Twilight Zone

The masterpiece

2007-05-10T00:32:00.001+04:00

The greatest fuckin' song, that keeps me ecstatic for months already

Funeral For Femininity

2007-03-08T01:12:00.000+03:00

Optimistic. Enthusiastic. Driven to tears. Hysterical. Drunk. What a great scenario to what is counted to be an international holiday! But anyway - this is what is real. Without those phony "shopping holiday"-mood, without kissing everyone in the cheek for every fake smile and a couple of congrats that are said only because they should be said. I used to hate that all, and through all these years this hatred hasn't become weaker. Right the opposite.

I hate myself. I've never got it so clear. I hate myself because I love him that much, that I even shut up my pride to stay by his side. No one - never! - told me so many insulting, hurting and disrespectful things like he did. But still, I know for sure, he's the closest person to me. Ever. That's why I swallow this bitter liquid, only not to burst out crying. Even now, when he's spending his time somewhere with someone. Well, if he told me that he does all this only because of usual male jealousy, do I have this right to feel jealous?.. Or is that also only his right, the privilege of being the boss? OK, I'm bitter and sarcastic. But I need to say that.

March, 8th. International Women's day. A cabin in the night subway. A woman in front of me. Disillusioned, drunk - because everyone in her office was drinking, so she took her portion as well, - holding two roses in her wrinkled hands. Two roses. I don't know, maybe she, being drunk, has lost the third one, or just has taken the second flower for her absent colleague, who was absent and couldn't take it herself, - that's basically doesn't matter. The fact is that she's holding only two roses. Like for a funeral. And generally this is funeral. The funeral for femininity. Another couple right by her side. A girl with her paltry-looking miserable boyfriend. They're kissing, the girl is also drunk, and the guy is caressing his crotch while slavering her. And now you still ask me, why I hate this world that much?..

And now that. He led me directly to hysteria, and then told me that he loves me and cares. And it is my fucking fate to believe him, because he really deserves that. And even now, when I silently watch this promiscuity in a metro cabin, he's spending his time somewhere with someone. When I embrace that white rose he gave me as the present for a holiday. Along with the drinking glasses I also received from him - as he explained, to celebrate something with my further "wimpy flames". Enough said.

Maybe I'm chained to this emptiness. Nonexistence. Loneliness. Because I'm ready to forgive all his insults for one single embracement. Fuck. I hate myself.

Reminiscence

2006-12-16T02:32:00.000+03:00

Just came to mind. Hello Mr. Leonard Cohen...

...Through years it bears the trace of Inquisition,
Society I'm born and sold within...
And thus I'm never asking for permission
To take my own Manhattan and Berlin...

And more - also mine, but already a Russian translation of the original masterpiece...

Вердикт зачитан - четверть века скуки
За то, что против строя шел один.
Окончен срок. Я умываю руки.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

Меня ведут вслепую голос свыше
И шрамы углубившихся морщин.
Но гул боев не стал с годами тише.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

The Maker Of Victimized

2006-11-26T02:13:00.000+03:00

Frozen fogs of November are silently hanging between the dirt and that drained gas that once was called The Sky. Fast steps are getting stuck in the mud and turn into melancholic and lazy moving one leg after another. Here I am, slowly walking down this street of sick memories, where every object on my way is a memorial for a broken dream. And I know, that someone is watching me - again, as always. They always do, because when someone doesn't have his own life he tries to release his voyeurism, and I'm often the choice. I don't give a damn, what they want to see. Well, if you stare - then take me who I am, for granted. I'm not going to act for you. And if I behave filthy - oh, that's even better: I'm not gonna be another dolly monkey in a golden cage people love to judge and envy. Not gonna make a picturesque fairytale out of my existence. And finally not gonna decorate it for the watchers. Trashy, wasted, lost and found, with a screaming audio system at 4 a.m., twisted, alone, messy and wasted again. A sensitive loony. Not a lollipop celeb. I like to throw them into confusion with my way of living. That's not what they expect from me when they see me on the streets.

But these steps at the background sometimes make me think, that probably the only thing that is worth in this world - is that somewhere lives The One. The one I'm waiting for. The one who doesn't give a damn about who's lying next to me another bloody morning. And who is waiting for me, even though he himself still may be unaware of that. My killer. We wander like two bubbles of oxygene in the veins of this world, and I'm not sure about him, but I undeliberately look for him in everyone. I look for someone to victimize me, to cause me pain. And still this is not masochism. It's just a desperate try to check if I'm still able to feel. The Maker Of Victimized, is that you? Or maybe you are my tormentor? Why are you staring like that, finally do something! But you're too weak for action, yah. You can only gnaw me round with your eyes, and that's all. I know this kind of people. They are used to believing that a sexual partner is a device for masturbation. That thinking is freaky, and slavery is freedom.

So, go on, watch me, punch me, point your fat fingers at me - this is nothing, comparing to that mental devastation, reigning in my mind, because of being tired of waiting. For the Maker to come and make me feel...

Astray

2006-11-07T03:56:00.000+03:00

I just wonder why I always have to bury my deepest feelings in the past. Sometimes the choice is to kill or to be killed - in my case, to suffer or to bury the suffering. Along with dreams. Because they're just unseparable - I don't feel pain when it comes from something I don't cherish. And here - once again, putting one cross after another, trying to forget and not to give a damn. But that results only in sensual disorder and sexual conveyor - when I'm in the mood, I call it "rock'n'roll"... But these memories always come back, like ghosts return to the abandoned house they inhabited long ago. They surround me, and there's something like reproach and regret in their luminous eyes - and that causes real pain. When it starts to seem that these flashbacks are your real life, I begin thinking that there's just one step before I touch the wall of insanity.

I have to hold on anyway. But to keep this strength I should either live my dream, or kill it to get rid of those quicksilver reflections.

Numbing Futility

2006-11-01T01:15:00.000+03:00

Take a breath... and bury your feelings. If you want to survive and keep your sanity.

Undress Rehearsal

2006-10-12T01:45:00.000+04:00

Faded daylight. Freezing shivers down my spine. And me - mentally undressing here, among the neons and soffits; stripping my soul for I don't know what. Yes, I myself don't clearly understand why I'm doing this. Maybe because I'm drunk - just totally wasted, but still holding on to the undying ability to think, make decisions and analyse.

