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The silent Child

Posted 3 November 2002, 1.33 am by Sickan

She had the eyes.
Old eyes some would call them.
First time they looked at her.
They knew she was different.
All her life they told her,
That she was different.
Different in many ways.
Different because she never spoke.
She was able to speak.
They knew that.
Sometimes she said a few words,
A few well-put words.
They hit directly in the heart.
She was small and fragile.
Fragile as a fly spotted
By a child.
She had no friends and
She even seemed alone.
But she never complained
Or sought others company.
She liked her loneliness
Then the teens began.
No one teased her in school.
No one talked to her,
They knew they’d never get an answer.

Then one day she came home.
Crying.
She had never cried before.
Why was she crying.
They tried to make her tell them.
She did.
After that she never spoke again.
The sectret she told was horrible.
Her father could not live with it
And he was found in the lake
It was winter.
She did not cry at the funeral.
Neither did her mother.

What was the secret.
We all had to know – we needed it
The stories began humming in the town.
What we could now know for certain
We made up.
Had the father abused her?
Had someone done sometime like that
To the silent child.
What was her name again?
Can you tell me that.
The silent child.
Had he done something terrible?

We never got to know.
We can only imagine.
They left one morning and
They never came back
Their house is still there and
Furniture and plates are there.
But no people.
They went to a new town
A new place a new life.
But the girl kept on being
The silent child.
She knew her father had
Done nothing wrong and
The whispering in the
Old town had driven her
In the shadow of death.
She knew her eyes let her
See things others couldn’t.
She knew that the father
Loved another woman
Not her mother.
That was the secret.
Nothing more.
The silent child
Had old eyes.

Addiction

Posted 2 November 2002, 7.48 pm by Alexander

This is another reader submission, this time from Kateifer. Enjoyez-vous.

Cautiously she turned the corner on her all to familiar route through the dark ally. Why was there no other way for her to go? Everyday she gave up her money. Everyday she walked more alone as one by one they left. All save He; He took everything she ever had. There was never a bite for her, never a penny to be spent. She was His and she knew it, yet she couldn't stop. She was caught in His trap from the first.

Her first trip through the ally came to mind. She was lonely, sad. Death had taken everyone she ever loved. He was there. She knew where to find Him although she had sworn she'd never go looking. Now, she did. He took her into His arms. They were like steel. Frightened at first she tried to escape but He wouldn't let go. Then suddenly the colors started and it was like nothing she had ever seen before. The beauty astounded her taking her breath away and slowly with each new color, her will was gone too.

Soon, she knows, she'll leave. She'll come to the ally and in His embrace she'll leave. He'll never let her go, she knows that now. After the first trip she just had to go back to the ally for more colors. This time though, He gave her music. He gave her light, joy, and a freedom she never new, and He drew her in tighter. Then it changed she had to go back. There was no choice now. She could not walk another way. She was His completely and it was no longer fun. She wanted to escape from Him, but He was the only escape.

Her final walk down the ally. At the end He waits. He knows. His eyes burn with their knowledge of all the others she brought. He knows where their bodies lie. Slowly she picks her way forward over first one then another. She coes to Him and surrenders. Her final trip ends. She too is lying dead on the ground with the others.

Filipino Box Spring Hog

Posted 2 November 2002, 3.34 am by Jake

It's a link to God.

Tom Waits

I'm a big fan. Yeah, I'm a loser. Go ahead and laugh.

Walking Spanish

Posted 1 November 2002, 12.46 am by Jake

Richie looks down the sinister, dark maw of the shotgun as he pisses his pants in the back of an old convenience store.
5 minutes, if Carlo doesn't show up, Richie's going to get his brains painted all over the pavement by a nickel-plated custom Remington 12-gauge.
You see, he and Carlo had a deal with a certain Mr. Espinosa. Mr. Espinosa is a highly-respected, sickeningly wealthy coke dealer. Mr. Espinosa's so fucking rich, you see, that he's sitting at his desk in upper Beverly Hills, having his dick sucked by a maid while one of his goons gets paid $500 an hour to kill people with a large-bore projectile weapon.
The stakes aren't in Richie's favor right now, as if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, Richie's standing there, sweat pouring down his face, hot tears streaking the dirt and splashing onto his $500 jacket, piss running down the legs of his double-stitched custom silk pants, and splattering onto his $400 roach-stompers. Richie starts to have flashbacks.

