Red Samurai Peach's Almanac

Red Samurai | Poem

Renegade to the lost enigma.

Laughter in the halls, timid… pure evil,

Jests the Red Samurai, bottomless in his Kings’ Quest

Hand on hilt, writhes his fickle smile,

Edge to edge – wider than light.

As it lives…

And, as it breaths…

As it tears as the souls that fail to wander,

Nor heed, the cries of the One True King.

‘Bring them back, and let their voices sing!’

Rally the pleas of the forgone citizens.

 

Days without the mists of red,

Without the heavens turned black,

Without the immorality of such sinful wisdom.

Yet, it floods back,

Clearer than all joy, and all wonder, and all love.

Red Samurai – bringer of decay, catalyst of entropy;

Standing beside the God of Death himself.

 

Cleansing, that’s what he calls it…

Ridding the world of the weak, and the feeble,

And all those without necessary contribution.

Somehow he can stand,

In pure, defiant reverence of his demonic actions…

Completely alone in the land he calls No Penitence.

In Some Place. In Some Time.

Blasting through the desolate cosmos,

Destination, unseen – unheard.

Life on the edge – vanguard to the posturing elite.

 

Shrimps drifting through the black mass,

Unable to witness the gleam of stars,

Unable to sing, and to laugh – exiles;

Living amongst the ice,

And encased in the shields that

Fail to falter and blink.

Languid in eternal, light-less sleep.

 

Craving all we cannot have,

Free movement, and happiness, and love.

Under the hammer,

Pressure beating like that at the core of a star;

We cannot move.

We cannot hold;

Those nearest – simple acts overlooked.

Separated by countless light years,

Galaxies spanning the indeterminable void.

 

One day, maybe we will arrive,

Pioneers, starting over – another try.

A time when we can hold, touch,

And linger in the soothing heat of close bodies,

The promise of warmth and intimate pleasure;

Sleep, with dreams, and fleeting images of the past,

Ushering us along

Towards a mirage that shimmers

All along the boundary, eclipsed by only vision.

 

Some day we will exit this relentless purgatory.

Some day we will kiss, and make love,

And bathe in the beauty of re-kindled humanity;

As we sail, and as we drift,

Living – but just for the moment,

On the cusp.

My Relationship With Welcome to the N.H.K

For a long time, I’ve been a lover of anime. Ever since I was a young kid, I remember watching Studio Ghibli film’s alongside my dad and sister, over and over again. They never got boring; the rich lands, and the characters, the stories – they seemed so utterly magical, so out-of-this-world, and yet completely believable, completely immersive. Sure, no doubt some of it was due to the impressionability of my younger self… but the remainder, was an intrinsic love for narrative of that type, one that would develop and mature as I grew older – as I grow older. Most notably the ‘Slice of Life‘ genre of anime.

Not just anime itself, but the surrealism which is often intrinsic to its nature. That which my most-loved author Haruki Murakami often portrays to such mesmerising levels.

Welcome to the N.H.K was originally a Japanese novel written by Tatsuhiko Takimoto , which was later adapted into a serialised manga, and then, to critical acclaim, a 24-episode anime series in 2006. 

I can’t remember the exact date, or even the exact year when I first watched it. I guess somewhere around 2013-14. At that time, watching it, I realised so many things – too many things. Most of all, it absolutely terrified me – ripped open my soul and left it there to be eroded by the environment if I did nothing to protect it from the elements. Here’s a synopsis: (from myanimelist.net)Read More »

Honest… Honest Work

Flashing of dire images,

Like ghouls in the Mirror of Regret.

Temptation sulking in red-soaked-pools,

Knowing that if I fall, there are no nets,

And the walls – they’re far, far too steep,

Covered in layer upon layer of bleak memory.

 

And I look upon the canvas, devoid of paint,

As I frantically search for that rosy paint-

A medium for expression;

But it’s oblivion… not a single brush,

Nor a pencil.

Nothing to imprint the white.

Emptiness – alone – lonely.

 

Traversing corridors – back and forward,

Forgetting the doors on each side,

Forgetting the chances that wait beyond.

Needing to walk back into space without electricity;

Or, at least being duped into thinking so.

 

Please, do something, I was caving,

Mites ruthlessly bit, and the ticks latched without remorse;

Eraser, white pen on white paper.