I don't want to be struck in the past. To live some several days again and again in my memory and close my eyes for the present. No. No! But everything within me screams that what I've done was the only right way to do - in every tiny detail. I'm so fuckin' honest towards myself now, that it even scares me.

Only today I've realized that then, in those four days it became clear to me, that something was wrong with that life I was used to. That something has changed. That it's just great to know that someone cares. That someone worries about you, supports you, helps you to carry something you would otherways never ask anyone to help with... And now it's definitely hard to return to that semi-automatic existence, that I previously counted to be my real life.

Yes, that was an adventure. The biggest one I ever taken. But the feedback of it is immense. Huge. Overwhelming. And now I know, that I needed that emotional rollercoaster, I've been longing for that, but the other part of my ego didn't hear (or didn't want to hear) that fierce demand. These five people have given me previously unknown freedom: freedom to feel myself through them. And now, if someone wakes me in the middle of night, I can unmistakably name their preferences, hobbies and addictions. They're MY BAND now.

...And today - while trying to live my life as usual, I came across the view that doesn't fade in my mind: overcrowded metro cabin, some person holding a colorful paper bag with an italic lettering - save me... The words I wanted to whisper to him during all the four days of our life under the same roof. But I didn't.

This past deserves to become present again. And I will go for it. Still, everything's possible as long as you believe in it...

Polyamory

2006-09-25T01:44:00.000+04:00

What a nice word, indeed. I've fallen in love with it since the very first second I saw it somewhere in the web. Polyamory. Poly-amorous... The urge, the need to love several different people at the same time.

And sometimes it's a ball and chain. When it seems to you, that you've found someone worthy, when you drift away from bringing back a single memory of an instant kiss - but who can be sure that, when lying next to that one, you won't be thinking of someone different? When that person inspires you - and according to my experience, this is the highest peak of emotional intimacy - and when you shiver when someone nearby pronounces the name or something related to that person, - why still we do desire the other ones? Polyamory - that's the answer. Very clear and seemingly justifying. Cold.

There's nothing worse than being loved by a friend. Of course, I don't mean the true friendship, this brotherly love that is above all. Equally I don't mean just sex. It's enormously hard to hear about the same thing - being polyamorous - but towards you. Especially when it comes from a friend. And directly when it comes from a friend. Because when the person is new to you, when he drives you physically and generally is of interest for you - I don't mind even if he's married. But a friend, someone you know so well - and whom you're used to treat absolutely differently, caught in that situation - that's a panopticon. You don't want to hurt - and you fear for friendship. You accept this polyamory thing for yourself, but deny it for your friend. A double standard.

And what is worth - while exploring myself, I've discovered a lot of different qualities. Good and sinful as well. But when I find something interesting enough to keep my eye on it, in some several days the same quality appears from the outside, in a different person, coming your way, but already desecrated and disheartened. This happens every time it seems to me that I've found the way.

Polyamory. A search? Don't think so. A lifestyle. Exploration. Curiosity and cynicism. A deliberate step.

Angel on the rack/Worm on the needle

2006-07-02T01:31:00.000+04:00

What the hell... Shallow newsbreaks on the background are creating a harsh soundtrack to my mental cruising. Perpetual hostages, explosions, president's bullshit pumped up to comic size. Nothing new. Only the bad news, finely selected and concentrated, with a hint of a rancid sensation. They're teaching us to lose.

I'm kinda lost again. It annoys me, worries me and saddens at the same time. What he told me, maybe it's true? Until 18 years I've always been living in love condition. And after that - only naked cynicism, perverted thinking and amoral ambitions. Nice cocktail, isn't that? Falling in love for a couple of days, like an animal, weird imaginations, senseless and numb nights - that's easy, that's rock'n'roll. As Lenny would have put it, shabba labba living.

But sometimes, in my dreams I wake up, and I know that is for real. I wake up and I see what I have become. Yes, I'm strong mentally, able to fight, creative, living in a turmoil, facing numerous "stardom difficulties" - and all the more I'm amiable and devilishly sexy. What the hell do I need more? Everyone I meet of the "mere mortals" is falling in envy equally as the ones counted to be stars are falling in love. With me and about me. But that's a miserable surface cover. When I wake up, with these tears still hanging on my cheeks, with that pain, and desire, and urge, and... inability. They are praising what I do, but this is NOTHING!!! Then I could sing, I could write, I could compose - I was creative the way I've seen it. And now... I just remember how it was then. Lenny dropped a phrase during that conversation, that if he wakes up and is unable to see the artist in the mirror, he will jump out of a bridge. Maybe it's the time for me to do it? For the last three years mirrors have seen only a fascinating face, catchy smile and playful eyes. Shocking sight, brave makeup and... what more? Where is that depth, that seriousness in relations, that continuing feeling of love within?..

But on the other side, it's all right. I'm working days and nights for my career, people are telling me that I'm gettin' famous, half in earnest, half in jest. I have no time to date, to meet my friends, to study or to build my own home. I'm trying to calm myself down and justify it with my high goals, that after all I don't need this routine. But when my work becomes routine, I realize that besides of all, I have no time to create. To be creative, to bleed for every line - oh, how much I want it! To suffer thoughts messing around my brain, waiting to be written down, - but I only suffer the silence. The deafening silence.

So maybe he was right when he supposed that I need to fall in love? That condition has always inspired me, but... When the hell was the last time I ever loved?! And am I still able to experience such things?.. And... I don't want routine. Here in this country it's impossible to find someone according to my taste. Neither visually, nor mentally. I'm much too western. Much too active and willing. But still a twilight cruiser. Eager to sacrifice everything for this ability to create. And love is also included in this "everything". An endless circle. Aimless shooter, heh... I know what it feels like.

But what disaster should have happened within me to transform from that angel on a rack, who pierced himself and wounded his own flesh and soul with memories of one single day in mutual love with a married stranger, into the worm on a needle, also suffering, but suffering of inability, still knowing that the mechanisms of regeneration are working properly and that I will survive anyway...

I want to cry: Save me! But who the hell is listening?..