Two years old, sitting point-blank to a television. He only understands a few words at a time, but the people on there are bright and do funny things. There's a knock at the door. He jumps up from his spot and clumsily toddles over to the door. His mother, Carmen, rushes in front of him, snatches him up into her arms. They both giggle, and Carmen cradles her son in one arm and opens the door.
It's Ruben. Ruben is a supposed "special friend" of Carmen's. Young Richie has already learned the man’s name, and shouts it gleefully upon the man's arrival.
"Wu-bennn!!!" Richie hollers.
"Richie!!" Ruben responds, with a beaming grin.
He kisses Carmen upon entry, and grabs Richie from her arms. He quickly tosses her a small bag during Richie's fraternizing with Ruben. She catches it and pads over to the couch, pulling out a mirror and doing something that Ruben doesn't particularly want Richie to bear witness to. After going to the kitchen with Ruben and getting an apple, they go back into the living room whereupon Carmen whispers something into Ruben's ear.
Ruben strolls across the room and to the couch, while Carmen takes her son to the laundry room to fold laundry and talk to him.

She says sentence after sentence to him, and he just nods his head and says "Yeah, Mama." Suddenly, there's a crash in the living room, and Carmen gasps and dashes to the living room. Richie is worried, so he follows her intently. He runs in and sees Ruben on the floor, shaking. His mother is sobbing and rubbing Ruben's head while babbling into the telephone.

Last thing Richie remembers is the paramedics rushing in and taking Ruben off in the loud trucks, and his mother cradling him and crying, saying in Spanish, "Lo siento, m'ijo." After that night, he never got to see his mother again.

A quick slap to the head with the barrel of the shotgun breaks Richie from his quick vacation. "Oh yeah, back to the fuckin' task on hand," he murmurs.
"Shut up, you piece of shit!" says the big guy. "You've got 2 ½ minutes to live, After that, you'll just be a little grease spot on the back of the Nu-Way."
Richie shakes his head, and closes his eyes again.
His mind starts to wander, but the sudden roar of an oncoming car breaks his moment of closure.
Thank God. It's fucking Carlo.
Carlo comes screeching up in his nice little Cadillac, hops out and strolls up to Espinosa's guy like he's the epitome of cool. James Dean and shit, just a Chicano.
"Hey, fuckface!" he belts, undaunted by the idea that Richie was two and, ah, say 1 ¾ minutes away from dying.
"Having fun?"
"Yeah. It's a lovely goddamned tea party. Get this fucking gorilla to drop his guns and let me go."
"Afraid I can't do that, Richie."
A burst of fear and a twinge of adrenalin rushes to Richie's furthest nerve endings. Kids, this truly sucks.
"What?"
"I didn't stutter, Richie. I can't do that. You see, I owe Mr. Espinosa a favor. And in this case, the favor is setting up a little rat bastard such as yourself to get whacked."
"WHAT? You fucking piece of shit! You can't do this to me!"
"I can't?" Carlo whips out a pistol and shoots Richie in his knee.
Richie collapses like a ton of bricks, and begins to pray.
"Ay, Dios, yo hacia muchas cosas malas,"
"Shut UP, Richie. I warned you once. Don't make me do it once more, where it counts."
"Pero ya quiero que yo arrepiento a todo, y..."
Carlo shoots Richie in his other leg. "Kid, I already told you."
Richie looks up and says , in a halted manner,
"You know, I didn't really get it last time, either. Tell me AGAIN."
Carlo stares into Richie's deep brown eyes, and squeezes off a round right into his forehead.

"Can't say I didn't warn the little fuck. Now let's go get our money."

The big guy laughs and slaps Carlo on the back. They both get into Carlo's Cadillac and drive away, leaving Richie in a heap under the yellow, buzzing streetlight behind the Nu-Way Stop N' Shop.

The most Supreme man on Earth

Posted 31 October 2002, 9.20 pm by Sickan

I just have to do this – I just have to write this article about the most fucking supreme man on this planet – Peter Steele from first Carnivore and now Type O Negative.

I have listened to Type O Negative (TON) for quite some time, or at least a couple of years now and I have always been a huge fan. Now more than ever.

Not so long ago I was told by a friend to get a song by Carnivore called Male Supremacy, the name Carnivore rang a bell but I couldn’t really place it. But oh my god I remembered when I got the song and heard it.

For those who have no interest in Heavy Metal or music like that this will not be anything different from the usual screaming and growl, but for fans like myself this is like a revelation. The lyrics are so great.

They probably seem stupid and even bad to people who again do not listen to this kind of music. But as my friend and I talked about, it is real love that is described in this song (Carnivore – Male Supremacy)

‘Years been away I fought night and day for my land and my king
woman it's true I do battle for you, you my everything
when on the fur I make love to her how her body sings’

This is the right way and there is no other way. Perhaps you now think that we must stop this mess, we must hospitalize Sickan – she is way out there and there is no hope for her. Well prepare to get metallized, my dear.

