tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90082495899309166982024-02-07T04:14:59.150-08:00Eons of Eternal DecayEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-33205176265862754522010-05-11T23:04:00.000-07:002010-05-11T23:05:00.690-07:00Blowing Nico's Head off<object width="400" height="320" ><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/10150186320330386" /><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/10150186320330386" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="320"></embed></object><br /><br />He refused to do the dishes dammit! :DEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-91191697808032190132009-11-10T02:04:00.000-08:002009-11-10T02:05:39.997-08:00Right In Two<span style="font-style:italic;">These lyrics make me want to weep.<br /></span><br />Angels on the sideline,<br />Puzzled and amused.<br />Why did Father give these humans free will?<br />Now they're all confused.<br /><br />Don't these talking monkeys know that<br />Eden has enough to go around?<br />Plenty in this holy garden, silly monkeys,<br />Where there's one you're bound to divide it.<br />Right in two.<br /><br />Angels on the sideline,<br />Baffled and confused.<br />Father blessed them all with reason.<br />And this is what they choose.<br />And this is what they choose...<br /><br />Monkey killing monkey killing monkey<br />Over pieces of the ground.<br />Silly monkeys give them thumbs,<br />They forge a blade,<br />And where there's one<br />they're bound to divide it,<br />Right in two.<br />Right in two.<br /><br />Monkey killing monkey killing monkey.<br />Over pieces of the ground.<br />Silly monkeys give them thumbs.<br />They make a club.<br />And beat their brother, down.<br />How they survive so misguided is a mystery.<br /><br />Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to live to light a heaven conscious of his fleeting time here.<br /><br />Cut it all right in two<br /><br />Fight over the clouds, over wind, over sky<br />Fight over life, over blood, over prayer,<br />overhead and light<br />Fight over love, over sun,<br />over another, Fight...<br /><br />Angels on the sideline again.<br />Been soon long with patience and reason.<br />Angels on the sideline again<br />Wondering when this tug of war will end.<br /><br />Cut it all right in two<br /><br />Right in two... <br /><br />~ToolEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-74984304376367494982009-10-14T22:12:00.000-07:002009-10-14T22:13:11.754-07:00Untitled?Stale sunlight filtered through smudged and swirled glass plate. The fly ringing between the chipping sill and case of the window sounded the final alarm of the morning. Even as he rolled over and off of the mattress, Chip could feel the weight in his chest anchoring him to those last few minutes of sleep. He fought a heavy under tow as he made his way from the bedroom, bracing himself against the door frame and staring blankly into the abysmal gray of the midmorning hallway.<br /><br />I can't do this.<br /><br />Adjusting to the dim light, he shuffled along the uneven hardwood planks. Chip eventually found himself in the kitchen. The front door let in a vertical thread of light. Darla's coffee mug was still on the counter. The ring around it formed a dark brown crater in the smooth, thick wood. Some fuschia wildflowers had wilted and weeped onto the kitchen table, their dry petals dusting a stained and ink-smeared napkin. He peered over it and read around the debris. The handwriting looked childlike and rushed.<br /><br />"They say it's ok, now. They want me to do it. They say they will take care of it."<br /><br />He'd seen it last night, while getting a drink at the tap. His sister would rather write than talk more often than not. It was easier for her.<br /><br />He sighed and brought the heel of his hand across his cheek, covering his mouth. Chip picked up the crumpled note. Frowning, he held it up to the south light in the window. There was something else written there. Near the bottom, in a microscopic scrawl, he found a post script:<br /><br />"It's the right thing for me to do. The right thing to do. I understand. Tell little brother goodbye. And thank you."<br /><br />His brow twitched, face going slack.<br /><br />He was able to catch hold of a chair before collapsing. Head in hands, he slammed to the table. The heartbeat in his throat was choking him. Gasping like a banked trout between sobs, gripping handfuls of mahogany hair, unfocused pupils rolling around the woodgrain as if they'd detached-- That was it. That was what it was. She's done it. It's done. Oh God.<br /><br />The thoughts came racing as a merry go round of childhood snapshots: riding bikes past whitewashed railing in a faraway town, warm ice cream cascading over sticky fingers, wool-socked feet bathing in the glow of a brick fireplace, toads clambering out of mom's canning jars. Even since the diagnosis, even since the separation, the isolation, the stigmatization, it hadn't been that bad. The sun would still rise on the ebb and flow of fields gone to seed. Not that bad. Still set along the trails they'd walk quietly listening for the shift to dusk. It wasn't that bad. No, it was quiet. It was good. It was a good life, damn it.<br /><br />He let a fist hammer into the table. The pain jolted him, reeled him out of a fog of whirling thoughts. His eyes began to bore into the tile wall. They lasered in on that blue hand painted rooster directly ahead, as shallow forceful breaths began to bring his mind and body back into alignment. Chip stood, still focused on the tile, shoulders still heaving rhythmically.<br /><br /><br />The heavy door whined as he pushed it wide. It's cry shot over the open porch veranda, echoing out across billowing waves of gold and green and magenta rolling back into the hills. The view that harmonized so well with coffee and orange juice and creaking doors and quiet contemplation, that gave solidity to unspoken understanding... The noise was a violation of the frozen atmosphere trapped before him.<br /><br />He turned as he stepped onto the worn painted blue deck. A midsummer breeze blew through him. The hot, dusty air stirred a cast shadow to the east, playing with the hem of a summer night dress. His gaze fell leaden; he drew it slowly as a blind man's cane across the overturned kitchen chair, the deep cobalt silhouettes cast in morning light, the dull corona reflected off of splotchy fading paint, finally alighting on the toes that dangled just a few inches from the simple, contented life they'd walked the day before. His whole face clenched. Maybe, if he could've shut his eyes just a little tighter, they would never open again. He wished to just blow away, like a stack of ash snowing over the fields, and never have to be again.