Bargaining (Poem)

How much,
Is your final
Offer
For these
Cigarettes?

What,
Is your last
Price
For these
Drinks?

What,
Will it take for you to
Come
Home with
Me?

When,
Will you
Keep
Your promise to
Me?

Will,
You
Accept
Poetry
As
Payment?

Will,
Words of affection
Be
Enough
For
You?

Where,
Do we
Go
From here
And
Now?

How would you,
Like to
Do
It when the
Time
Comes?

What then,
Will we
Settle
On when the
Night
Is done?

Why,
Don’t we
Close,
The deal
Before
Introduction?

There. Now.
Tell
Me your
Name.
I’ll tell you
Mine.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

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We Have Time (A Poem)

I’m wondering how the world would be without the essence of existence.

What words are there to explain this resistance to persistence?

The persistent push of mother nature, and yet we keep our distance.

Our lives are futile without each other’s assistance. In this stance,

We try to survive in this world of hatred and we still dance.

We still dance to the rhythm of the music of sleep,

We still dance to the sounds of our demise that creeps,

So deep. So deep.

Intrepid in our futile push to survive, so deep.

I’m apologetic to you, and you’re irritated with me.

I’m in sorrow, with all the chaos in our sea,

Puberty.

Insanity brings me comfort, bringing me back to reality.

The intensity, of this system of inconsistency,

Is as fucked up as the discomfort of plasticity.

A poem for your sake has brought me to my low grades of D,

G, the chord I play with the C to hopefully let you see,

E, and I hope that this basic tune will let me be,

That I love this music, and I love your music…

And I’m tired of this world, and I hope you’re not as tired.

I want to forget to remember to remember to forget,

It’s been said.

If we have time to love ourselves, we have time to love others.

We have time to dance, we have time to sleep, we have time to cry, we have time to fake it.

Time however, is of the essence and I can’t conceive shit.

I can only wish for the sake of this, that we make the most of our time in this,

This world.

And the most of my time will be well spent on you.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

3 Reasons Why Budoy Is A Counterproductive Television Show (Philippine Audience)

It has come to my attention that the TV show called “Budoy” on a local channel here in the Philippines called ABS-CBN (no correlation to CBN whatsoever, as of my knowledge), has garnered a great deal of popularity. From regular conversations, to watching the show every night it is available, to even vandalizing the tables of my University’s (University of the Philippines Los Baños) classrooms (I didn’t take the photo yet) with the astoundingly simple-yet-pleasing logo of the show (as seen in the opening photo for this article). Most talk that floats around where I study and in my circles of friends regarding this, are commonly reduced to mimicking the lead character, by the name of Budoy, when it comes to his linguistic wordplay. Now, I believe that there is a fine line between comedy or satire, and the actual thing that the satiric role suggests to criticize. The way I see it, people have been dancing around this as if it were a ballet performance. (Think Giselle, or any other ballet play, where they jump across the floorboards, tiptoeing as if it were actually beneficial to them to subject their toes to such harsh conditions.) This is why I have summed up 3 reasons as to why the show is rather counterproductive, in terms of the sarcastic scenario stated above. You can see the ABS-CBN Website’s page for Budoy, here.

Now before you go on telling me to watch it first, I already have (two or three times), and I still think that my reasons are legitimate. Take a read!

Reason 1: Television is a Medium for Knowledge

I personally don’t watch the show as often as I should, and almost despise the innate lack of grammar with the words he speaks. (No offense to the mentally challenged) It’s just that these things become infectious, and they are generally highly attractive to most commonplace people, thus allowing their minds to be manipulated in such a way that their grammar, instead of getting better through a very useful medium of communication, gets worse.

Herp Derp

“You may not know it, yet, but that’s a mind control device on his head.”

Television is a medium, and what do mediums do; they give off information, that’s what. If you knew how much horseshit mass media is feeding us, I doubt you’d want to shit your pants for a week. Maybe even ever again. Trying to find a needle in a haystack, substituted for truth in the lies respectively doesn’t do it justice. Trying to find that needle, in a mountain of shit; that sounds more apropos.

Horse Manure

“If you dig long enough, you can find the truth in there!”