This is my tribute to Peter Steele. For those of you who know his music and nothing more here is what they say on the TON page:

‘Born in the late Pleistocene age and thawed out in 1971, Peter was raised a devout catholic until he was barred from his own communion for gross flatulence. Peter discovered he could write songs upon his 1987 release from Kings County psychiatric ward after 3 weeks of observation for attempting to commit suicide with plastic eating utensils. In 1989 he formed Type O Negative. He had written the bands original demo for the sole reason of winning back an old girlfriend that had left him for a sanitation worker, but the tapes somehow got the band a record contract. Shortly after his signing Peter was promptly arrested during his 1990 colostomy operation when the surgeon discovered 186 lbs of low grade undigested beef and half of a female femur bone in his large intestine.
After his release from prison he was forced to leave his beloved job for the NYC Parks Department to go on tour with TON. He can now sometimes be sighted raking leaves and removing litter from truck stops and hotel parking lots across the country.
Hobbies: fast food, redheads, and slim-fast’
Thank you typeonegative.net

Now one can either take it all serious and really belief that Peter Steele (or as he was named in Carnivore Petrus) actually have been devouring females and think he is cool. People like that remembers everything shitty like that and they believe in it with every fiber in their beings. Like Manson and his missing ribs.

I think that it is great that TON makes fun of it and thereby makes you think about all the poor souls out there who want to believe it so bad.
Yeah I know, I could have been one of those but I’m just too fucking cool to be an arse like that…

Oh well. Despite Steele’s massive body and impressive look – he has the most wonderful voice. I mean he does not even need that little spade of a bass he plays – his voice does it all. I have never heard a man do magic like that. It really makes you fall head over heals in love with him. I must admit it. Heh.

Now back to the lyrics. All the lyrics TON makes are supreme, I mean look at this one…

‘In her place one hundred candles burning
As salty sweat drips from her breast
Her hips move and I can feel what they're saying, swaying
They say the beast inside of me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

Black lipstick stains her glass of red wine
I am your servant, may I light your cigarette?
Those lips smooth, yeah I can feel what you're saying, praying
They say the beast inside of me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

I beg to serve, your wish is my law
Now close those eyes and let me love you to death
Shall I prove I mean what I'm saying, begging
I say the beast inside me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

Let me love you too
Let me love you to death

Hey am I good enough
for you?
Hey am I good enough
for you?
Am I?
Am I?
Am I good enough
for you?’

Most music in this godforsaken genre is empty and has no depth – well only if you are a wannabe – which I of course never have been…

Well I must end this now – I hope that some have read this to its end… hehe if not I do not blame you.

Peace

Thoughts on a Bad Day

Posted 30 October 2002, 10.01 pm by Shaggy

As a character in Richard III (Shakespeare's rendition) once said, "Now is the winter of our discontent." Indeed, winter is approaching, and the leaves are starting to change colour.

In fact, I was rather cold walking to/from school today.

At any rate, this may come as a shock, but I have been thinking. What is it about the concept of an Outsider (read: Albert Camus' The Outsider, you'll thank me) that is important? Is it the concept of différance/différence that amuses people, the concept that language, as in a structuralist sense, is composed of differences? Is it important that there be white, so that it can define black?

Being the type of person that one could safely call eccentric (among many things), I agree that I relish in my differences and my "outsideness." It is what defines me as opposed to every other person who matches my biographical details (20 year old English honours student in long distance relationship, let's call me Student A). It is what makes me Student A as opposed to Student B.

Yet, how is this possible, that I exist merely through the characteristics of those who can be classified as "absolutely not me?"

One set of footprints in the sand, who was guiding me all along?

I often find myself striving to be a "good" person, and yet, especially in light of my social-perspective experiments as of late (for those who didn't get a chance to read them, I basically embodied everything that I am not, as far as morality is concerned, in order to deconstructionalize myself, and to gain further perspective into this thing called "Reality"), I find myself wondering: is there good without evil? I do not mean in a strictly biblical sense, in which case you have both good and evil, and to believe in one theoretically is a belief in the other. I mean, in the moral and Real sense, the "good inside of us." Can we say that a veterinarian is a good person if we do not have anyone who is cruel/insensitive to animals?

Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps it is as easy as "yes and no." Perhaps I have to lock myself up in a monastary for decades in order to truly find the answer, but until then...

I will strive to be good, regardless of evil. Whether or not evil is necessary, I will not consider, but rather, I will be its brother, hoping to become its police officer.

