What will come?
After the dust has settled; all is silent
When what is left are the nonchalant voices of the little children.

What will come?
When cities once filled with fluorescent colours,
turn into dismal scenes crowded with blank-faced automatons.

What will come?
When the noises of busy chatter, and bustle of hurried footsteps,
are left with the static humming of repetition.

What will come?
As the word of the gods descend into our consciousness --
they will dictate, infiltrate, asphyxiate...

What will come?
From the moment we exit the maternal womb,
as we form a line down that great conveyor belt.

What will come?
Is it only the beginning? Or does it all end here?
As we listen to the mindless mantra permeating our beings.

What will come?
After the dust has settled,
and all is silent.

The black-clad militia
Spikes and studs and rings
What do you stand for?
Circled A for Apathy

A whole nation of rebels
Move like packs of sheep
A microcosm of society
You accessorize, you accessory!

You say you are different
But you're just like the rest you despise
Not a threat to the system
Moving the wheels of the continuum

All the songs you sing
What do they really mean?
You accessorize, you accessory!

Fashion punks fuck off! (x4)

Thief!
You rob us of our laughter
Monster!
You take away, you take away
our enthusiasm, creativity, hope, clarity
sneakily you creep up unawares
and suddenly we are devoid of all feeling;
not understanding, isolating, fucking scared to death
we see in these knives a glimmer
we see in these heights a flicker
of hope --
any way to take away the pain
and some of us really do take it all the way...
You, are you really borne of an insidious unknown,
or attributed to psychological triggers, scientific neurochemical imbalances
Oh disappear, oh disappear!
Before you swallow us w h o l e

Art, activism,
punk rock, social work, communism;
they all revolve around the same things
human dynamics, petty politics,
as they struggle to take hold!
Convoluted relationships: they intertwine, unwind
playing out in a charade of egos and disguise.

Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage" --
I say, the world's a scene!
And all the men and women merely players,
in a game of domination, subjugation, power trips, pretension
amidst the promises of consensus, cooperation, love --
they slowly degenerate, its values depreciate
into a didactical, hierarchical mess...
entangled limbs, bound fists
we bring into our countercultures the world --
in which we were taught to breathe in, believe in
the world's a scene; subtle and underlying
shall we break free, shall we break free?

Quiet murmurs, furtive whispers;
And then –
Nothing.

Melodic screams, energetic shrieks;
And then –
Nothing.

The quiet – it is the new loud;
It is soundless, and it is voiceless…
So shrill it can break glass.
Just glass, and nothing else really matters.

Action reaction, overt and covert.
The false pledges disappoint;
The pseudo manifestos disjoint,
And soon all is forgotten.

Conform to the underground.
Shun away the masses and –
Finally we are all but sheep.
Dissent! Dissent! …dissent?

"No," I say, "this can't be," as I gently replace the phone in its cradle, still reeling from the shock of what I have just heard. I walk over to the toilet absentmindedly, not really sure what I am going to do, but just heading somewhere, almost as if the clean white tiles will give me solace; almost as if if I step inside everything will seem much less real.

I find myself gravitating towards the toilet bowl as I go over and sit down on it, my head spinning. I take a few deep breaths and try to regulate my breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I stare at the blurry reflection on the shiny white tiles facing me and even though I cannot see myself clearly I think to myself I must have aged a good 10 years between then and now. Involuntarily a part of me reaches out for the pail under the sink as I put it beneath me and proceed to retch into it. All dry heaves and nothing else. I imagine myself to be puking my guts out in its full glory but there is nothing, and my eyes well up with tears, although I am not sure if this is the result of my inability to spew vomitus or if I am really crying.

I think of her and her lovely features and wonder to myself why she would do such a thing - it was so abrupt, and I didn't think anyone saw it coming. How could we have? She was what personified joy, and she was what radiated happiness; she was the sort of girl who would ask me to dance with her to punkrock songs at 3AM, laughing to herself like she knew something I didn't. Perhaps (no, surely) beneath that exterior lay a wretched soul all alone and afraid, and why did she never tell me anything? I would understand.

I stop myself and realize that I am referring to her in the past tense already, and I mentally chide myself for it. "She's not dead yet," I say to myself angrily, and a hidden part of me is appalled at how this Freudian slip of sorts can mean perhaps I want her to be dead, just to prove to the world in the most whacked out way possible that true happiness does not exist.

The next thing I know I am on a bus heading towards the hospital where her mother said she is at. Level 8, Room 3B - I think if she were to be conscious she'd have requested to be moved: she told me once before that she hates odd numbers for an inexplicable reason. I do not know how I am suddenly on a bus; I must have walked out in a half-daze, preoccupied with thoughts about her, and how this must be a dream - it has to be, there is no other way about it.