Heartbanging

2006-06-11T23:44:00.000+04:00

Back. Back to the city of singing chains in evening docks and ticking streetlights. It calms me down. The city overwhelms me, comes into my soul, mildly setting the brain into more or less tranquile form. I need it desperately, need this feeling of tranquillity, of familiarity and... of home. My heart is at home there.

Several hours before that. Straightened hair over the face. Semi-ecstatic, semi-hysterical, delirious headbanging in front of those who have suddenly entered my life to leave it equally for sudden. Vibrating basses in stomach, soil-crushing riffing - and a bunch of long hair, rhythmically coming up and down, hiding the face and those sparkling pieces of flame behind the tiny drops of ice in my sight. I turned myself inside out, unwilling to hurt anyone, but the damage was done. I've hurt myself like I never did before. Like crossing the threshold of insanity, where you cannot control your actions, you just watch them aside, and only later understand, that the carnage around you was done actually inside of you. The metal guys around me were looking at me and shaking my hand with sincere respect - I really have shown them, how it's done... But they couldn't even think, or even imagine the wildest reasons of such behavior. They pushed me to the first row - as a sign of their great respect to my energy and savage headbanging performance; but no one ever will be able to look behind the scenery. That was more of despair, than of ecstasy. I didn't want to move closer to the stage. But still I did. Resurrection of the past, again. Wasn't it enough just a day before?..

Still I don't understand, why it happens so often, that I'm tearing the old scars again, and later watch the blood running from these veins, surprised, and with honest tears of pain. I thought that the happenings of fall 2004 are not dangerous to me anymore, that it's over, and the same thing won't make me cry twice. But... The sepia-colored photo on my desk still is not just a piece of artist's pride.

Two...

2006-06-07T00:23:00.000+04:00

...years passed... RIP, the lonely genius...

Coincidence?..

2006-05-27T19:40:00.000+04:00

Only the Russian-speaking ones will understand what I'm placing here below. For the others - a kind of short explanation. Here's the result of a test, showing the real colour of your wings. Mine are pointed to be the dark angel's ones... Strange, or?..

И так, у вас крылья - Темного Ангела

Готов поспорить что вы ожидали этого ответа. Вы уже знали что у вас крылья Темного Ангела, не так ли? Ваши крылья похожи на Крылья Демона, но немного отличаются.Дело в том, что вы не наслаждаетесь тьмой, вам интересно лишь ваше собственное удовольствие. Ваши крылья напоминают ангельские, но если это так, вы скорее падший ангел. Ваша любовь к грехам, стала причиной по которой вас изгнали из Рая. Они черны как крылья ворона и так же темны, как ваши желания. Вы не верите ни во что, и вам это нравится. Вы верите что Дня Страшного Суда не будет и вы можете делать, всё что захотите. У вас утонченные понятия о сексуальности и слегка хаотичное понятие счастья. Вообще-то вам нравится хаос, и вы смотрите на всё, что вы сделали как на игру. Вас привлекают люди, с которыми можно посоревноваться в остроумие, силе, и т.д, т.е к опасным людям, как вы. И это не редкость если вы бисексуальны или не испытываете комплексов по этому поводу, ибо вы везде и в каждом, ищите страсти и возбуждения. Есть шансы, что у вас есть талант к магии. Вы могущественны и вы знаете чего хотите.Как змей-искуситель пытаетесь использовать свои чары совращения и обольщения, несмотря на то, что ваши цели преследуют вред. В вас, это глубокое, темное чувство искусства, поэзии, потому что ваш разум, это темное и увлекательное место.Вы можете быть саркастичным и довольным, и в тоже время вы способны на месть, страсть, нехарактерную ни для кого. В ваших глаза, жизнь удовольствие и ничего больше. Если вы не получаете счастья вашими странными способами вы несчастны. Вам легко надоедают большинство людей. Вы возможно вовлечены в Готическую суб-культуру и возможно проявляете интерес к гот-музыке, искусству, и стилю. Множество людей смотрят на ваш слегка небрежный тип жизни и даже могут принять вас слегка легкомысленной . Неправда. Вы просто знаете что вы сексуальны, и вы чертовски этим гордитесь. Темные Ангелы имеют что-то общее с сатанистами, любят грехи и ищут силы только в себе. Поздравляем! И на сколько мне дозволенно судить, вы знаете реальный смысл жизнь! Наслаждайтесь :)

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Ambivalence

2006-04-26T00:42:00.000+04:00

So... One more revelation. Isn't that much too much for the same people?..

Desecration

2006-04-21T23:17:00.000+04:00

Everything I once believed in turned to dust with one single blow. You, who taught me to believe, have you done it just to ruin it someday? It took nine years for me to build myself on the ashes of childhood - using every your word, every chord of your guitars, every thought in your lyrics as a brick, and to become what I finally became... Due to you, and for you. Being cynical and dark, being disillusioned and sometimes rude, still I've been your fan, genuine, honest and pure. Even when facing the dirt I felt clean - because of the lessons I got from you. Everything's possible as long as you believe in it... But today I've seen that it's possible even through the things you don't believe in.

Sellout... An ugly word I hate the most in this world I got into - also due to you - world of show business. I've done it to be closer to you. I sacrificed myself, being harassed, hurt, disillusioned - but I've seen the light in the end of this tonnel. You turned the light off...

If I could also push the button and turn off this fucking mind player, that plays your songs in my head again and again, it wouldn't be so painful. Since you've gone... There's an empty space... I live all those moments again wishing you were here...
But it is there, bringing the most brilliant, masterpiece lines into my memory, and biting me, tearing me down, twisting my brains, cutting my skin... I want to go and get drunk, so fucking drunk, not to be able to control myself - Blackout... My head explodes...
- and the only thing holding me is a bitter knowledge that I have to do my work till tomorrow comes.

Hello, what have you done with our dream?! That's already not yours, that's mine... Written about those you came to help... Long before...

Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?.. Take me away to somewhere, take me away from here...
I don't know what to feel. After all I won't stop loving you in the end. This paradox tears me insane. But how that was possible?.. No, I know, I understand everything, because I've made some experience in this sphere too. And I can even say what points did they press to make you agree.