<br /><br />In a small, violent jerk, he forced himself to face it. To look into the contorted grim reality that was now his responsibility.<br /><br />Back lit almost directly by the ascending sun, the figure looked like a saint cut into the fabric of the sky. In the high contrast her slept-in strawberry blond hair seemed to blend with the black shadows, wafting, fanning out and combining with the body of her gown in perfect parody of a deathly snow angel.<br /><br />His life drained into the ground. He was a machine of arms, legs, and slow deliberate motion. In working to release the tight knots in the rope, his nails bent and broke and knuckles begain bleeding freely. The pace was steady. He barely noticed her weight once freed. Cradling her, he stepped down one one step, two steps, dirt.<br /><br />Standing in the middle of a sun-drenched field, his young, squinting upturned face was lined with the dried traces of dirt, sweat, tears, blood, pain. The sun was at its apex. A cool zephyr swooped gently in from distant foothills; he let it steal the last scents of emotion, washing him with an emptiness not felt in years. Eyes closed, he released himself down onto the bed of warm grass.<br /><br />A muddy, trembling hand crawled into his jeans pocket. He drew his father's revolver slowly from its hiding place.<br /><br />Holding it above him, he watched his reflection in the polished barrel. Weighed it between his thumbs. Traced a finger pensively along its outline. With a deep and measured breath, Chip flung the shining metal piece far into the obscurities of nature.<br /><br />I couldn't have done it. Thank you, Darla.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-43378618930913740522009-10-14T22:07:00.000-07:002009-10-14T22:09:06.038-07:00The WriterThe writer sat there, knuckles balled up and all white, no blood left in the veins. He was ancient, a fossilized glint in the eye of his bastard son, the son he never knew or would never know. The writer had ordinary eyes. Nothing was special, there was nothing inside them, brown, maybe some black, no beauty. His body was scrawny and frail. It was broken many times throughout his life and it never healed. He had a beard that he grew for many years. Its tobacco stains and smell told stories that even he couldn’t remember. But the beard had stopped growing. It remained even with his bare ribs. He too had stopped growing. He was the same person standing on that shitty altar thirty five years ago, only now, the writer combed a beard and dipped Copenhagen.<br /><br />His house was still, it was always still. It was circular, not a single corner showed promise of change and the writer took to no notice to the lack of the light and the dust that sucked the paint and lacquer off the deteriorated walls. His studio sat at the top of the house in the attic. The stairs leading to the room were damp and the wood boards soft and caved from the years. A metal lamp hanging from a rusty hooked cracked in the ceiling dimly lighting the scarcely traveled staircase. Crows would circle the address for days and their wings would tire. Eventually they fell dead in their puddles on the writer’s lawn of overgrown dandelions and mustard weed. Air inside the house was scarce and when one found a patch, it was dry and fowl and hurt the back of the throat like the hurt of burning tobacco. The only decoration in the house was a cracked vase perched on the table. It had been purchased years ago from a pawn shop. The price tag was still attached, 6.99. Dandelions and tap water were added to the vase once a week and for two days those flowers shown a brilliant yellow attacking the terrible vagueness of the structure. Then, those flowers died and the water mucked up with blue bottle flies. The water and flowers putrefied for a week and everyday, the writer would look at the vase and smile at the flies bobbing up in down, stressing their wings. He enjoyed studying those flies.<br /><br />There were no stories or thoughts left in his head.<br /><br />His wife had passed on years ago. Leukemia maybe, or possibly lung cancer, she did smoke a lot. There were still Black and Mild butts lying around the rotten porch. That was all the writer had to remember her by, cigar butts. He didn’t pick them up or didn’t smoke their wet tobacco, they were left out on the porch, some days they were there, others, they disappeared. The wife’s face never appeared in pictures or movies or TV. She never talked on the radio, she was no one and some days, the writer wondered what she was, why he married her, what she had for him. But the only words that ever came out were on paper and they ended up in loose balls floating softly in the trash bin. Eventually they gave birth to a son. They never named him, never said a word to him. He never saw them, never knew them. The kid knew one thing, the inside of his mother’s womb. Maybe he knew the streets of Manhattan, that’s were the couple left him two days after his mother’s water broke.<br />The pencil he held hovered over his paper but it would never touch. His mind was flayed, his thoughts, shattered. Every inch of him was dead yet his heart was pumping blood, just enough blood.<br /><br />The writer was once a man. His parents named him Robert Owen but he took the name of Harvey in his beginning years. Harvey began writing romantic stories at a young age. Short stories, novels, essays, his pencil was his mouth and his mouth was beautiful and filled with stories he would never write again. Having no friends, he began to isolate himself, he killed himself. His thoughts warped, his mind twisted to dread and despair. Nobody wanted his stories; his stories were true, true to the unwanted, true to the retarded child stuck in the corner, true to the beaten dog living off street garbage. His books never sold. The hundreds of copies pressed, sat restless in his attic, rotting and decaying somewhat like his life. He was no longer Harvey, no longer Robert.<br /><br />Knuckles were still white, still clenched. The pencil still lingered above the paper. The writer drew a blank ten years ago, he hadn’t written since. But the pencil hovered there every day taking breaks at noon and dusk for the usual peanut butter sandwich and water.