I look at the watch on my wrist and it says 20th June 2012, which means that I will have loved her for almost 2 full years already - "please let me love her longer," I plead to no one in particular, just generally feeling very desperate and afraid.

I suddenly cannot imagine my life without her, although I have never been dependent on her existence. Liar. If she died who will poke fun at me now? If she died who will listen to Reversal of Man in silence with me now? If she died what the fuck will I do now?

"No way," I mutter to myself as I walk up the steps leading to her room, "there is no way in hell a person like her can die; she's way too strong for that kind of bullshit."

I turn a corner to her room, only to see her mother standing outside, facing away from the closed door, sobbing silently to herself, and I feel my heart stop beating.

Her mother hears my footsteps and looks up at me, her eyes betraying all that she is going to say. "She's gone to be with the Lord," she whispers sadly, fingering the crucifix on her neck nervously, "the overdose was too much. Too much for them to have had saved her."

I find myself laughing inwardly. "If she's dead she's not with some Lord, you stupid woman. She's nothing; she's just cold and empty and just absolutely, completely nothing."

But of course I do not say that aloud. That poor woman must be wrecked inside out as it is, for her only daughter to have left her like this. I think that there is still that sliver of hope that perhaps her mother is lying to me, and this is all a cruel joke - an elaborate scheme just to see how much I care; one of those lame things she'd pull just for the hell of it. I push open the door to the room half-expecting her to jump out from behind the bed laughing at my naiveté, but all I see is a still figure on the bed covered by a large white sheet.

"It's not funny," I say, my eyes never leaving that motionless figure, "it's time to stop - I admit you got me, alright? We can laugh about this later, I promise."

But all is still and the only sound I hear are the leaves on the tree outside the window rustling in the wind.

"What a nice day to die."

And then I continue living.

"You do not know me," she says, eyes burning with hate, eyes looking at me and then looking away, eyes filled with so much pain and anger that I find myself involuntarily fascinated by it, by her, as I stare at her with wonder.

"But you do not let me try," I respond cautiously, contemplating whether or not to close the distance between us: her cowering in the corner knees brought up to her chest and even from this distance I can see that she is shaking.

Complete silence- her arms moving to encircle her legs a little tighter, her face now buried in her knees, and all I can see is a mess of thick red hair; its volume and density seemingly causing her petite frame to diminish further into the corner, almost swallowing her up whole.

I attempt edging closer, making as little sound as possible, hoping she will not hear, but the quiet- it is too loud.

"Do not come near me," she utters, her voice strangled and muffled in her hair, "do not come near me."

"I will not hurt you, I promise," I say, and I subconsciously wince at myself for not coming up with something that at least sounded better, instead of that cliché line which I am sure she will see as perfunctory.

"Fuck you, I've heard enough of that. They all say that, don't they? They are all sugar and spice at first, and then they use you and abuse you and slowly suck you dry, until you are left with nothing. Nothing! Except the last remaining shreds of tissue and bone which you desperately hold on to, to discover eventually that you have been in denial all this while, and that even the last precious vestiges have been taken away by them."

She is standing up now, still in the same spot in which she was, but she is standing up all the same. Her gaze is penetrating as she stares at me accusingly, her breathing thick and heavy, her lips quivering and her presence all-encompassing.

"What do you have to say now?" she continues, her eyes never leaving me, "you admit that you are just like the rest of them, aren't you? Even if you aren't now, you will be, later. Trust me, I know every single one of you: fucking monsters. You hold me and kiss me and then over time you strip me and kill me, bit by bit, piece by piece, taking joy in seeing the blood slowly trickle out of me, and then yet not letting me die, when in reality the opposite is true. It's like that Jesus and Mary Chain song: when your words and your touch just struck me numb // oh and it's plain to see that it's dead // the thing swims in blood and it's cold stoney dead."

"If there is anything I'd like you to know at all, right now, it is this: what you're saying is sure hurting me a whole lot," I whisper after some minutes of silence. I want to go up to her and hold her and tell her everything is going to be okay, that I am still going to be here for her amid this insanity, but a part of me knows she is going to push me away.

"What about me?" she says, her voice a notch higher now, "what about me? If there is anything I'd like you to know at all, right now, it is this: I HAVE BEEN HURTING ALL MY LIFE."

I feel like this is slowly degenerating into a twisted competition: about who is hurting more, and about who has been hurting for longer. I tell myself I refuse to play this game, as I take in her entire image with my eyes: she is still the most beautiful person I know.

"Why do you say nothing? You have nothing to say now, is it?" She is screaming now, her voice hysterical, and a part of me slowly dies with her. She takes a glass from a table near her corner and flings it at me.

It misses.

"You do not know me."

disequilibrate
asphyxiate
and only
the knife-

is always there, is always there.