Then I was a child. Naive, romantic, wearing rosy specs. But I believed in you. Believed, that you'll never betray me, crossing your way with plastic & silicone semimusic called Conveyor. But... Heroes don't cry...
So won't I. I cannot rip you out of my heart, so you will remain there, like before, but now this pulsing muscle is a rude gory wound with a thorn in the middle. Forgive me for the truth I've spoken. I'm still loving you...

In Memoriam

2006-04-07T16:41:00.000+04:00

Since the previous owner of this blog has passed out, a lot of things came through the irreversible changes. A loss of that person is irreversible itself, and it was followed by similarly tragic, but fatal occurrences aimed at general survival. I feel really sorry for her, because, though we were very close, and I always knew all of her thoughts and had my own opinion concerning all these things, she was always dominant - and my ideas very often seemed to her too radical and materially-minded. And now, when I inherited her memory temple, I am the one to decide. On her behalf.

Sinvocation

2006-04-05T16:12:00.000+04:00

No one of them knew the truth. No one of those on the broken side of the world.

I'm staring into the luminous eyes of the city I'm thrown to. The inevitable thing to become a part of this voyeuristic society, gazing outside of their holes and trying to live the life of someone next window. I am a part of their prime time show.

You sit next to me, drawing an inverted cross on my hand. It makes me laugh deep inside, that's ludicrous. You, who always call me satanist, yourself are creating this image for me. Aren't you trying to become another prophet for me?.. These existing prophets... No one of them could stand one simple question I asked them; they all broke down: "Do you yourself believe in the truth you've spoken?"

You told me that my eyes reflect deep form of lunacy. Well, from you it sounds like an unreserved compliment. I'd prefer lunacy rather than this perverted voyeurism that is counted to be sane.

They are closing their doors for you, but they always keep their windows open - because what their life would be without the opposite side of glass?

Don't try to be my prophet. Because then you will also be dissolved in my merciless question.

Senseless

2006-04-01T02:37:00.000+04:00

A balloon filled with helium should fly. A human-being endowed with brain should be thinking. I remember, when I was a youngster, once I've seen a bunch of balloons in some room. They were hanging between floor and ceiling, without touching any surface. Too weak to rush upwards and still keeping the remains of helium molecules inside their rubber bodies - and thus unable to fall down. I came closer and cut the threads, strangling them, and they died.

Once they could think, and then I called them People. Now they barely deserve the name of human-beings. Hanging in mental vacuum and believing in their self-imposed happy-ending tales. Disguised. Maybe I should cut the threads again?..

Cynical Grin

2006-03-22T20:34:00.000+03:00

A few days ago I got the confirmation, that no matter of what I feel inside I still can hide it all behind the mask of success and even glory. I still can make people dizzy in just a half an hour, and they never know, that actually what is standing in front of them is far more depressive, gloomy and dark-minded. I don't know, how it is possible, because my inner state is so devastated at the moment... But the ones who are already used to constant communication and who are actually hard to surprise - they still react like if there was something utterly enchanting in me. Headbanging and heart-eating journalist... Sounds at least funny. But maybe this is really what I should do in my life if it goes so well?..

Remains Of The Day

2006-03-10T02:07:00.000+03:00

Making another step forward, just take a breath... and look back. Even though your mind says no, switch it off for just a single moment to drop a quick glance at the remains of the day. This is the agony of its last minutes. And the new-born day won't care at all that its predecessor has ruined your dream, it will act like prescribed, without mercy, without sympathy. And it will never think that those prescriptions may kill you. So these days are running, threading, laying down in the corners of your memory, pervertedly posing and trying to seduce you in their deadly embrace... And you hit them in the face, hurting them and thus immediately hurting yourself, like they are part of you - but that is something they've already imposed on you.

But even knowing that, it's so hard to run away, to push their sinful caresses aside, to forget them and forever divide your paths.

Bathory Resurrection

2006-02-24T17:48:00.000+03:00

Wait, concentrate and try to remember: what did you feel at your birthday when being a child?.. I just wonder, how the magic is fading away with years. I don't mean the age: there's nothing more relative and occasional than this. I mean different - why I'm starting to hate every day that is giving the others a possibility to congratulate? The anniversary of being sent into this world. World of struggle, world of sellout, of nothingness. For the right to survive being yourself. Is that the general meaning?

These people surrounding me are simply happy knowing that "it's my day". They really do celebrate it, while I myself don't give a damn of what is happening. They used to behaving so at their own birthdays and they think that everyone should feel like that. But celebrating the anniversary while every day becomes the turning point - isn't it senseless in its deepest form? And instead of partying and accepting motley packages I started that day in style of countess Bathory. Lying in the bath, where water is painted crimson, is quite relaxing: knowing that you're alive and healthy, depressed and seemingly calm, and watching this red liquid on your skin - like someone had just cut his veins... Someone, not you. It's like a rebirth through mental death. Pretty weird, I know. Perverted even. But it gives at least a feeling of indifference and some calming effect. Relax, you're dead. Something like that.

I haven't felt jubilant. It was more like a funeral of something inside of me. Very deep inside... I guess, if it goes like that any further, there will be my personal cemetery, with no crosses, no memorials and no memory itself.

Feast On The Ruins

2006-02-23T14:44:00.000+03:00

Pulsating emotions in memory garden...
This life is my greatest, still hectic creation.
Abnormal devotions, so waited, but sudden,
Are tearing the darkness to flashes of passion.

Regretfully born on the ruins of aeon
I know, I'm a sinner, but craving explorer.
I'm diving the darkness to find what is hidden,
But dying in darkness, when party is over...

Blood-dripping

2006-02-21T16:02:00.000+03:00

Whatever happened in my life before, is nothing comparing to what is taking place now. And whatever is still waiting for me in my foggy future, veiled, unpredictable, but hardly as drastic and squeezing - I can just desperately hope that it won't repeat the present. I don't know how, but I survived. I still have to survive, instead of living - for a very narrow circle of people who still care. It doesn't break me, though, - but it feels like it's a kind of sadistic game: it doesn't break my back, but it definitely enjoys twisting my fingers, cutting my body and pulling me to the point of insanity.

This period in my life is a nightmare I want to wake up from.

