister to tell them what the future has in store. You, you however are knocking on heaven’s door with that sweet meadow lark’s voice of yours, crying out cold and broken hallelujahs. You’re drinking one more cup of coffee, wondering why sugar never tasted so good. It’s all so last summer, being in love, trying to ignore the constant complaints of your obnoxious little brother who has a knack for asking stupid questions, like ‘hey, did you get some?’. Your mother is a pessimist, never looking on the bright side of life, but you’ve got to look on the bright side of life, and don’t panic, I spelt panic wrong, it’s P-A-N-I-C. And here are the answers I had in mind: Line 1: Pixies – ‘Cactus’ and ‘Where is my mind?’, ‘Cactus’ was also covered by David Bowie on his 2002 release ‘Heathen’. The original Pixies versions can be found on ‘Surfer Rosa ‘. “Sitting here on a cement floor” and the reference to the bloodied dress is from ‘Cactus’. The reference to the Caribbean and the mind swimming is from (you guessed it) ‘Where is my mind?’ Line 2: In the second sentence I reference Jimi Hendrix twice, ‘Castles made of Sand’ and ‘Purple Haze’ (“Purple Haze’ was a rather obvious one though). My Pixies reference from ‘Where is my mind’ continues, and I reference Bob Dylan’s ‘One More Cup of Coffee’ (The last line in the song is: ‘Your heart is like the ocean, mysterious and dark’). ‘One more cup of coffee’ also appears on The White Stripes’ debut album (Incidentally self titled). Line 3: This sentence is just one huge Bob Dylan reference. ‘One more cup of coffee’ contains the outlaw father, and the mother/sister seer combination is found in the last verse of the song. The Joker and the Thief is also a Dylan reference, from ‘All along the watchtower’ (The first line: “There must be some way out of here, said the Joker to the thief”). “All along the watchtower’ was covered by Jimi Hendrix, and the lads from Wolfmother are huge Jimi fans, as is evident if you listen to a few of their lyrics (Maybe that explains why they have a song called ‘Joker and the Thief’ which incidentally has an intro very similar to a Black Sabbath one, an irrelevant note but interesting none-the-less). Line 4: I once again reference Dylan with ‘Knocking on Heavens Door’, which was made much more melancholy by Guns & Roses and a few years back by Avril Levinge. My ‘One more cup of coffee’ reference continues with the ‘voice like a meadow lark’ line (Second last line in the song). ‘Cold and broken hallelujah’ is from the song ‘Hallelujah’ commonly cited as Jeff Buckley’s. It was however originally written by Leonard Cohen, who had Kurt Cobain amongst his fans. I think it’s from the third verse of Jeff Buckley’s version. Leonard Cohen spent days writing this song, and has 80 alternative verses for the song. Jeff Buckley was quoted saying that his own interpretation was about sex, the orgasm in particular. Line 5: ‘One more cup of coffee’ rears its beautiful head once more, but is this time joined by a reference to The White Stripes’ “Sugar never tasted so good’ Line 6: “It’s all so last summer, being in love” references Taking Back Sunday’s song ‘You’re so last summer’ in which a girl breaks up with a boy. The reference of an obnoxious little brother is from Coheed and Cambria’s ‘The light and the glass’, as is the reference to a pessimistic mother in the next line. ‘Hey did you get some?” is from a Dashboard Confessional song about love and physical relationships; it’s called ‘Hands Down’. Line 7: The part about looking on the bright side of life is found in the Jackson 5 song ‘Shout’, covered by Green Day during their ‘Bullet in a Bible’ tour and used in the song ‘I know’ by the band Save Ferris. Panic was supposed to have been spelt with a K the first time but our computer corrected it. This, the last reference is found in David Bowie’s song ‘Panic in Detroit’, where a computerized voice tells you how to spell ‘panic’. (1) Comments

Tap Dancing Shrimp Posted 9/10/2008 8:03:41 AM I don’t like seafood, I’ve never liked seafood, I don’t even despise seafood, it would take too much effort. Why my severe lack of like for this innocent category of food? Is it the smell? The texture? The fact that they line the counters of certain restaurants, eyes scrutinizing your every move, or maybe it’s the fact that they are not earth dwellers, as they do in fact come from the ocean (thus explaining the seafood moniker) and thusly it is as if they come from another world altogether? I wouldn’t like seafood, even if you paid me. I’m cool like that, I don’t sell out my moral ground to proprietors of corporate development, unless you can legally give me a money printing machine which produces legal money that can be used legally anywhere. Maybe if shrimps wore little hats and shoes and started tap dancing, maybe then my stance on them would elevate from apathy to severe dislike. Anyhoo, I’m going swimming now, it’s a sweltering day and I am melting as I type. Farewell fair friends. (1) Comments