Headlights shining, the clock is ticking
What do you see? What do you hear?
Enveloped by the darkness, all is still
All is silent; never-ending
I wait for your presence: is it time yet?
The clock is ticking, time is passing
My eyes unseeing, slowly closing
And yet you elude me, when are you coming?
Light switches one-two clicks,
pen in hand, drawing, writing
And then all is dark again, silent, unmoving
My head is spinning; I hate this feeling

Sleep, my darling.
Sleep.

A cold chilly day: I was wrapped up in layers and layers of clothing walking the streets devoid of people – everyone was inside, on their couches snuggled next to their loved ones with stupid smiles plastered on their faces. I had no one; I was alone. Suddenly, I felt movement behind me, a presence of sorts approaching me. "Here we go again," I grimaced. Turning around abruptly, I shot the person a look of irritation. "What's your problem?" I snapped.

Blowing smoke rings into the air as he leaned next to the lamppost, there – there he stood. I couldn't recognize him. In fact, as I searched the Filofax that was my memory, I drew a blank. Zilch. Nada. Who was he? I scowled at him, "What were you following me for?"

Chuckling to himself, the man continued smoking on his cigarette, as if this were his last day on earth, the way he savoured every drag and every puff, a contented smile on his face. "Well," he cleared his throat, "they say curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back purring, I heard." His voice was a deep baritone, and I swear it was almost sexy. I noticed the stubble on his face, his five o'clock shadow which gave him an enigmatic appeal. But of course, I did not know him, so I waited for him to continue.

Dragging on the last remnants of his cigarette, he said nothing. I looked at him, and he looked back at me. I rubbed my hands together – it was starting to get really cold. "Do I know you?" I ventured, eventually breaking the silence, breaking the lockdown as we stared at each other. "I don't seem to remember you from anywhere, really." I breathed out once, heavily, and my breath evaporated in a cloud in the still air.

Edging towards the trash bin about a meter in front of him, Mr. Mysterious flicked his cigarette stub expertly into it. I watched his movements, eyes fixated on the used cigarette leaping slightly across the air as it landed into the bin, never to be seen again. "Why do you smoke?" I asked, suddenly, "I mean, it's completely unnecessary and a waste of money, don't you think?"

Frosty, frosty. I had never been to the Arctic, but at that point of time I could have imagined I was right there, together with someone I do not remember knowing, both he and I the last 2 people on earth. The streets were silent – unless you counted the odd stray pottering about in the alleys, looking for food. I broke my train of thought and waited for his answer, if there was going to be any, at all.

Grinning to himself, he said, "What, you're preaching to me now? Some things never change. Little Miss Preachy, innit? This is a free country; a free world. I do whatever I like without you imposing your opinions on me." He shifted from foot to foot as he spoke – it was evident that he felt the cold twice as much as I did. I kept the smirk of derision to myself. So who was holier than thou, now?

Hark! The sound of an aircraft blocked out everything for a moment. Mr. Mysterious was saying something, but all I could hear was the whirr-whirr-whirr of the plane overhead. Where was it headed, I wondered, and how many people were in it, as I watched him move his mouth. He could have been speaking in Greek for all I knew.

I laughed out loud, slowly at first and then it consumed me; soon I was doubled over on the floor, and I was not entirely sure why I was laughing like that. Mr. Mysterious had stopped talking (I really needed to get his name) and was staring at me with a befuddled expression on his face, causing me to laugh even harder. "What the fuck?" he swore, losing his composure for that one moment. Suddenly he did not seem so cocksure anymore. I was rolling around on the floor now. So who was holier than thou, now? Me 1, Him 0. Or maybe it was Me 1, Him 1, but whatever.

Juxtaposed against the backdrop of the chilly urban setting, me and this guy whom I did not know and did not seem to recognize. If there was someone else in that particular setting, that person would have thought we were crazy. One was still rolling around on the concrete floor like a nutcase and the other was standing next to the lamppost, a perplexed expression plastered on his face. What a very strange tableau indeed. "You're nuts," he muttered, "you're really and truly nuts."

Keeling over with laughter, I tried to compose myself as I looked up at him. "If there's anyone who's nuts, it's you. I was minding my own business on the sidewalk when you came up to me. So, yeah," I said in between gasps. The laughing had made me less cold.

Laughter. This time coming from him, but it came in a series of short bursts, like he was forcing himself to laugh under the circumstance, like he wanted to be on the same level as me. I laughed, so now he wanted to laugh too. "Dumb ass," I said to myself. "Well, look, you're the one who doesn't recognize me. I sure didn't approach you for nothing, miss," and I could feel the italics dripping from his speech. How do you listen out for italics?