Clairvoyance

2006-02-12T13:52:00.000+03:00

What is wearing the name that promises demolition, by the matter of fact appeared for me the opposite. Something healing and motivating. Due to the complete lack of time I didn't see the show, so the whole contiguity was reduced only to a microphone communication. Just a half an hour, but in some several weeks that was the definite highlight.

I wonder just how that was possible, that the person, knowing Russia only by newsbreaks, could see and feel the situation so poignantly?.. Of course, he couldn't know anything, and what he told me was nothing, but a supposition - but holy hell, if he knew how right he was! With the only amendment: what he described is much more promising and positive, than the reality which in Russian conditions turns out to be a sellout...

Corners Of Subconsciousness

2006-02-07T17:11:00.000+03:00

Trapped in four walls, where darkness is hungry to devour its prey, one can choose either to hide compressed in the only spotlit corner or to dive into obscurity. Most of the creatures prefer the first, no matter that thus they're sentencing themselves to narrow existence back against the wall. But there are maniacs, who - no matter of fear - still do the second. Those who enter the sea of darkness to explore what it contents.

If I find something, I'll let you know.

Funeral For A Dream

2006-02-03T18:34:00.000+03:00

Wait... Stand. And listen to the deafening silence...

MESSiah

2006-01-21T00:19:00.000+03:00

During all his life he was wearing a mask. A white shapeless mask, hiding not only the lines of his face, but the very idea how he might look like. No one had ever seen him without it, and even his numerous flames, pressed to the walls by investigators, were claiming that even in bed the mask was on.

His parents were darkening the atmosphere even more - concealing the facts of his childhood, brooding over the present and keeping the horrifying silence in the most of cases. But when a single word was dropped, blowing up that silence and falling down from their pale dusted lips, one could hear something freezing, like a whisper of hidden danger. Fear. They were anonymously terrified. And when they died, forgotten in their shady corner, he was drinking the intoxicating rays of fame - his mystery made him famous. He was a superstar. And deep inside he felt relieved: he has inherited this mystery fully and individually.

He never said anything direct. There was no need in it. Fame made him wise. More than that. It made him superhuman in others' eyes. They were praying to him for granted.

And the press had finally given up their attempts to reveal his personality...

Some time later he was found dead in his apartment. And the world was drowning in sorrow of having lost their perfect claimed messiah. And the funeral ceremony, held at the biggest hall of the city, became the cemetery for many weak and crying semihumans, twisted into crimson paste in a crush. Then some fan, scorched with delirium, rushed his way through the crowd to touch his idol for the last time. He occasionally touched the mask, and that ugly piece of white plastic suddenly hit the ground, and a scream followed... The icon had no face. He never had one. He never existed...

Mr.Cohen heritage

2006-01-15T03:03:00.000+03:00

Surfing the depths of my desk, I found a piece of the past I'm not disappointed with. A kind of answer to Leonard Cohen's "First We Take Manhattan".
A protester, still...

***
I never liked that heaven is so greedy,
Usurping the inevitable change.
I'm coming out of darkness, shot and bleeding,
Convicted by the crowds for being 'strange'.

I ran away from safe, but silent castle
To noisy crypt. They've called it 'shadow cult'.
It's up to them to make this world turn faster,
While they prefer to worsen the result.

I never liked their candy-puppet fashion,
Creating new of torn and twisted brain.
The answer for invention is aggression
To those who can survive without a chain.

Through years it bears the trace of inquisition,
Society I'm born and sold within.
And thus I'm never asking for permission
To take my own Manhattan and Berlin.

So thank you for your hatred, mister guardman,
But you're too weak to beat my freedom out.
And when I die, you'll all be singing 'Amen'
Without a clue of what it's all about.

Center Of Attention

2006-01-14T12:43:00.000+03:00

The society I'm born and sold within.
How cynical. How sad. But how endlessly true...

The Diary

2005-12-28T12:36:00.000+03:00

What I considered to be the blessing - to have a heart of flesh and blood, vulnerable and sensitive, - is actually a curse. Screaming, and bleeding, and regretfully dying, and reversibly being reborn to experience once and the same. And those creatures around - they perceive it to be a colorful show. They can be interested in you. As long as you entertain them. As long as you pretend to be one of them.

Those who declared themselves "the closest people" to me openly ask me a typically american "cinemated" question: "Are you ok?" - while I'm screaming in their ears: "Don't you see that I'm dying?!" Well, the answer is movie-like predictable: "Yes, I'm ok". Those ones on the screen always say so, even if they have their heads ripped off. Am I ok? - Yap! There's even no need in asking. With such care I'd better die alone.

If there's a way out, it is the way forward. But where is the right direction, if I'm a blinded stranger, and some pranksters on the way misled me? I can think that I'm moving forward, while actually it can be directly an opposite. Once I tried to follow the light: its source appeared to be nothing, but a broken lantern in the mist. And now I'm unable to do even this - the darkness is so thick, that I can cut a piece of it.

***

A couple of days ago I pierced myself. Breaking all sanitary norms, just took a needle and slowly pushed it into the flesh, hoping that I'm able to kill pain with pain. Equally as fighting fire with fire. The pain is alive. It won't give up so easily. But the ugly scar now slashes not only my heart, but also my body.

***

Today I killed Vada. Her only mistake was that she achieved me at a wrong minute. Frankly speaking, she couldn't appear at the right moment - they all are wrong now. So, I locked her in the corner and burnt alive, and kept staring while the ravenous flames were eating her face. When I feel scalding desperation, I usually kill my alter-egos. She, probably, was the best of them.

***

Tomorrow I'm gonna burn the diary. Vada left a lot of her thoughts in it, and I don't want her to bother me from her afterlife/neverland. I feel a little bit sorry - she was a talented one... But the choice was me or her.

***

But the next day I'll kill myself too. She was worth doing it at the very beginning.

Christ-mess

2005-12-25T00:01:00.000+03:00

So, the day, most of the people expect with trepidation. Decorating their trees, putting lights everywhere, hanging bells over the front door. And waiting for a miracle to come. A rudimentary childish faith, that an almighty wizard will take away their sorrows, leaving a bunch of colorful presents under the tree; that the next year will be better. A smell of pine and tangerines embraces the eve, slowly dissolving in the smell of burnt aromatic wax. Old clock on the wall strike twelve. And a major overflow of wishes comes to mind, and one brokenly rushes to choose one of them to make at the final twelfth stroke... Oh, forgot to say - it's mildly snowing outside...