Writer's block Posted 9/3/2008 12:57:23 PM Frustration! What the heck is wrong with me? This emptiness of thought? I can’t think of anything decent to write and it irritates the gum out of me. (I’m trying to quit swearing altogether). Stupid magazine. I wanted to submit a story for publication but they decided to close all submissions until further notice. It sucks apples. Now I’m being really random, ranting about little annoyances seem to crawl into every available nook and cranny of my life. Silly writers block. Stupid, big square thing in the middle of nowhere (my mind), just sitting there, refusing to move, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, this doesn’t make any sense. Any ideas to force this big manifestation of ennui from my mind? Nickelpickel suggested onomatopoeia words, but it becomes boring after a while, repeating bing, bang, bop, boing, zoop for hours at a time becomes frustrating. Andy suggested world domination, well not really, she just asked me to help her buy an Island, but I think I’m allergic to cats, and I don’t have any Gouda, I hate it. I hate it here, as Wilco would say. I’ve decided to become a vegetarian, but my dad said he no. They will not cater to my dietary needs. Darn cats. I don’t know why I blamed the cats, I like cats. Today I was in a Charity shop browsing through the cd’s, when this random cat pawed at my hand. Such an adorable little critter. Whished so much I could take it home. Pretty little thing. Cat’s are awesome. If I wasn’t a guy my ambition would be to become an angry cat lady, but instead I have to be content with being batty man. I hope I don’t have to wear spandex. Speedo. Why did I say Speedo? Nobody knows… Am I insane? Are you actually enjoying this nonsensical drivel, dear reader, or am I boring you to bits and screws? This is what an imaginary square-thing (or is it a rectangle?) has reduced me to… a blithering imbecile. The village wants its idiot back as earthworms cry for redemption. All these thoughts with nowhere to go. Salvador Dali! La vie Bohem! Have mercy upon me friends, stand together and we shall overcome. Will I overcome? I think the answer is blowin’ in the wind… (2) Comments