<br /><br />Harvey tried various times to save himself. He wrote romantics for a time after his transformation but the beauty wasn’t the kind he once had. He now knew the beauty of death and anguish. He pursued photography and failed. He didn’t quit, he failed. Harvey took one last step before accepting death, he pursued god. There was an old building down the road, rotting, torn with moss and the dead wind that passed through the town of Malta once a week. During his years of despair, Harvey watched the edifice decay into a church. He spent days studying the people moving in and out of the stained glass doors, they were all smiling. He wanted to smile but he couldn’t, it was too hard. He entered the church one day, it smelled wonderful. His house smelled like misery and decay. The room was lighted and figures nailed to crosses were displayed everywhere. Water was decanted over his head. The spine in his back shivered and his skinned crawled. He spent months at the church confessing sins praying to his holy savior Jesus Christ. The writer sat, transfixed in blank devotion as his leader spoke to him looking down at his crumpled face with a great raging eye. He hit himself and hurt himself when he sinned, god became his only hope. His only hope failed him. Once, Harvey spent an hour or two at the market buying peanut butter, Wonderbread and milk. He might have bought cereal as well but he was only there for 2 hours. The money was on the bread, a 5 dollar bill and three 1 dollar bills. He went for the milk and returned. The money was gone, stolen, put in the hands of a drug dealer or maybe a hooker. Harvey sat down on that market floor; the dirt and hairs clung to him. He prayed to Jesus and to Mary and to God all asking for the return of his stained, torn, and crinkled bills. They never answered, those dollars never returned to Harvey. He sat there and wept and grew a beard and chewed tobacco. He lost his name; he lost hope and lost faith. God didn’t exist, god never had, those months, that water, that wine and bread, all waist.<br />The writer held the pencil tight. It hurt to think. But he thought anyway. He could remember now, the despair, the loss, the waste. He put the ideas into a story and brought the pencil close to his paper and stopped. He got up to make a peanut butter sandwich. He was nervous. God didn’t exist. This might be the last story he ever wrote. Was it worth it?<br /><br />He sat back down chewing, thinking, dying. He put the pencil to the paper and his heart hurt. He wrote the first 3 words. <br /><br />Palpitations. <br /><br />2 more words. <br /><br />Palpitations. <br /><br />He stopped and put the pencil at the top to write his name. <br /><br />The lead snapped in two.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-62618576578110741232009-10-13T18:25:00.000-07:002009-10-13T18:32:27.859-07:00Do NOT Give Micah a Lightsaber<object width="576" height="460" ><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/303260875385" /><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/303260875385" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="292"></embed></object><br /><br />More lightsaber madness. Pardon the saber prop.. and Micah's beahviour...Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-48500025623650205552009-10-07T17:56:00.000-07:002009-10-07T17:57:42.657-07:00Something You Can Do With Your Pen<object width="400" height="292" ><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/298430665385" /><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/298430665385" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="292"></embed></object><br /><br />I've finally become what i have always wanted to become!<br />And i got my very own light saber!Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-13763042242800989162009-09-25T23:16:00.000-07:002009-09-25T23:18:12.797-07:00The reason you don't piss Grant off<object width="400" height="266" ><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/284652960385" /><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/284652960385" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="266"></embed></object><br /><br />My little After Effects VFX project.<br />Kudos to Grant for the phenomenal acting hahahahhaEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-49194972539443830892009-08-29T18:05:00.000-07:002009-08-29T18:06:30.183-07:00Hiding Behing My EarThe children on stage look ghostly,<br />like lucid toys caged inside a shop lift.<br />Their tricks try to raise a smile,<br />but the teeth soon feel dull against my chest.<br /><br />The room shudders in the morning breeze,<br />And the skeptics in the audience move with it.<br />And though I can still see through the clouds,<br />Pedantic overhead, something doesn't quite feel right.<br />I'm still in one piece, but is the box?Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-11633803065815123072009-08-29T00:48:00.000-07:002009-08-29T00:51:50.829-07:00Fotoshopping<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlK8lIbcu7ySOhWTeuBlc1Ys_3C40lYY6aoeA0JgeOzcQLjGDIKuv__UtsKUjcfsGIfD5C83XCcQrXzPg_OnyFmM5VDn1zru3fG0usFEEa0OQV4ifD8NLvDFyb-sPxlRsmgKOhUp27523/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlK8lIbcu7ySOhWTeuBlc1Ys_3C40lYY6aoeA0JgeOzcQLjGDIKuv__UtsKUjcfsGIfD5C83XCcQrXzPg_OnyFmM5VDn1zru3fG0usFEEa0OQV4ifD8NLvDFyb-sPxlRsmgKOhUp27523/s320/1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375290283595000754" /></a><br />More Photoshop madness.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-58375472986667452622009-08-11T21:58:00.001-07:002009-08-11T22:11:28.833-07:00SnowIt's getting cold now,<br />and the trembling trees know it.<br /><br />They cling onto their leaves,<br />but it won't be long before they too have to go.<br />The struggling sighs against icy winds have died,<br />and only faint whispers echo in the valley below.<br /><br />It's getting late now,<br />and the flocking crows know it.<br /><br />The panicked beating of desperate wings<br />a warning on the forest floor;<br />Streaks of pink shine through the empty sky<br />as the shivering sun crawls back into the ground.<br /><br />We're getting lost now,<br />And my stumbling feet know it.<br /><br />The moonless night and the misty woods slow us,<br />but the crickets don't pierce your ears and you show it.<br />I stagger through cracks, snapping jagged twigs back,<br />Fall mindless on the sullen earth,<br />And begin to dig.