Thank you.

Honey I'm Hooome!!

Posted 29 October 2002, 11.44 pm by Sickan

I have had a plan this weekend with a friend of mine, Jack. We were to practice for the Danish Championship in Tekken 4. I could not play with him because of my broken arm, but I could just hang out. I kinda had to, because min roomie were to have his girlfriend over. That’s just cool.

Then I got a call from Jack and he cancelled our ‘date’ because his girlfriend came home from Spain earlier than expected. Now I had a little problem, there were nowhere for me to go in Aarhus where I live… I could not visit my boyfriend because that was just too far away and stuff. Then I made a decision, one that even seemed wise at the time – I could visit all my friends in my home town, I hadn’t been there for almost 3 months – and I was starting to miss them.

I hurried to get my train and off I was. I quickly heard that they were having a party at an apartment we call ‘The Castle’ – cool! I was all in for it and exited to see them all again. I don’t usually drink and I had no intentions to drink that night even thought it seemed like a good idea, but I was doped up on painkillers. Anyways…

I got to my home town where my father were to pick me up and drive me home to his place where I could have my bags and stuff. I got out of the train and looked for him in the dark and rainy station – he was nowhere to be seen. I found my phone and called his number, both cell and stationary but there was no answer.

I looked around and waited about ten minutes before I decided that he was probably not coming. I wasn't really surprised, after a whole childhood where you haven’t been picked up one single time after a trip with the class, you just stop expecting stuff like that to happen, but one always dream.

I walked, admittedly pathetic and somewhat depressed, with my broken arm, a big bag pack and soaked clothes through town – hoping to get a hold of my father – but at last I stopped and got a cap out to my friends place, ‘The Castle’.

When I got there and the door opened I couldn’t help but smiling all over my face. I had really missed them – them being the inhabitants of the apartment and the one I in my mind immediately related to that place. I was the first one to arrive.

Not soon after they all stumbled in the living room and there was crowded with people I had seen a couple of times before and people who know some of my inner secrets. The scenery was really funny. See, there is a good reason that we call ‘The Castle’ ‘Castle’ – it is a very good remake of one. The walls are painted like they were big rocks placed on-top each other, there are small dragon-skulls over the doorways (keep in mind we are all role-players here), there are live-role playing outfits hanging in one end of the living room, there are swords, shields and other combat stuff on the walls, there are several chain mails and other really nice stuff. Everything home made.

Well everyone were surprised to see me and made fun of me (cause of that fucking arm) and it was great to be ‘home’. They all sat down and I chatted to my people for a time. They all seemed so happy and satisfied. It was nice to see that. Unfortunately I got a huge headache after a couple of hours and I was tried as hell – so just after midnight I had to go home, well not home but I could sleep at a friend who would stay at him girlfriend. Cool. So I wandered across town to his place.

As I was walking my phone rang – it was my father. I could hear he had been sleeping. He realized what time it was and apologized so many times and he was truly sad that he had fallen asleep. In any other case a 19 year-old girl wouldn’t matter, but I was hurt and sad that he once more had ’forgotten’ about me and left me there.

But nice as I am I said that there was no need for him to worry I wasn't mad, I would come visit him tomorrow. Cool! And we said goodnight. I arrived to my friends place.

I placed my ass by his computer and logged on, and my boyfriend was on – so I stayed on for quite some time, after a while my pains vanished. Soon time had passed us by and it was early morning. It knocked on the door and it was my friend, he how lived there.

He needed some clean clothes - I could see that he was somewhat wasted. I asked him how his night had been and he looked at me and started blabbering about his girlfriend and how lame she sometimes were and stuff like that… and I was kicked back in time 3 months to be exact. I suddenly understood everything and I remembered why I had moved and I didn't miss them anymore – I just wanted to go home – back to my new world.

Now I love them all and I DO miss them. I just don’t miss those whiney bastards they sometimes turn into – I hate that! I hated my father because he made me feel like little left-all-alone-in-the-world-girl, he made me feel as if I was incapable of doing things on my own. Which I know is wrong but that’s just the feeling I got.

I must admit that I have thought about the symbolism in the weather as well. When I left Aarhus it didn't rain at all, as soon as I got to my home-town it pissed down and it was so dark and depressed. Heh… funny how that works.

Well thank you for listening to ME bitching.

Peace




Reader Submission #87198527

Posted 28 October 2002, 9.03 pm by Alexander

This is a reader submission from Chronocidal, which between you and me I don't think is the name his mother calls him.

