The Canister

Ever since the author was a wee little Ay Jay, he loathed following the crowd, in other words, fads. Anything vaguely interesting to him instantly looses its sheen as soon as everyone's talking about it and doing it. He likes being exclusive. He likes being the sore rash that sticks out. That weirdo next door. No, he doesn't mind not looking like a bunch of sardines in a can, albeit with Mohawks and Porcupines and other animals and birds for hair. This partly explains his obsession with Old School Rock, clunky retro glasses, movies from the nineties and the preceding years. Make no mistake, it's not that he exclusively likes 'em because they aren't popular, it's merely a contributing factor. And it's not that he hates everything modern - another one of his obsessions is technology. Mere words fail to explain a geekgasm. But, alas, as always, I digress. I could dedicate an entire article apiece to his obsession with Tech and Rock. Maybe I should. 

Art by Nick Flook


A silhouette in the distance
The streetlamps cast their lights
Momentarily cast a flickering glow
On his round hat, his trench coat.
He walks.
Though the night is dark
Though not a soul is awake.
Wandering, searching,
yearning
Craving for what he knows not.
He walks.
His eyes are dead hollows
Mystical allure
Of the darkness within him.
He walks.
He moves with purpose
His steps are firm, resolute
His black worn out boots
Yet to see the light of day.
Well past the witching hour

He treads.
He walks.
He walks alone.

"But kindred elves we be,
How canst thou slay thine own family?"
"Mine thirst for power must be quench'd,
The darkness within me keeps me enthrench'd..."
And Dwin'rae slayed his brethren
The land bled, he spared no friend.
The sacrifice made, he awaited.
The ritual pillage done, his soul dissipated,
Calmly ebbing; The Elven Curse didst fall,
Dwin'rae had doomed his clan, once and for all.

Due to an overdose of pure idiocy and skullduggery which is ever present in the Ay Jay's overloaded mush of a brain, we observe that he is unable to comprehend the very essential things that matter most, such as a career or education. But one must admit, passions ought to be respected. After all, to each is his own man. And a noble sport such as Basketball which Ay Jay honours from the very depths of his throbbing heart ought to be respected even more. From whence this obsession, dare I call it, comes from is unknown. But it is clearly observed that a major portion of both of Ay Jay's conscious and sub-conscious mind have been possessed by Basketball. Many have tried to wrench it out of his complex and yet simple system. But all efforts were in vain. For an obsession such as this is akin to Love, maybe even deeper. For Love is in Ay Jay's opinion a silly way to waste one's time by being completely icky, gooey and mushy. But Basketball on the other hand is true, faithful and undoubtedly constant for one's Love for Ballin' can never diminish, it can only grow stronger. It is not mere passion that fuels this inextinguishable blaze; it is sweat, fury, adrenaline, and the will to win. The agility, speed and effort, the submitting of oneself entirely body, mind and soul is surely justifiable, is it not? And yet, facts remain as facts. In this conservative society, things such as further advancement in one's non-educational quests are unauthorised, looked down, and scoffed at. Even if one wishes to pursue a career in Journalism, or in fine hints such as Literature, one can expect to be denied one's wishes inevitably. For you must only have a career as an Engineer, a Doctor or a C.A. But alas, I digress. Further delving into Ay Jay's brain shows us that although he is capable of doing great things, his laziness tends to overshadow everything else. A remedy for this affliction of his is still under research, although it is found that when it comes to matters concerning Basketball, we observe that his laziness immediately disappears and he is pumped up and psyched. Why this happens is believed to be mainly because he finds everything else counter-productive to his existence. And yet, surprisingly we find that despite his laziness, he does wash himself everyday, which is very ironic because his area of inhabitance has a very accurate resemblance, akin to that of a pigsty.

Continued….

The darkness reigns
Fire falls
All hell breaks loose
All around the deathly chambers
The stench and reek of death looms above;
Quartered and mangled
The bodies all lay
The skulls in a pile
Homicidal psychopaths
Deeds so dark and dreary
People fear to speak of them
The darkness reigns
Flowing through veins
Fury falls, flowing forever
Preying upon the lives of the innocent
Hearts burn with pent-up anger,
Repressed sorrow and fear
The darkness reigns;
Fear my little child
You must know, you must fear
Life is expendable
No time to waste on tears
Dreams shattered
Sorrow in abundance
Suffering and misery
All around you
The evil and darkness around us
May be hidden
Fear it, believe it
Stand up against it and fight
Evil reigns around you
Tempting tendrils coil
And reach out for you
Claiming one victim after another
The darkness reigns;
Monsters slink in the shadows
Awaiting the night, awaiting
For their prey, for thine lonesome being;
Acts committed so dark and evil
That no one man can comprehend;
Those dark and evil monsters
Feed upon thy flesh;
The darkness reigns.




This poem was featured in the October 2013 issue of Renesa, NIT Surat's bi-monthly newsletter.