If the television shows provided more educationally correct shows, then we would have less of a problem with our country’s innate lack of education for the children (which will hopefully solve our “corruption problem”). Since the children “are the future”, why not give them something to work with, rather than just grabbing the money and running, resulting in the catastrophe Peter Parker achieved in Spider Man 1?

Pfft...

“Dem robbers killz my uncle, but I haz powrz and cn pwnz yuz.”

Of course with the exception of the masses “pwning” the TV stations. Unless those bastards have hooked up DOTA to their database. That would be a totally different story.

Reason 2: Media Rules The World

It is the Age of Information, and more or less, everyone’s buying in on it. Ironically, this gave birth to one of the most idiotic generations humanity has ever seen, wherein people can’t even go outside to do a little exercise coz they’re reaching a new level on Skyrim. Either that or they’re waiting for their favourite TV soap opera to arrive. Or maybe some are just furiously masturbating to Next Top Model with Tyra Banks.

Skyrim

"WAAARGH!!! My burning hand and mythological creature educates you!!!"

Next Top Model

“Man, they’re so hot; I don’t even need to leave the house to exercise. I’ll just use my hand!” *fap fap fap*

The least those TV companies could do, would be to provide something educational. If they’re worried about ratings, then have all the channels carry the same intellectual background so that there will be no choice as to what stupidity the masses would prefer. They’d be forced to learn something new every time. Just think of it as Discovery Channel on every channel in your 100 station cable/satellite subscription; except with the option as to what you will learn.

Monkeys

“A new version of Humanity (2012.1.1) is available. Would you like to download it now?”

It’s almost a monopoly, anyway, so why not have the TV stations come to a decision that will help the future generations learn how to speak and communicate properly so that they may not have to go through the chaos that was The Tower of Babel in the Bible. (Just a reference, I am not religious, however I do enjoy reading the scriptures of various religions.) I’m just saying we need to grow the heck up as a race, stop thinking about ourselves, and save the generation that you claim are “the future” or the “brighter tomorrow”.

Reason 3: People Are Gullible

Going back to Budoy, it is said to be a wonderfully inspirational story. Although that may be true, people should be aware that this show is not meant to be re-enacted in everyday life. They should differentiate comedy or art altogether from reality. If they cannot find a way to let the viewers know this, then it is better off that they cancel the show altogether.

Nicolas Cage

“My boss just told me that I needed to work double shift on Christmas. I told him; ‘Fuck you!’”

If you want people to behave properly, then put proper TV shows on for everyone. Define what makes it artistic and what makes it comical, from the cold hard reality of life. People can hope and aspire to achieve a better life, but that doesn’t mean they have to do those bullshit things that happen in the movies/TV soap operas. That’s the whole reason why those poor folks keep living the way they do. They expect some “Prince Charming” or some “Wonderfully Placed Stroke of Sheer Luck” to arrive. What happens to them when it doesn’t? Nothing, and the TV stations make away with all that money.

I know it’s going to be very difficult to proceed with the aforementioned plan, but I mean, come on, at least Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men provided us with a sane interpretation of what would really happen to someone as odd as Budoy, or in the case of the book; Lenny, in the real world. (For those of you who don’t know, Lenny is shot in the head by his best friend as a form of mercy killing, since half the fucking town was out to kill the poor bastard.) If Steinbeck could do it, so can a big group of media-makers and talented people. Heck, even Forrest Gump contributed to a little bite of that reality sandwich.

Forrest Gump

“It’s not a sandwich, but it’ll do. I just hope nobody shoots me in the head.”

Although in spite of all of this, Budoy seems to be a heart-warming show, that, even though it causes such effects on children and the future generations, one can still appreciate the art involved with the simplistic love felt by the mentally challenged. Good day!

* This post shares only my thoughts and opinions on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
** This post is meant for satiric purposes and not for offense to the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
*** This does not portray/represent the thoughts of all other critics on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
**** This does not intend to badmouth the propagators and/or viewers of the shows mentioned.

***** Images are courtesy of Google Image Search.

****** This is just for fun, so just enjoy. Thanks!

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

Dear (A Letter)

Credits to Anachrony

Dear,

I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.

My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.

Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!

That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.

You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).

Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:

He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?

 

I will always have you in my heart,

Sarah-Jane Nothdruft