The eve of broken dreams. Just like a child, waiting sleepily under the table in the living room not to miss Santa's arrival - suddenly realizing in the middle of the night that the magic is gone. That no one comes, except that old and fat ugly man wearing cotton beard and father's robe, looking so much alike your drunkard neighbour: "Ho ho, little kid, were you a good obedient child this year? Santa has something for you!" And you're mixed, you're scared, close to panic, while the parents are standing above and smiling: "Sweety, sing a song to Santa!" - and you can't even burst out crying, ceized with fear, not just when it comes to singing. And they can't understand why you're so afraid of this red grinning face. They will never know, that this very try to prove Santa's existence ruins your childish beliefs... And in the very best case this monstrous lie isn't followed with nightmares for the rest of the year - till the next time.

People are waiting and messing around. They always do. But these days especially, seems like they prepare for feast before apocalypse leastwise.

I stare outside through the long fringe of a table-cloth. The door quietly cracks opening... The nightmare begins.

Circles

2005-12-23T16:53:00.000+03:00

Have anybody thought, that wherever one goes, whatever one does, it finally comes to a circle. And the circle finally closes in... The more you run, the faster is the stream against you. The more you move, the tighter you're bound.
This is not to be lamentation, and nothing can bring me really down. Or?..

Supernal Beauty

2005-12-16T17:40:00.000+03:00

I understand that from some point of view what I write here is not very mature. And of course it breaks all the borders of journalistic work. But I've seen the gods onstage.

Yes, as one of the classics said, "it is in Music... supernal Beauty". I knew this, and that is the very reason why I'm involved in it. Creation makes us superhumans. But yesterday I attended the event, that proved that some of us have reached the divinity.

I'm not taking into account that feeling of electricity in the air or the sudden strike of ecstasy while being already sodden with mass satisfaction. That's been experienced by me quite regularly, and gave food to rather long-term impressions, and sometimes even made me contribute some of my own writings to make those impressions eventual. But this - even though it's already The Second Coming - is something you can't get used to. I thought that I could expect and predict, remembering my past experience, but all the expectations were twisted to the gravel comparing to that stream of passion, that unexplainable interlacement of power, beauty, individuality, harmony and musical independence.

I've met them offstage just a few hours before and a few minutes after. They are human-beings of flesh and blood, smiling, talkative, also equally impressed. But they are gods onstage. They can touch a string - and thus make people cry. They can skip a beat - and thus only enforce the thirst for the next note, next strike. Trembling echos of yesterday make me play their CDs again and again, but even their genius records pale in comparison with the phantasmal, but so divine chemistry they create live.

I've seen the gods. Their name is Therion.

Grief Anniversary

2005-12-08T00:04:00.000+03:00

Another black-painted day. Another anniversary. After a year of sorrow. But I remember everything like it was yesterday. The killing coldness of a newsbreaks all over the web, saying the same thing in different words: there's no more Dime...

A lethal mistake. Fatal irony. So, where was your god a year ago, who, theoretically, should have cared about his creation? But no one wants to see the obsessed murderer shattering the legend. So what the hell is left in this world, that literally buries alive the ones who are real? That doesn't want to mention the obvious fact, that it suckles the snakes? With this death it has lost the one, who was alone worth of the whole world...

Dimebag Darrell. A bleeding name, a persistent wound. Your smiling shadow is engraved in my heart. Getcha' pull...

Voiceless Void

2005-12-02T18:35:00.000+03:00

Undeliberate insomniac. Now heavily bound to my own vesania. Flush of sounds within the cancerated brain is messing around its unprotected pulp, just like insects beat into the hot bulb glass, striving for light without any idea why they are used to do it.
I'm drained like never before, and what is more depressing, I don't know where to get the juices to revive myself. This cold, nasty and dank winter occupied not only the outer world, but also every corner of my mind. Nowhere to run - it's blind-alley...

My agonizing screams,
The edge of grave...
I bury down my sins
In silent cave.

The everlasting sound,
My poisoned grace
Will kiss the bleeding ground
In death embrace...

In solitude.

Gehenna Yawning

2005-11-24T03:30:00.000+03:00

Surrounded by ugly beings,
Lying in the nest of filth,
Who will pick the fruits of evil
From the branches of my conscience?

Who is dying at this very moment,
While I'm dissolved in eras of perverted delights?

But raising my head,
There are only black branches spinning the web in the skies.

Black branch.
Desecrated crucifixes in dirt.
Bleeding angels over the battlefield.
And the horsemen are feeding their fury and lust
Waiting while I read The Names aloud.

Facilis Descensus Averni

2005-10-25T16:38:00.000+04:00

The myriads of ages drown in ravenous waters,
Devouring everything on their way,
So coldly and indifferently annihilating the past and wiping it out of planet's ancient face.

For myriads of ages I'm strangling in these waters,
Trying to fight the stream,
And my feverish attempts only prevent me from drowning,
But the endless deep will never let me escape,
Though its waters are boiling around me.

When the full-moon madness shatters angels in alphabetical order,
I'm the first after god.
I know I have to be dissolved in the past,
But that's not me, who should die.

And when the shot and bleeding sun dies in these endless waters,
Covering them all with blood-red, and thus uncovering their killer nature,
When the full-moon madness shatters angels in alphabetical order,
I'm the first after god.
And I know, it's my time.

While someone overland is putting on my face.

Six Feet From Immortality

2005-09-30T23:02:00.000+04:00

No one dares to claim that he can fly, standing on the edge of abyss. No one dares to step into the fire in search of redemption from the darkness. No one dares to assume that there is nothing after death. They all keep feeding their fear of the other side of earth surface, trying to baptize themselves from death, like there is no dying at all. Immortal souls? How can they be immortal, if they have never been alive?

I'm having a good laugh, watching how every prick pretends to live forever. Meanwhile I myself hate the very idea of eternal existence. And still I'm standing closer to it than anyone - being only six feet from immortality...

Between the little deaths

2005-09-08T13:42:00.000+04:00

Finish my sentence. Add your poignant word - poisoned arrow - to make it eventual. Without that penetrating addition the picture won't the masterpiece it's meant to be.