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-7242078504855911972009-08-09T21:00:00.000-07:002009-08-09T21:04:51.654-07:00Fotoshop Phun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPDuKHQS3_9uyX5UfH3ofimA3nwsxW7ssNUOWcQgDQjgtAvbN2dylKloFUBZ9jwrHMRC8N4m1oh9eLTsxyyo2a0q6nk7jom-U9qTUDIrEiIpRfw6xjUL2cuFcXK8q3Wwjp7PvyPNZc7MC/s1600-h/ah+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPDuKHQS3_9uyX5UfH3ofimA3nwsxW7ssNUOWcQgDQjgtAvbN2dylKloFUBZ9jwrHMRC8N4m1oh9eLTsxyyo2a0q6nk7jom-U9qTUDIrEiIpRfw6xjUL2cuFcXK8q3Wwjp7PvyPNZc7MC/s320/ah+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368180642369872626" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGBx3oqHON3NArSfk1DTYdGOt22lAtwtNWOvNF-Ncloo83xYoGgy_TMzTNeOzuxrQVDb8-HhgtDaIwQnQl6Lze8cL1oF4L5XjuSd8AL0GLYaxl_rMUIEPJjfQbdvIembr_l-Kq1Nm3PgO6/s1600-h/ek+copy.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGBx3oqHON3NArSfk1DTYdGOt22lAtwtNWOvNF-Ncloo83xYoGgy_TMzTNeOzuxrQVDb8-HhgtDaIwQnQl6Lze8cL1oF4L5XjuSd8AL0GLYaxl_rMUIEPJjfQbdvIembr_l-Kq1Nm3PgO6/s320/ek+copy.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368180386003313842" /></a><br /><br /><br />I'm actually beginning to use photoshop thanks to Digital Media class. Anyway here is some artwork that I did for a friend's band (Escher's Knot from Chennai), and another one I did for my own project. Don't know if I'll be using it now, what with the new band and everything.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-1391248165778875832009-08-05T21:18:00.000-07:002009-08-06T14:53:49.655-07:00After EffectAnother one is programmed<br />To proclaim the world <br />Beneath the darkened sun.<br />It saturates the system<br />Striking at the core<br />Always watching you.<br /><br />The unity of internal conflict,<br />The dissolution aimed at reason,<br />Control of all real meaning<br />Veils all that you see.<br /><br />Complicity over capacity<br />You pass up on your soul<br />Regulating, Calculating<br />Let them at your soul<br /><br />Consumed by dependency<br />Fabricating a sense of belonging<br />Death is only the beginning<br />I am the after effect.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-60080590133201360712009-03-15T23:12:00.000-07:002009-03-17T23:30:44.820-07:00Autumn Hate*It has been quite a while since i updated this blog.<br />This is stuff i've written over some time.*<br /><br />A nervous glance in the mirror<br />Light, gaze beyond soft eyes<br />But light cannot shine through<br />The mask of sanity upon<br />My face which frightens<br />Me and the consciousness<br />Which pours from my mind<br />Like a river of knives<br /><br />Such a self-indulgent stream<br />Feeds itself, returns to the source<br />Now an ocean of fear, lust, and warm blood<br />And fear which is mine<br />And yours, and everywhere<br />Begging never, then never again<br />Then no more<br /><br />It grows in unison<br />With screams, cries, and a clawed face<br />I watch the puddles gather crimson rain<br />And fear again for myself<br /><br />Look away<br />Eyes turn black<br />It's raining now<br />It's angry now, clawing its way out<br />My mind of knives and disoriented meaning<br />Clings to the frightful similarities, wondering<br />Of what am I capable?<br />And then I shove the sun onto the light<br />The silence comes<br />My freedom comes from inside <br />I answer<br />And I reach out<br />For the Surface.<br /><br />And through this, comforts beckons me<br />Half of me smiles back with hope.<br />While the other, with bloodlust, whistles innocently<br />And laughs sardonically<br />With our mouth.<br />And we cannot,<br />Even as I try,<br />Reach out<br />For the Surface.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-11347163320379616502008-12-10T03:49:00.000-08:002008-12-10T21:14:37.315-08:00Dreaded. Born.*For everyone who lost a piece of themselves on 26/11/2008, this is for you*<br /><br />Face to face with the dark eternal night,<br />All I see is the negative space ,<br />The shape of the landscape at their back,<br />And the horizon interrupted by black.<br />Symmetrical on both sides, like a backwards vase,<br />A deranged maze all covered in bloody snow,<br />It could be one, or it could be more than one layer.<br />Foreground and background and everything in between,<br />But the hole in the middle I cannot relate to.<br />The positive life right in front of me,<br />Like a mirror tiled over that gives no reflection,<br />Face to face with a fear,<br />We share no affection.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-60874282431130508712008-10-18T09:55:00.000-07:002008-11-06T08:43:55.651-08:00Binding LiesAll you have are three words<br />Have you said enough?<br />Weak and watered thoughts<br />Have run the machine.<br />A revelation.<br />Deceit was uncommon<br />Futility indeed to hope<br />That under the guise of love<br />We could survive this.<br />Detached I watch and pray<br />Not knowing that the victim is I<br />And still your curses are venomed<br />With anger and greed,<br />Ribald with binding lies.<br />Will you hold me until the dawning light?<br />And I'll tell you<br />With every second just slipping away<br />What it's like to die<br />At the hands of a life once found<br />Of a love once loved.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-17081232400574032002008-10-06T08:32:00.000-07:002008-10-06T08:41:27.303-07:00Death of FlameA fire has gone cold.<br />Behind sepia glaze hang empty branches<br />Amidst a barren field.<br />Dense fog shrouds an empty tree while<br />Soliloquizing about comforting falling branches<br />In their final, fleeting moments.<br /><br />A fire has gone cold.<br />Her lips are filled with autumn.<br />The last lies from the mockingbirds<br />Spiral from them;<br />Deserting the lips to chap <br />The bitter climate to come.<br /><br />A fire has gone cold.<br />Crimson warmth of summers past.<br />Transforms into neutrality,<br />Into grey.<br />Into bitter tastes of lukewarm decisions,<br />Trapped inside her breast.<br /><br />She's alone, void, and dormant.<br />Today she'll die to prepare.<br />Taking solace in life's seasons <br />And the ideal<br />That just one solstice from now,<br />She'll bloom.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-36986411318201871222008-09-13T09:03:00.000-07:002008-09-13T09:17:44.066-07:00Indian Music Revolution Interview<span style="font-style:italic;">My band was interviewed by a website called Indian Music Revolution some time ago. Just thought I'd put this up here. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: Hello "STON'D”! It's a real pleasure talking to you guys. What would you say, if I ask you to start this interview by presenting the band to our readers? When and how did "STON'D" get together?</span><br /><br />Ston'd is a metal band hailing from Bangalore. Its story starts in the summer of 2005 when Anoop (bass) and Abijith (vocals) met Aditya (guitars) for the first time in a mutual friend's jam room. No one had a clear idea about what they wanted their band to sound like. There was a huge difference in influences ranging from Lamb of God to Korn to the Scorpions. Nothing really came out of that first meeting. Aditya got an offer from another band. Abijith went on to do vocals for a nu-metal act. However, after a couple of months, and a couple of chance meetings with the future guitarists of Ston'd, the band was finally formed at the end of 2006. The original line up consisted of Abijith on vocals, Hitesh and Sudhir on guitars, Anoop on bass and Karthik on drums. Debuting in the “Unwind Underground” gig/competition, and after about seven shows, the band saw a line up change with Aditya, who had met Abijith and Anoop during the conceptual stage of the band, replacing Hitesh on guitars.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR :Personally, I would like to ask you guys, what are the goals that you guys have set for the recent years to come(I think everybody is a student, am I right)?</span><br /><br />Our goal, from the very beginning of the band, was to emerge with a new sound, yet maintain that heavy, aggressive, in your face kind of punch to the music. We think we have reached that. If you look at the metal scene today, most bands have your typical semi-growl type vocals and very rarely do they experiment musically either. We think we have burst that bubble. Our vocals have more of a grind core feel, interspersed with penetrating screeches rather than an almost exact impersonation of major international bands. We’ve also always wanted to play originals more than covers because, let’s face it; it’s a lot more fun when your audience moshes to your own music. Having more or less achieved these goals, our main aim is to reach out to a greater audience now; and maybe a full length album.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: Your music has quite a fiercest touch to it. How much important role does your musical influence play in bringing up your music to perfection? List down the same?</span><br /><br />All of us in the band listen to a whole range of music from the Scorpions to Jason Becker to Good Charlotte and Cannibal Corpse; to more mainstream metal bands like Lamb of God, Mastodon, Textures, etc. there are a lot of different bands that we listen to. Having said that, we try not to let these bands influence our music directly. As we mentioned earlier, the band always wanted a different sound and the emphasis was always on originals than covers. So while we do listen to these bands, we hope we don’t sound like them like most other mainstream metal bands in India do.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: What made you choose your band to be named as "STON'D", what does that signify? What’s the most memorable moment for you in the history of the band?</span><br /><br />When we started this band, we just wanted to relax, have fun and get stoned on music. Even today, there are times when we just hang out in our Jam Room. That’s the basic idea behind how the name came about. So if you are looking for a deep, introspective meaning behind the band name here, you’re not going to find it. Because all said and done we play this music to let loose, and have fun. The most memorable moment in the history of the band is probably playing in shows like IIT Chennai’s Saarang ’08 where the band placed second, and Manipal Institue of Technology’s Revels ’06. Both these places had a fantastic crowd response. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: Do you have any E.P, Releases etc coming up in recent times to watch out for?</span><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/stondbangalore"></a><br />We already have a 3 song EP out called Disaster Area. This EP was recorded completely in our little studio set up at home with no professional help. You can check out <span style="font-weight:bold;">http://www.myspace.com/stondbangalore</span> to hear the songs. Be sure to watch out for a full length album by the end of this year!<br />If you are interested in doing low budget recording contact <span style="font-weight:bold;">rehabrecords1@gmail.com</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: How do you describe the music of "STON'D"? And, what are the grounds in which you lag as a metal band and would like to overcome?</span><br /><br />Like we mentioned before, the aim of this band was to create a new sound. What we have achieved is a heavy, aggressive sound interspersed with moments of melody. We have a lot of double bass work, quite a lot of riffing, and our bassist provides a pretty solid bass line. Our vocals have a hint of grind core/death metal influence, mixed with piercing screeches. We think it’s mostly the area of consistency in which we lag. We have had awesome shows, but on the flip side, we’ve sometimes disappointed ourselves by not delivering up to the mark. And you can blame the sound guys, and the equipment or whatever, but we take it as a sign that we have got to push ourselves harder. We look forward to having a blistering set every time we get on stage.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: Could you let our readers know in short about the songwriting mechanism for "STON'D”? Any writers or other artists/bands that influence you lyrically? What kind of listeners do you think that your music targets?</span><br /><br />A song usually begins with either one of our guitarists bringing in half a riff, or a whole riff, half a song, or sometime a whole song into the Jam Room and work begins from there. One thing which sets us apart from most bands is probably the fact that the vocals are put over the riff as the drums are being laid out. So by the end of the riff, we already know how the completed product or that particular part of the song is going to sound. Then we decide if we need to tweak the arrangement or structure of the song. The lyrics, leads and overdubs are usually put down after everything else is finished. <br /> Our lyrical writing style is mainly influenced by Death, and Tool. We’re also influenced by a host of movies like Charlie Wilson’s War, American History X, A Mighty Heart, Schindler’s List, Blood Diamond, etc. Some of the writers that have influenced us in the past are Thomas Harris (Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal), Marianne Pearl (A Mighty Heart), William Blake (The Red Dragon, and the Woman Clothed in Sun). The fucked up political clime in India and abroad, and human suffering as a result of the same, play a major part in the messages behind our lyrics.