Stories: Abortion and the guilt Posted 9/3/2008 12:56:27 PM This story is aboutthe guilt of a mother who had had an abortion years before her marriage. Loneliness and the gun Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (05 May 2008) My name is Solitude. I walk alone. I sit alone. I sleep alone. I live alone. I am alone. See me walking through the streets of Jozi, I am surrounded by people, but yet I drown in my loneliness. You’ve probably seen me before, you’ve probably felt my presence on some dark and dreary night. I was with you, yet you ignored me. I was the only other person in the room, but you just continued sitting on your bed, staring out the window, even though I was right in front of you. Your gaze pierced right through me. You know me. You’ve felt me when you were driving to work. You sat next to me in the café when you were drinking coffee with your friends. I was with you when you met the love of your life. I watched as you fell to pieces when no-one was looking. I laid a hand on your shoulder the day you got married. I smiled when you’re daughter was born. I’ve always been with you. Lingering behind you, lingering in the background, lingering in the back of your mind, I’ve always been there. You’re ignoring me again. Walking across the street, and leaving me, an infant, to fend for myself. After conception, I was abandoned. Not on the steps of some convent or church. No! You left me in a rotten outhouse, in the middle of nowhere. You left me in a pit of other peoples waste. You left me in a pit of other peoples excommunicated ideas and failed dreams. I haunt you. You feel me when you try to sleep. You feel me in your sweetest dreams and you darkest, deepest nightmares. You feel me when you wake up screaming. You still feel me, growing inside you. Not a child, but rather a deep seated hatred, soaking your soul, staining your mind, freezing your heart. You hear my cries. Those same cries you heard before you abandoned me. Those heart chilling cries. The black man who found me, an old farmhand, was too late. He heard the crying, from afar where he and his family were enjoying a meal of maize. His wife put his beautiful children to bed as he ran off towards the lonely outhouse. As he ran towards this man-made hell, my crying ceased. He searched for the source of the desperate, but at that moment still-born cries of the dead child. He found me. Shock and horror. He found me. He shed a tear for the little white child born of a cruel mother. He shed a tear for the lifeless still-born who he held in his arms. He fought the nausea. He fought the sickness. He knew no anger, only enraged, overwhelming sorrow. He drew the body of the dead child born of a white mother close to him, this compassionate man. If only. If only he had found me sooner. If only I had survived. If only my breath had lasted only a meager moment more. If only you had loved me. Why did you do this? Why? Would you blame it on financial troubles? Blame it on youth? How about your parents? Don’t make excuses! If you’re old enough to have sex, then you should be old enough to give life to a child. Giving life doesn’t merely mean that you bring it into this broken world. Any idiot can do that. No, giving life also includes everything that happens after birth. It means securing a future for that child. Why did you give life to this abortion, only to take it away? Why didn’t you give me up? What’s wrong with adoption? Why didn’t you give me to some couple who would love me? You didn’t love me, but maybe someone else would’ve. There are people who would give everything they have to get what you had. You can’t ignore me. The blood of an innocent is on your head. Murderer. The beloved earth cries out for vengeance, and somewhere, someone sheds a tear for me. Someone sheds a tear for the little white child abandoned in the lonely outhouse. Someone sheds a tear for the little child abandoned in a pit of hopelessness. Someone sheds a tear for the little child, abandoned. The beloved earth cries out, as my blood cries to the heavens. I haunt you. You know it. You’ve felt me when you were driving to work. You sat next to me in the café when you were drinking coffee with your friends. I was with you when you met the love of your life. I watched as you fell to pieces when no-one was looking. I laid a hand on your shoulder the day you got married. I smiled when you’re daughter was born. I smiled, for her sake. Every time you see her resentment rises in your heart, as you remember the screaming child you didn’t love. As you remember me. You see me in her smile, you see me in her beautiful blue eyes. She is beautiful. Would I have been beautiful? I see you now. Behind a locked door you cry. Do you feel guilty? Or is my presence driving you mad? Are the memories driving you mad? Do you feel guilty? You open the locked drawer. You feel me. I am the embodiment of your malevolence. I am alone. I am the embodiment of your guilt. I am not loved. I am the embodiment of your hate. I am alone. I am the embodiment of your loss. I am not loved. The earth cries out. I am alone. My blood cries out. I am alone. I am your child. I am your abortion. Take what’s in the drawer, mother. Pick up the gun mother. Join me in death. Mother! My name is Solitude. (2) Comments

For all you music lovers... name that song! Posted 9/3/2008 7:31:35 AM This is a game called – Name that song! Let’s see how well you do… Read the following entry; see how many song-artist’s you can guess: I’m sitting here on a cement floor, wondering where my mind might be, maybe it’s somewhere out in the Caribbean, drying itself on a bloodied dress hanging from a cactus tree. Amongst the debris of fallen castles made of sand my mind swims, disappearing in the purple haze, the mysterious and dark ocean that your heart resembles. Your daddy, the outlaw, takes it upon himself to speak with the joker and the thief, who is in turn asking your mother and sister to tell them what the future has in store. You, you however are knocking on heaven’s door with that sweet meadow lark’s voice of yours, crying out cold and broken hallelujahs. You’re drinking one more cup of coffee, wondering why sugar never tasted so good. It’s all so last summer, being in love, trying to ignore the constant complaints of your obnoxious little brother who has a knack for asking stupid questions, like ‘hey, did you get some?’. Your mother is a pessimist, never looking on the bright side of life, but you’ve got to look on the bright side of life, and don’t panic, I spelt panic wrong, it’s P-A-N-I-C. I’ll post the answers in a week… (7) Comments

Oi, what a week I've had Posted 9/3/2008 7:29:43 AM This week has been quite an emo-coaster, a whirlwind ride of mixed emotions. I'm sorry for the gap between my last post and this one being this long, but in between sinking (in the slow of despond), babysitting, helping siblings with homework, and many other mediocrities, I haven't had much time. On Monday: Michaela and I had a big fight, broke up, fought some more, I became a bit apathetic, fought some more, fell in love again, fought again, and made up. Thank God. Is this love I feel, swallowing every bit of me, devouring me slowly? I love her. (0) Comments