Finish my sentence. Execute. Pull the trigger...

The Fallen Brother

2005-08-30T21:04:00.000+04:00

Death takes the very best. Only the best die young. So much said about the same thing, and in any way it all is reduced to the common denominator. Giants are falling, and no one ever will be able to replace them. They leave so fast, so unexpectedly, full of ideas, when everyone waits for the new masterpiece. But not the laurels embrace the cold body...

Just knew about the passing of another hero. Person, who was definitely one in a million. Influential and avantgarde, unpredictable and musically independent - the way every creative personality should be. But that's not only that we don't have the new explorers - we still keep losing the masters.

Where the fuck is justice?! Why the 45-year genius dies of cancer? I guess, for the same reason as another mastermind left with the similar cause at the age of 34. As the 39-year pathfinder died of heart attack. Finally the one, cynically shot onstage
being only 38. If I were a believer, I would have said that heaven bosses are too greedy. But that would be so good and relieving to know that they keep going on somewhere in another worlds. The fact is that it is not so. Genius isn't compatible with death. But death keeps striking people of genius out of the list... But not out of my heart.

Forgive me, Piggy. Forgive me for I missed the chance to know you closer...

Passage

2005-08-26T17:48:00.000+04:00

Passage through the corridor of light,
When the darkness is sodden with its own phosphorescent shine -
How can it be, that the eighth unexplainable miracle
Is human fatal imperfection?

People see the halo of the sun only during the eclipse.
How late...

Dirty Shades

2005-08-26T00:56:00.000+04:00

The night came returning, and it devoured the last glimmer in the ashes of the day. Fainting sounds of the past don't appear as a cacophony anymore; now they get braided in a beautiful symphony of melancholy. Still it is suffering, but in a squeezed and concentrated condition; tranquillity, but not so desperate like before. The narrow sphere of action that makes me released at the same time drains my juices, and I know, that in a general meaning the ones to receive the ready product will never know, who was standing behind its creation.

Trembling light of a cigarette is drawing a ghostly web of light around my face. It gives an opportunity to catch a dismal reflection of it in the pane of glass, that separates me from the outer world, still relative because of the same night enthroned. But I'm staring through the reflected pupils to the other side - to the dirty stone fence surrounding the building. There are numerous shades. Clearly delineated shades of branches and leaves, mysterious and diffluent shades of my memories, projected on the wall... The shades. They are so ethereal, but right they are real. They are me. I am one of them. A dirty shade, almighty, but so short-lived.

Through blacks and whites

2005-08-11T03:51:00.000+04:00

...I try not to dream my life, but to live my dream.

That's the way, I know.

Chronicles of the Black Angel. Part I: Hero of Mistaken Day.

2005-07-25T10:57:00.000+04:00

The days were changing one after another, by the smooth way, by the overall imposed opinion. Tuesday after Monday, second after first, February after January… The thirty second day fell out of the total charger, and nobody caught sight of it… Just an invisible hand trembled, shaking out the aim, and, vexed with the mistake, fired again the usual burst to the sky. Wednesday after Tuesday, third after second, March after February…

And he was born on this day. On the sixty first minute of the twenty fifth hour this world heard his first cry, that like a clear song forced its way through the shroud of grey mediocre weekday. Broke the pane of glass, in a drop of light sparkled on the splinter and rushed upwards like a colorful rainbow …
He was the hero of this day: he came to this devilishly logical, but, nevertheless, strange world, that has stiffened in astonishment under the phantasmagoric sight of his unreal steel-blue eyes; he – Human.
And he wanted to live. Just to feel alive. He himself and the rest of the world. The world he was brought in by the thirty second day of the month…

But why ever all is so queasily logical?!.. Why it can’t be the eighth day of the week, or thirteenth month?! Just with a single cold phrase – It Can’t Be – the Lords of the World have aborted that suddenly appeared day with its mysteries and heroes… His powerful rainbow of life on the wing crashed to an iron wall of unreality and drowned in everlasting futility… And the sixty second minute forever devoured the last echo of his first cry …
The day was dead. Celestial chancellery just stroke it out of the total list as not wanted. The thirty second day…

And he was born on this day. Or has he ever been born?..

Thick darkness of insomnia

2005-07-23T14:26:00.000+04:00

Torn and tangible clots of darkness are heavily flowing outside the dead windows of a sleeping city. Endless road, ghostly changing its direction with every turn of a wheel. Full moon madness rushes upon me, and I don't really know (and actually don't care) how to fight it. That perfectly round, gleaming face, hanged there in the sky over my head, shamelessly stares at my backseat, where I'm killing another half of an hour on the way home.
Driving there, still I don't really know if I want to go there. To invade that sleeping block of rooms, where everything is extremely silent, where I feel lost only because of miserable noise I make there deafens me. But where can I go in the middle of the night.

Surrounding darkness is endlessly poetic. I mention that I don't concentrate anymore on what is moving outside the windows. Only this road in front of me, fastly and inevitably disappearing under the wheels...

Deviant

2005-07-08T11:27:00.000+04:00

Here we are, standing on a pavement,
on the sidewalk of the world, breaking the laws of this society.
Laws to be indifferent, ignorant and selfish.

The rule "I don't care" doesn't work anymore.
I care. I'm here. I dare...

Quicksilver Heavens

2005-07-02T11:07:00.000+04:00

It never comes when you wait for that. It's impossible to predict that kind of mood, which overwhelms you since the very first seconds of its birth. But it's waiting for you, hiding in every phosphoric drop of liquid, in every thin shadow, and it knows when it's time to strike. It puts refracting prisms between you and your visions, dissolves your minutes in silence - but it is something that makes you breathe. It's just like an occasionally stranging balloon in the quicksilver heavens. It is silent, but watching this, still there's so much to say...

Desolation

2005-07-01T22:18:00.000+04:00

When ghostly smoke is drawing webs under the ceiling, when every sound is growing in my brain like an accelerated cancer, leaving me deaf and desperate, when motley thoughts are jumping from one point to another, and all the memories seem blurred - I only want to spit another clot of smoke out, and to leave this heartless neverland. But everytime I close my eyes - to get rid of the oppressive visionaires - they come to life furthermore... It's hard to be alive in the galleries of death, with beating human hearts impaled on blood-rusted thorns, where the spirit of Inquisition is so real, that every manifestation of genius is convicted to be infernal...