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: You guys are from "Bangalore"(Karnataka). What is the underground scene like up there is it supportive? Is there any place you've particularly enjoyed or enjoyed playing? Share any one of your memorable gig experiences.</span><br /><br />You can’t really call us an underground band but yes, a metal fan would enjoy our music the most. The scene in Bangalore is amazing. The bands and the audience are awesome. After all, it is the Metal Mecca of India :P. The scene here has been extremely supportive of us. We have always welcomed criticism, suggestions, and a couple of death threats (Laughs). But yes, the audience here has always been good to us.<br />We always enjoy Bangalore gigs. But apart from that IIT Chennai and Manipal Institute of Technology were great shows. What we enjoyed most there was the audience: they were extremely responsive. <br />One of the most memorable gig experiences for the band was this weekend back in November 2007. It was insane and fun, and very surreal. We got to personally meet Sepultura, and because they were a major influence of us initially, this was a big deal; bigger than it would have been otherwise. We also played three shows in two days, one of which was in an all girls’ school! And the next day we played the Bangalore Finals of Campus Rock Idols where we played one of our tightest sets ever in front of a huge crowd. So that weekend was probably the most fun we have had together us a band.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: How important do you feel, is it for underground bands to have appearance on music related website? What do you think plays the biggest role in getting your music heard, who would you like to give the credits for the same?</span><br /><br />Like we said before you can’t really label us an underground band, but we are not everyone’s cup of tea either. We think it is vitally important that metal bands in India have enough exposure to the public, apart from the small number of people constituting the metal audience that is there in India. Websites, such as you, are an excellent way of breaking the barrier preventing metal bands from reaching a wider range of audiences. We hope that this extends to the radio, and even maybe television. Maybe this will lead to an indigenous metal label being born. Unless this happens, it will be very difficult for members of a metal band to make their living through music in India.<br />Our friends and audience have played the biggest role in getting us heard. There have been so many people who have helped us sell CDs and who have supported us from the very beginning. We would like to thank our friends from the Jam Room, Abandoned Agony, Theorized, Corrode, Spitfire, Audiophile, Venator. Also the organizers of Sunday Jam, a free music festival held monthly in Bangalore, and everyone else who has come out and supported us.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: Where do you picture yourself and the band in the coming years? Do you guys have a gut feeling that, you will cross into mainstream flavor because you do possess some of those elements? </span><br /><br />We know that whatever happens, we will continue playing as long as we enjoy our music. We just want to push ourselves to keep sounding better. And it really doesn’t matter if we move into the mainstream or not. This band was conceived to have fun and make good music and that’s what we intend to do, come hell or high water. If we do cross over into the mainstream, it will only be with us playing the kind of music we love. We do not want to cater to whatever the trend in metal is. We just want to sound good and heavy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IMR: How do you feel, when people do not recognize your hard work behind your music just because you are an underground band, is it frustrating?</span><br />(Laughs) An incident comes to mind. This was the first show with our new line up. We were playing a show where an RJ and a bassist of a well known Indian band were on the judge’s panel. After the set, the RJ asked us (quote) “What’s all the violence about?” And we also heard the other judge say that “Growling turns me off”. Back then, yes, it irritated us and frustrated us. But we think we have matured since then. If people don’t recognize the work that goes behind this band then, well, there is nothing much one can do about it. And even if heavy metal has been consistently stereotyped, dismissed and condemned by the masses in India, it sure as hell isn’t going to stop us from playing this kind of music.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-18213500725835319002008-08-25T07:17:00.000-07:002008-08-25T07:19:01.458-07:00DarknessDon't turn away<br />I pray you've heard the words I've spoken<br />Dare to believe<br />One last time<br />Then I'll let the darkness cover me<br />Deny everything<br />Slowly walk away<br />To leave again<br />On my own<br /><br />Carry me away<br />I need your strength to get me through this<br />Dare to believe <br />One last time<br />Then I'll let the darkness cover me<br />Deny everything<br />Slowly walk away<br />To leave againEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-8756167102436872852008-06-26T06:28:00.000-07:002008-07-02T01:20:21.296-07:00Trapped In The Wake Of A DreamWalk me to my grave.<br />Take this tiresome fear that bestows upon me<br />Another's tomb,<br />When the wind so restlessly whistles<br />The obscenities of my name.<br /><br />I am but a grain of architecture.<br />Placed where the blue print reads.<br />I feel as the horoscope portrays.<br />I was born into forewarned Death.<br />To take a breath at the bottom of the Pool.<br /><br />Who bears the keys of the castle?<br />When the fortress is wilted and grey?<br />Is this really mine?<br /><br />I had no say in procreation.