Madness; it was an aberration. I would have remembered who he was if I actually knew him. But I was pretty sure I did not. "I don't know you," I said, looking at him levelly, "I really don't. And I've been searching my memory banks since you approached me." "Maybe you're just not horribly good at faces," he replied, "Do you want to think some more, or do you want to give up?" Think some more, I thought to myself. No way was I giving up. I was not about to let him win. Motherfucking piece of shit, who did he think he was? If he told me who he was right from the get-go I doubt we would be in this strange situation now.

Non. No recollection whatsoever. I turned around away from him and squinted hard, willing my mind to squeeze out whatever I could about this person. Oh god, nothing came up. Nothing at all. Fuck, no way was I going to concede defeat.

Oh, oh. Something passed me by and disappeared. Dang. That was close. I kicked the pavement in frustration. "You sure are a stubborn little cow, aren't you?" Mr. Mysterious said from behind me. "Might as well spare yourself the agony. Or you could be just in denial."

Pish-tosh. Denial? No fucking way. Why would I be in denial? Like I was involved in some unmentionable, sordid past with him. But that could be a possibility, my subconscious told me.

Queer, very queer. To the point of it being surreal, even. I never had the difficulty of recognizing someone before. At most, after a while, something would click inside me, and I would have known the answer. But now… I looked at my watch. About half an hour had passed since he approached me and I was still hitting a blank. Press play, rewind. Blank, blank, blank. My mind was like a faulty tape recorder now. No sound coming from the stereo, it seemed.

Rustling sounds were heard from behind me, and curiosity getting the better of me, I eventually turned around. Mr. Mysterious was kicking a pool of leaves on the floor, his sneakers rubbing the leaves onto the concrete, causing the rustling sound I heard. "Stop that," I said, a look of annoyance crossing my face, as I continued watching him do the deed. Rustle, rustle, rustle. He was probably doing it on purpose to distract me, I gathered.

Sensing my vexation, he stopped for a moment to look up at me. Then, he went back to doing the same thing again, and now he was kicking the leaves onto the road. He looked like he was enjoying it. "Fine, ok. Stop that and you can tell me who you are. I give up," I said, a note of resignation creeping into my voice. Oh well.

Then he started laughing. This time, it seemed like genuine laughter, not the one I heard a few moments ago, where he seemed like he was forcing himself. He clutched the lamppost next to him as tears of laughter trickled down his face, his body heaving and heaving, looking like he was going to stop breathing for a moment. I raised an eyebrow at this weird turn of events. What the fuck was happening? I sure was minding my own business walking along the streets until this person approached me and turned my whole direction altogether. And now he was seemingly laughing at me, for no apparent reason. "We're quits, I guess," I said solemnly, "I laughed at you just now, so now it's your turn."

Under the dim light of the evening, the street lamps had started to switch on. I looked briefly at the lights all turning on by themselves one by one, enveloping the whole street in a soft glow of yellow light. Mr. Mysterious was still laughing, now one hand clutching his middle as he gasped for breath. I waited patiently for him to speak.

Vroom! A car passed us by. A yellow Beetle; there was a lone driver inside – a young man, perhaps, judging by the silhouette, heading home or to the pub for drinks with his mates. My gaze followed the car as it drove down the street, finally disappearing into the horizon. So, who was holier than thou now? Me 1, Him 2, it seemed. Damn, I hated losing.

Waiting some more, Mr. Mysterious did not seem to be able to stop laughing any time soon. I stared at him in frustration. "Hey, I'll be leaving soon. I need to get home. If you can't get your act together I'm going off. Going… going…" "GONE!" he shouted, his face red from all that exertion. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. Don't go off just yet," he said, and perhaps I was hallucinating but he did sound meek for that one moment. I gave him a half-smile. "So, what's your deal, really?" I asked, for the first time taking him in. He was dressed in a large brown coat buttoned up to his neck, and a pair of tailored gray pants which fit him pretty well. He was much taller than me, I suddenly realized.

Xylophones. The image of xylophones popped into my head while giving Mr. Mysterious the once-over. Funny connection. I waited for him to speak. Looked like my entire encounter with him made up of me waiting for him to speak. Ironic, considering that he had approached me first. I tried to guess his age. I pegged him as 25. Unless of course he was much younger than that and looked old, or vice versa.

Yawning, he brushed some invisible dirt off his coat as he stood up straight and examined himself. "Ok. Done. Now, who do you think I am?" he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "How would I know? That's the whole reason why I'm still standing here waiting for your answer, isn't it?" I was getting impatient now. And I was looking forward to going home and spending some time in my warm bed.

Zzz. A mosquito was flying around where I was standing. Irritably, I tried swatting it away. Drat those insects, I cursed. Mr. Mysterious fixated his gaze on me, a silly grin on his flawless complexion. "Well," he said, "in all honesty, I don't know you. But this makes a good story to tell to the kids, doesn't it?" Damn. I laughed shortly. Good one. I held out my hand and we walked down the street.