And the most horrifying in this all is that the gallery exists nowhere, but inside of myself.

Eeries on fire

2005-06-30T21:11:00.000+04:00

Here I am again, raising my hand to finish it all... It took only one time of dying for me to understand that it's the way. The perverted way of ripping the pain off. I don't care anymore whom I've been before death, I only know whom I'll be after. I'm able to create myself now, to shape my own shadow, choosing new illogical and unneeded names for a kind of identification. The matter is I don't want to carry the imposed name anymore. It was given by the people who actually don't care... So their child is dead. Smell the gasoline!.. They wanted to shape a little part of me themselves - but I'm twisting it all to the gravel. Feel the flame licking the previous cover, see the touch of decay! It hurts, but look, how much art is in this suffering! Encapsulation is over, the butterfly is born with the death of a maggot.

Encapsulated, preparing for self-annihilation

2005-06-11T14:59:00.000+04:00

Destination nowhere. No power to change what should be changed. All bridges on fire...
She was slowly walking down the street in the very heart of that huge monster-like city with its screaming ads and neons everywhere. She used to like that energy in the past, but now it was really killing... It seemed that all this ugly lights were growing in her eyes, becoming shapeless and aggressive, they were invading her brain, twisting it with sharp, torn pain from the middle of the grey mass, destroying her privacy - and at the same time, she knew that for sure, all this city was absolutely indifferent about her; nobody cared, except some disco-boys, riding fathers' cabs and thinking they're unbelievable cool because of that. She hated them, she hated everything surrounding her now - and only the pain inside, it was something of her own; she was bleeding - and gently scratching the wound; she felt encapsulated, for all this shit not to touch her, for she could die alone, for nobody could reach her and roughly force his way inside her isolation...
She could do nothing. Actually she could do everything, but now... now it was impossible for her even to raise her hand to strike a blow. But still, all bridges are already on fire. And all, what's left to do, was waiting there, encapsulated, preparing for self-annihilation.

In Memory Of Q

2005-06-07T04:15:00.000+04:00

A year passed by. The nameless one, you can hear me. My dead alter ego, I found out who you really are so recently. Hey, I really thought I was the only one among black angels, but it appears that I wasn't. What you created could not be done by a usual human-being. But we crossed each other in time, and my moment of truth contemporized your departure. Maybe each of the shadow worlds needs its own master, so while I'm spreading my wings over this side, you're contemplating another one...
You were definitely right, names mean nothing. Being a genius, you don't need to have any stupid identification. Name is just something that is imposed to anyone since he is born, but we're stronger than this. The name doesn't make you, but you make it - and exactly you proved that on your own example.
Already a year... But how it happened that through the shroud of death we have compatible visions? My dead alter ego, materialized sleeping demon, forever nameless...

Strobe

2005-06-03T22:45:00.000+04:00

I'm getting more and more convinced that this life is a strobe. More and more highlights in shorter and shorter periods of time... First it makes you move. Then it makes you tired. After all it leaves you delirious. Squeezed. And finally you cross the threshold of insanity. Or sit surrounded with tobacco smoke, having no idea what to want after all...
This life is a strobe. It dazzles and makes you dizzy.

Sindustry

2005-05-13T01:20:00.000+04:00

When the daylight fades out into thick darkness, I open my eyes. Only then, when that loathsome honey of the sunlight is dead enough not to bother my inner gloom, I can stare at this world again. And I can see much more, than anyone of mere mortals. That's not very difficult, to be honest... So theoretically anyone can have it my way, the fact is that they used to believe in their own weakness ... But that's another thing. I don't want to worry about that again, everytime it reminds me about my own intoxicated dreams. Forget it. And now I can see blood on angel wings. Hypocrisy of the "righteous", shattered sky all over horizon... This is the world we used to live in. Cynical sindustry. I wanted it to be another. I wanted to love it, to make it better - for anyone, wanted to teach them all how to win. But... The ones above decided to kill me. All right. Said and done. The gravestone is getting colder and heavier... But now think: who of us is more dead?
I don't know how, but I survived. And now I'm black enough to spread my wings over the sunrise...

Ripples in Memory

2005-05-09T18:30:00.000+04:00

As long as the trembling lights at the top of the candles remind us about their phantasmal existence, we still remember those ones who died saving us. The most attentive of us can even remember some faces. We live our lives as we used to, never changing the habitual way, and every year at the same day we get reminded that it's time to mourn again. How cynical.

And when the candles are burnt down, when only some diffluent wax is left from their original strictness, we're happy to forget everything again, and like a heap of puppets wait for another year - for the Master to come and to blow the dust away from our faces and memory.

Maniac Devotion

2005-05-08T18:54:00.000+04:00

He told me I'm maniacally devoted. Enthusiastic like a madman. Devoted in general to the Target. But he - and the others all the more - will never see behind the glass. The Target, the ravenous altar I'm sacrificing myself to, it took everything most of people hold on to. They keep saying that's in vain. They keep invading my own darkness, where I bleed to remain creative, telling me that I'm nobody, just a faceless shadow, and the only way to get a face is to be like them. Hell... They've been given so much freedom... But they're unable to handle it. They don't use it. In that card city they count to be huge, no one dares to see its miserability. Hiding behind the conventionalities, who is brave enough to hold his head above it?.. They don't even need this freedom to be free. This world still prays to its numerous Big Brothers, feeling so safe behind the doubtful authorities - and every minute drops a brick in the wall... Why do we hold so tight to a self-built prison? Maybe because it's self-built...
I'm devoted to the narrow angle of my freedom. But it's a desperate devotion.
He told me I'm maniacally devoted. Enthusiastic like a madman. Devoted in general to the Target. And still, saying this, he's the only one who understands my passion.

Fever thoughts

2005-05-01T16:39:00.000+04:00

If I could look back I would know what it is... But I can't turn around and catch a ghostly form of what dies with every merciless second. It is still breathing, but too weak to wait with the funeral. So I buried it deep inside of me and forgot the location of the grave.