<br />Am I just holding it for a friend?<br />While all that life is, <br />Is just probation.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.art.eonworks.com/gallery/surreal/dream_image-200203-SM.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.art.eonworks.com/gallery/surreal/dream_image-200203-SM.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-67623045037986991862008-06-25T03:02:00.000-07:002008-06-25T03:15:02.391-07:00Monochrome In Colour<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pXJNI9CmH2ftwssWD70ByBPyhQB9LNH4wz5Zn3AgEW_BU03lFCkXRPsU2ZP0YMqcfQJEhaiqlUWFwvhR6E4-ggpYFwAEADvXNBtWwDM_JejYaPFpxHvYHLrfOl-i6FNF8J-yLhImQpRG/s1600-h/colours-an5.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pXJNI9CmH2ftwssWD70ByBPyhQB9LNH4wz5Zn3AgEW_BU03lFCkXRPsU2ZP0YMqcfQJEhaiqlUWFwvhR6E4-ggpYFwAEADvXNBtWwDM_JejYaPFpxHvYHLrfOl-i6FNF8J-yLhImQpRG/s320/colours-an5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215760437167227202" /></a><br />Like all have seen before<br />Colours merge into one<br />Ominous and comforting<br />Gaze upon its surface<br />And beyond to the core<br />The shapes dance for your eyes<br />Dance a silent dance<br />Beautiful and grey<br />Like the sky<br />As you gaze it becomes blue<br />The moon as we once knew<br />Starlight reflects and twinkles in the night sky<br />Beauty known best after dark<br />Twinkle and flicker<br />Like the shapes on your mind<br />Dancing their silent dance<br />For youEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-75024031796268387352008-06-08T09:16:00.000-07:002008-06-08T09:38:41.972-07:00False Negation, Yet Dreamed OfWhat if I said no?<br />Would you do it all alone?<br />And still you pretend<br />That I am of no consequence<br />And have you, in all our time,<br />Ever made an effort?<br />Or even a thought, maybe?<br />Paper and ribbons on bright wrappers<br />As fragile, and thoughtless,<br />As a twig on a winter's morning.<br />And still you ask,<br />And it's not all that you can,<br />Of me,<br />To carve a glittering glass pane,<br />As strong and powerful as song.<br />What if I said no?<br />What would you do then?<br />Would you do it all alone?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cia-net.com/gift/Gift_box_1web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.cia-net.com/gift/Gift_box_1web.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-39191528804237843162008-06-02T07:12:00.000-07:002008-06-02T23:26:48.519-07:00The LabyrinthHere's a riddle,<br />A puzzle if you will.<br />I've made a labyrinth<br />A highly elaborate maze.<br />Down one of the corridors<br />Or maybe all,<br />You will find a niche.<br />In the dark,<br />Maybe you will find a wall<br />With shelves reaching high<br />Stacked with a myriad of glass jars<br />All sealed tightly shut.<br />And in this palace walks a child<br />Who is the audience <br />And the Maker<br />Of simple minds<br />And twisted guiles.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5s5W2XjDVuD9XkIRFSjsZdLAoKOZy7vjDX1080MgwXDH_DEEaSLLoXIPxD5N_obId8L7hbG3ZKXj5QPjJOC6J_1BB9m03l8edlhyphenhyphenYyqZ7zSRcPMKH_gzGd7OLi-kDwWzEqmnOz5i7XyQS/s1600-h/hannibal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5s5W2XjDVuD9XkIRFSjsZdLAoKOZy7vjDX1080MgwXDH_DEEaSLLoXIPxD5N_obId8L7hbG3ZKXj5QPjJOC6J_1BB9m03l8edlhyphenhyphenYyqZ7zSRcPMKH_gzGd7OLi-kDwWzEqmnOz5i7XyQS/s320/hannibal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207295937032694546" /></a><br /><br /><em>Based on Thomas Harris's most darkest, and most wonderfull creation.</em>.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-12103426385734681932008-03-03T23:49:00.000-08:002008-03-30T09:19:45.861-07:00Metal: A Headbanger's JourneyMetal: A Headbanger's Journey is an amazing documentary, directed by Sam Dunn, that talks about the history and the legacy of heavy metal. It is an amazing presentation for both metal heads and non metal heads as well.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"It's a negation of the world that's handed to you. It just says, "You know what? This daily ass existence of this boring high school and this dead end dairy queen job... just, No! This is something that's mine, and that i own, and fuck you, I won't do what you tell me."</span><br /> - Tom Morello, Rage Against The Machines/Audioslave<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"First time someone who knows nothing about the metal scene, the first time they see on of our album covers or something like that, its going to shock them."</span><br /> - Alex Webster, Cannibal Corpse.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Unfortunately, the ignorance of republican, puritanical, old thinking is... they see a mosh pit and it's violent. That's all they see. And of course, pits can be brutal places. But at the same time, I'd rather have kids in the pit working out the stuff they have to go through in their lives, rather than hurting other people with no optimistic ends."</span><br /> - Corey Taylor, Slipknot/Stone Sour<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Why has heavy metal been consistently been stereotyped, dismissed and condemned? It's become clear to me that metal confronts what we'd rather ignore. It celebrates what we often deny. It indulges in what we fear most. And that's why metal will always be a culture of outsiders."</span><br /> - Sam Dunn, Director Metal: A Headbanger's Journey.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"For young people its a place to belong, where you can experience other possibilities and transcend everyday life in a very glorious way."<br /><br />"... and its purging. I think metal performs that task; that sort of 'letting-us-get-rid-of-a-lot-of-tension'. Its a catharsis."<br /><br />"People in their own way have different releases. Its something other than your mundane life."<br /><br />"For metal heads, good, beauty and truth, is up there on stage."<br /><br />"Is heavy metal a sacrament? For some people it is. It keeps kids alive. If it gives them a sense of transcendence, then i believe it is a spiritual force. I believe it is a pipeline to God"<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Ever since i was 12 years old, I've had to defend my love for heavy metal against those who say it is a less valid form of music. My answer now is that you either feel it or you don't. If metal doesn't give you that overwhelming surge of power that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, you might never get it. And you know what? That's ok. Because judging by the 40,000 metal heads around me [here at the Wacken Metal Festival in Germany], we're doing fine without you."