Lemon Juice and Razor Blades Posted 8/31/2008 4:24:26 AM To Andy - I told you I'd write it Lemon Juice and Razor Blades Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (31 August 2008) Rub more salt in the wounds Wash it out with stagnant juice Feel the fire fill the void The emptiness had you annoyed Sterilize silver salvation Dyed red, died red Cauterize this broken heart Bleeding from what she said Lemon juice and razor blades Damnation calls and I obey I numb myself with hopelessness All things futile, I am useless Cover me in kisses Petals at my wake Never mind the masquerade The smile was always fake Anyway (0) Comments

Nihilistic Love Note Posted 8/31/2008 4:23:05 AM Nihilistic Love Note Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (31 August 2008) Gunshots ring Hammers beating like this drum in me The stars proclaim our online romance As I-Pods break out in dance Jelly Babies marching in time Jelly Babies marching in line Into the maw of the beast they go Hated, my affection for you grows Discordant keys poked erratic Your eyes dance ecstatic Nihilistic Lover! Law! Your disregard has me in awe! See yourself, believe it, be! Lover set me free! Oh, say can you see Do you see me? Nihilist take note As my heart bloats Like bombs in the night I explode Drowning in the blood, flowing so fast This feeling makes me gape aghast Art lift us up where we belong Lover sing another song (0) Comments

Apathy Posted 8/31/2008 4:22:16 AM I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Yes, I’ve been listening to Nirvana, only difference is, they don’t care about age (Listen to ‘Breed’ to fully understand why I just said that), I on the other hand just don’t care, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about the fact that I have writers block, that the last ‘good’ (According to my friends, so not true) poem I wrote was probably a month ago. I don’t care about the fact that it’s another Sunday morning, and that a week has gone by so fast, spiraling out of control into the wreckage that is my life. I don’t even care if my girlfriend loves me or not. Whatever. Apathy. I don’t care about the fact that I’m losing my mind, or do I? I think I’m a liar. Lying, pretending to be so cool, I don’t care, yea right. I care. I’m trying not too, trying very hard actually, but I do. I try to numb the pain by drowning it in this façade. I care. That’s why I spend hours calling out to God, only to follow it up with unhealthy dosages of doubt. L wish I could stand unfailingly before Him, unashamed, unclaimed by this decrepit mind of mine. I’m trying, God knows I’m trying, but the emptiness consumes so easily, the inherent hate of the here and now so easily swallows. I’m being slowly devoured by a darkness that knows no mercy, and I am losing my mind. I wish I could succumb to apathy. I’m scared of being alone and it’s easy to believe that apathy is the way to go, because if you don’t get attached to someone you won’t get hurt. Being a teenager sucks. (3) Comments

Sick in the Head Posted 8/30/2008 1:08:54 AM The sun has barely risen, and I'm already in front of my pc, after what seems like a torturous night with almost no sleep, I think I'm an insomniac, but tht aside. Michaela is still sleeping, and so is most of my family, so basically I'm alone. Too lazy to make coffee, but I need some if I am to survive. I'm feeling the withdrawl simptoms as we speak. I think I should go see a shrink, or a psycho-person as luv69 prefers to call those who delve into our subconscious. I struggle to talk to the people I know about my feelings, it's hard, and awkward, so mayb e going to a stranger will work. The only question is, how will I run the idea past my parents? ('Yo, mom, I need help' won't really work, now will it?) The problem is, nobody seems nto notice there is a problem, so the moment I tell they'll probably be shocked, upset, sad, etc... It sucks being a teenager. On a brighter note though, about a week ago two new kids came to our youth group, now last night we had this dinner at church and their mother came with them, and MY mother recognized THEIR mother. Turns out they were in High School together. What a small world! What a small world, indeeed! Anyway, I think I gotta go, maybe get some coffee. (3) Comments

My New TV Posted 8/30/2008 1:01:11 AM Joy of joys, I got a new TV, and just in time, what with the new technology and so on. A beautiful, magnificent Plasma Screen. I mean, you should see this thing, 81 inches of pure pleasure; nothing wrong with enjoying a spot of telly, now is there? Unfortunately it’s an ADHD TV, so it changes channels erratically, but at least the image quality’s good. (0) Comments