Rite of Passage:

My friends and I were driving by the dormitories in Manhattan, Kansas, and I observed a couple of college-age students sitting outside and shooting the breeze; I realized something when I saw the simple scene playing out before my eyes… I never got to lead the life that they very well could be taking for granted. I've never lived the stereotypical “have fun now, make up for it later” lifestyle that’s running rampant in America’s ghettos and suburbs, and I suppose I feel like I've been scammed out of a very important piece of my life. Even my future’s foreseeable plan of attack doesn't involve the raging teenage angst that I've almost cried out in anguish for. Do I really wish I was living that life, or am I suffering from some sort of adolescent cry for normalcy that has been reoccurring more and more frequently as of late?

I suppose that delving into my previous experiences with my social peers would be helpful in unearthing the reasons behind my sudden ill temperament. My high school days, which seem all too previous for having occurred less than 3 months ago, were relatively uneventful. I was the ordinary smarter-than-school intellect and frequently found myself neglecting my school work due to lack of patience and/or lack of willpower to make myself do something that I felt was too trivial to apply brain power towards… but I feel my current situation has to deal more with my relationships with students more than it does with books and teachers. I never went out and did the party scene as much as numerous people I knew; it wasn't so much that I wasn't cool enough to be invited to parties, as is the case with a growing number of intellectual teenagers these days, but I ordinarily didn't feel the desire to immerse myself in the superfluous partying lifestyle that I saw my friends diving into headfirst. Michelle would invite me to parties, Scott would hold parties and invite Chuck and I, and I have several other acquaintances which would periodically host parties to which I was invited.

Something about that lifestyle never appealed to my specific taste in fun, I suppose it was the fact that I saw my step-father and mother in their current states (I usually hypothesized that I wanted to be the complete opposite of my family that resides in the same housing complex as I did… an ordinary reaction, I've come to conclude) and I found myself not wanting to live their current lifestyle. My mother is a hypocritical, drunken excuse for a matriarch, much the same as my sister (Angela) is, and my step-father is a washed out ex-Army depression case. I think that, albeit I like to play my life out to a more grandiose level than it should be taken, I am a relatively normal child. Which makes my lack of excitement at the prospects of partying all that more disturbing to me… if I don't show any outward signs of horrible exclusion from the rest of 18 year olds, why should I feel any different about certain situations than my friends?

I hope that people who party and read this don't feel like I'm being condescending towards them at all, because that isn't the purpose of this self-discovery; however, I feel that the reason that I never immersed myself in the popular culture evident all around me is that I don't want to feel like I have to grow out of anything else. Partying, drinking, and doing drugs is something that ends with age, and I don't ever want to feel like I have to reach a certain coming of age to realize who I am. People who have recovered from doing drugs have some life-altering event take place that shakes their faith in their current lifestyle… I don't want to look back on my life and say that I honestly regret any of the actions I've undertaken in my short stay here. I hope that perhaps I'll be able to tell my children, which I do plan to have one day (sooner than most people), that I did what they're doing at the moment once in my life, but I learned my lesson and tuned my life around before something catastrophic happened.

I suppose the underlying factor in all of this is that I've found someone who I feel like I can feel complete with, regardless of whether or not I'm in the scene I'm supposed to be in. I suppose that teenagers and college students party and do the drug scene to fill an empty void in your life, and I'm sure that most rehabilitation centers tell their patients that they need to find something to take the mind off of the void they feel without drugs… I suppose at the moment I've found the occupation of that void naturally inherent in my soul. Who knows what will happen in the future, but I'm thankful for now and as long as I can possibly conceive that Ashley’s part of my life and part of my upbringing… the fact that she doesn't disapprove of my seemingly unnatural lifestyle shows me that I'm not as against the grain as I previously conceived.

I suppose that every person has to achieve a certain rite of passage so that they too can come to a strikingly similar conclusion I've come to; I suppose another way to put that would be to say that everyone has to find their own Ashley. I still have some scruples about my life as it is, due mainly to it’s oddities from the normal, but at the same time I like to think that my life has been enriched by its oddities and idiosyncrasies. I have no problems with others living the life that they choose to live (to do anything else would be condescending and overly-judgmental on my part), but I have to choose the path that my own life will have to tread. I'm happy with where I am.

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This is a flyer design for a club night i'm setting up. The basic concept i had was for the DJ as Puppetmaster, controlling the dancefloor. The computer modelled figures and hands were rendered in Poser (a fairly easy to use 3D package), and these were montaged with a photo of myself wearing headphones in Photoshop, where I also produced the graphics/logo. Due to cash constraints the flyers are being copied in black and white, but i figured that would be the case so designed it fairly contrasted in the first place.


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80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?

* Alexander wonders if this still works

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