</span> </span><br /><br /> - Sam Dunn, Director, Metal: A Headbanger's JourneyEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-73330806964287765432008-03-03T20:08:00.000-08:002008-04-01T10:52:59.842-07:00Disaster AreaSo my band has released a demo album. And I've heard that some people I've given the cd to found the cover and the lyrics on the inside leaflet disturbing. There is no hate filled, or gory meaning intended. You also have to realise that the album is a political record. All three songs on the cd have political thought behind them. <br /> "Eyes of chaos" is based on the Hyderabad blasts that took place sometime ago and the blood bath that it was. "Nothing Remains" is based on the American invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq. <br /> The cover page has a really simple meaning. Basically, the norm is that backward countries are breeding grounds for terrorism; that undeveloped, and uneducated settlements of people are the cause for terrorism and pain and war and suffering. This can be seen in the way the US claims that Pakistan has become a country that harbours terrorists; in the way that the US became really wary when they thought Iraq possessed "weapons of mass destruction". <br /> But as most of you know, no weapons of mass destruction were ever found. Saddam Hussein was executed by the Americans. The Mujahideen were created by the Americans (who wanted them to fight the Soviets during the cold war era). <br /> Osama Bin Laden, Al Zawahiri and his Mujahideen were supplied with weapons by the US government. They were responsible for the shooting down of 149 Soviet helicopters, 89 fixed wing aircraft, and 274 tanks; all between the winter of 1987 and the spring of 1988. And all with the help of the Stinger Missiles supplied by the Americans.<br /> The reason the Mujahideen became what they are now is the simple fact that after spending 4 billion dollars on supplying them with weapons, the Americans refused a 4 million dollar budget for building schools and shelter. When the Afghan people came back from fighting the Russians in the tough, Afghan environment, they found themselves abandoned by their benefactors. What do you do once you have created a group of warriors and supplied them with some of the most advanced weaponry money can buy? Is it not your responsibility to teach them right from wrong? If you're going to leave them out in the cold, armed with dangerous armaments then you sure as hell cannot expect them to grow up to be normal, sane, and regular people.<br /> This is what the cover page of Disaster Area is about. What was once a fledgling country, underdeveloped and poor, has now become a haven for terrorists, not by any fault of their own, but by our so called "advanced" and "developed" countries. Money, Knowledge, Advanced Technology (which is the book shown on the cover) has destroyed and mutilated what could have been a beautiful land, if natural progress and nature had been allowed to take their own course and time. It has ravaged countries like Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Vietnam, and is slowly beginning to seep into the other parts of the world. <br /> The lyrics inside the album cover is an extension of the same idea. It is not what we, as a band believe in. It is what we believe the thought process of a Mujahideen, or holy warrior, is. We do not endorse it, quite the contrary, but we hoped that lyrics would explain what the thinking is of a person who has been given a dangerous weapon, who has not been taught right from wrong, and has turned around to realise that he has been deprived of this right by his benefactors. <br />What does he do? <br />He is lesser than a child, and suddenly he has been given this amazing power and has not been taught responsibility. <br />What does he do? <br />His mother and sisters have been raped by his enemies in front of his eyes. His brothers have been blown apart by shells. <br />What does he do?<br />And still, he is sent out to fight for a cause that his not his. He is doing someone else's dirty work and is paying the price for it.<br />What does he do?<br /><br />"I swear I will not dishonour my soul with love.<br />But offer myself numbly,<br />As a guardian of hate,<br />As a messenger of pain<br />As an architect of war."<br /><br />This is not us. This is not Ston'd. We do not, in any way, subscribe to this way of thinking. I hope you have understood, and hence pity, the people of Afghanistan, Iraq and other places who have been made to move out of their line of natural development. Hopefully by now you have understood what this album means, what the songs mean, and the reason for the aggression behind it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.orkut.com/orkut/albums2/ATYAAACjrfLWafm953OQ4lDt0TBFcg7451A2Arv9WHvqVRvPIvGq0C-srqi-i7Dl3ovkf6dvi_l8vx8exDYzjYBUvrAEAJtU9VC4_mldX3chq5_kLl1Kg61GM71j-A.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://images.orkut.com/orkut/albums2/ATYAAACjrfLWafm953OQ4lDt0TBFcg7451A2Arv9WHvqVRvPIvGq0C-srqi-i7Dl3ovkf6dvi_l8vx8exDYzjYBUvrAEAJtU9VC4_mldX3chq5_kLl1Kg61GM71j-A.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />In the words of Texas Senator Charles Wilson, "These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world... and then we fucked up the end game."<br /><br />"You are the cause, I am the effect<br />Created in hatred, a noose for your neck."<br />~ D. Randall BlytheEvilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9008249589930916698.post-82693774104523868872008-03-02T10:33:00.000-08:002008-03-02T10:46:00.357-08:00LebensraumForaging for land,<br />And the wealth of the deceased.<br />Blood spilled on the wall twice,<br />Once for you and once for me.<br />The floods of the masses<br />The unceasing tide<br />Breaking all binds bound to a life of our kind.<br />War sells and blood is the fee<br />An unceasing tribute to hypocrisy.<br />The fires will rage and the spirit will burn,<br />Wait and watch, and play your last turn.<br />The dice will be rolled and the numbers shall fall<br />Of no consequence will they be for they doom us all.<br />The father cries for his son,<br />And calls for the Atonement,<br />A string of foul words,<br />With which we are all broken.Evilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190947925394813228noreply@blogger.com0