The Art of Ennui Posted 8/29/2008 2:00:56 AM Ennui – Boredom. I am bored. So bored I could cry. I mean, even watching paint dry would be sufficient enough to divert my attention from this ennui. Ennui is one of my favorite words, and I’m always looking for an excuse to use it. Example: Go up to a store clerk, like at a bookshop or something, and ask them if they have ennui in stock, or go to a police department and ask them if they can save you from ennui. Those are surefire ways to deliver yourself from ennui. Another idea you could try is to go up to the biggest, meanest guy in a bar and poke him in the eye, and run away, when he eventually catches you, (and believe me, he will), explain that it was your evil, European twin, Ennui, who did it. The good news, he’ll probably believe you, because he probably isn’t too well endowed in the brains department, bad news: He’ll probably beat you up anyway, just because he can. More good news: At least you won’t be bored anymore, bad news: Ennui will regain control when you have to lie in a hospital cot for a few days. Better advice: Stay home, put your favorite cd on and read a book; that should keep you safe and satisfied, if not, there’s always bungee jumping. (2) Comments

A Musing on Love Posted 8/29/2008 2:00:00 AM My previous post has caused me to pause and ponder. What is this thing that causes the heart to race and the palms to sweat? What is this feeling that surges through every bone in my body; swims in my blood? What is this sensation that causes my heart’s palpitations to increase viciously, tearing it apart when she leaves? Love. What in the name of the Holy and Profane is this accursed but wondrous thing that in one moment can encourage but in another decimate? Is it a chemical imbalance in the mind, simple chemistry, or maybe pure insanity (thank you Janis), when you do the same thing over and over expecting different results? Let’s face it, the dating game is pure insanity. You date someone; get to know them, and when you figure out that he/she is not your soul mate you break it off. Two months later you’re dating again. Maybe that’s why I’m a one woman guy, I’m insane enough without the demented turmoil of dating, besides, I’m a teenager, we’re confused enough as it is. That still doesn’t answer my question though. I personally think that love has got very little to do with feelings, maybe at the start it does, but don’t argue yet, my point is yet to come. I would segregate the whole thing into two phases: Being In-Love and Love. Being In-Love is when you meet someone and there’s chemistry, now you go and hand-in-hand you leap onto the dating game-board. You roll the dice, play a few rounds, go to the movies, go to dinner, etc… If it doesn’t go that well the game stops and you thank him/her for the good time, but, if it goes well you’re ready to move on to the next phase: Love. Love in my opinion differs from Being In-Love for the following reason: Love is a commitment. When you LOVE someone you are dedicated and committed to them. Ever wondered why the bride and groom promise to be there for each other ‘till the end, through thick and thin, sick and sin? I mean, the whole concept of vows at a wedding proves that true LOVE is commitment. Love is making a decision to honor and obey the other, to be there, to love and cherish, to have and to hold ‘till death do them part. I hope this all made sense to you, dear readers, because this concludes my musing on love. (5) Comments

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General Comments LUV69 Posted 12/6/2008 1:49:24 PM howdy pardner. long time no post buddy boy. what you been up to?? EmmyL Posted 11/3/2008 6:43:29 PM popping by to say hello :) mockturtlesoup Posted 10/10/2008 10:15:12 AM Thanks guys! LUV69 Posted 10/8/2008 7:17:48 PM happy birthday hun!! have a great time and have loads of fun (but not too much fun, eh?) EmmyL Posted 10/8/2008 3:50:34 PM Wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday! I know it is early, but I dont often get to come online :) Hope you have a really great time :D magicalmysterytour Posted 10/8/2008 1:11:34 PM happy birthday mockturtlesoup Posted 9/10/2008 8:25:21 AM Yup, thanks, I have realised this. I appreciate your comments Janis. Thanks. Janis Posted 9/8/2008 12:32:23 PM People read but do not always comment.Do not be discouraged for lack of comments. mockturtlesoup Posted 8/24/2008 4:14:18 PM Hey, please take the time to read and comment on my older posts. I know I haven't posted anything other than random observations or short stories, and hopefully I'll get some proper inspiration soon... Thank you... mockturtlesoup Posted 8/23/2008 1:19:36 AM Hey guys, long tim no see, even my sincerest apologies will not redeem me and my lack of internet connection. Oh, woe is me. Thanks for not forsaking me? Lol, luv to all, and to all a good night, I mean morning. LUV69 Posted 4/19/2008 10:17:28 AM hiya... BB1 Posted 4/17/2008 3:43:09 PM Thank you and welcome to Newblog. mockturtlesoup Posted 4/17/2008 3:04:17 AM Hey! Thank you for your comments! I apreciate it... :-D Janis Posted 4/16/2008 8:38:37 PM You are a very thoughtful person! Please login to post a comment.