Each stroke heavier – breaths taken on Mars.

 

My laugh filled the empty stretches,

Bleak, and self-depreciating – honest.

Painfully, wretchedly, horrifically… honest.

Heard by not one soul.

Breaking the boundaries of sound,

So loud – silent – vacuum sound.

 

All these years,

Time ticking like a clock at half-speed;

Time spent, time… honestly wasted;

Not wasted honesty.

All These Treasured Things

Listening, no sudden judgement – a receiver,

My mind open, I believe;

Words of utmost transparency.

Don’t be fretful of that which you cannot speak,

 

Life’s tough, arduous – we know that.

Shared. No seclusion, nor segregation.

A voice to paragraph, to feel in kind;

Life, and love, and all that’s between.

 

Sometimes I dream, and sometimes I’m bitterly real.

What can be done, achieved, felt – it’s a sad mystery.

But I ponder… what’s best?

 

Maybe it nullifies disappointment.

Maybe… simply, it’s beyond knowledge;

Knowing, that’s the hardest part – isn’t it always…?

Knowing what to say, and what to leave be;

Misinterpretation – demon dweller of frail words

Creeping ’round the corner, settling in cavernous cracks,

Yell the voices of pain-riddled pasts’.

 

Bathe within the beat of your chest,

The motion of your up and down breath,

Ground it all in reality – tight knot, heavy anchor.

Forge it into stone too heavy to drag behind,

And leave the grey mist,

The ambiguity of mind’s irrationality.

Be free… Live free…

So, let it all begin again.

Under the Dark, Dreary Night

Night-light rains down in the field of wolves,

Their names called, summoned at once.

Crying and screaming, the masses run,

From the beasts – the savages.

 

Bottle in hand, legs afloat,

Climbing trees – falling into heavy arms –

Strangers arms, unwelcome by the recipient.

Heart breaking, secluded to the dark beside stone walls.

 

Ground-worms, the eerie winds of euphoric glass.

In the trailer, painfully few beside;

Outside, the golden world goes on,

Laughter, chaos, the hugs of youthful sentiment.

 

The Forgotten, the Shadows in no light,

Weaving like willow around stronger trunks;

In the chinks and the chimes-

Kissing, looked on upon with bleakness of vacuum.

 

So, the bottles are empty;

A world turned hazy with grim solitude.

Nothing before. Nothing after.

What had I been expecting, a change in base temperature?

 

Morning light, and lingered pride,

Loving all around, but honestly, nothing inside.

Taken home, forgotten thoughts-

Trying to forget.

 

Images of possibility,

Voices that could have been, and might have been,

If only it weren’t for battered sanity.

Some things are never.

Thank You – I Mean It!

This, is rather spontaneous, but it’s been on my mind, so why not also write a little on it?


I’ve been writing on here regularly since the beginning of October last year.

What did I think it might be back then? Well… to be honest, I saw it as nothing more than a place for my tumultuous thoughts to reside, a place where they would do no harm. It was the period when I returned home from university after a short week. Things weren’t great, in fact, they were awful. Though, I suppose they could have been far, far worse.

I didn’t know what to do.

I wasn’t sure I could do anything at all, but slumber in my anxiety…

So, I came home, and began writing here. At the beginning, it was simple. There were no goals, no aspirations, no plans. I just needed to know somebody could read what I wrote if they so pleased. I found comfort in that. I still do. Of course I do. I’m humbled by those of you who regularly read what I write. That means a massive amount. I don’t take that for granted.

I got into writing poetry.

I got into writing ‘Tiny Stories.’

I got into so many things.

I’m still getting into them…

This has become a staple part of the life I’m currently living. I don’t know where it’s heading, and I don’t want to know. Not everything I post is polished, and I don’t require it to be. I hope you can see something heartfelt in them, in the poems or stories. Each one of them is a part of me represented with words… of varying qualities. It’s a journey of self-discovery for the most part – if I’m able to say that without sounding pretentious. I don’t know what’s coming tomorrow. What words will arise with the sun, and what anxieties will haunt with the waning of it.

A life where everything is expected would certainly be boring.

It’s enlightening to see and read all your words too, because they are so beautiful, and it would be a shame for them not to be heard. This really is a great community, and now, I’m not sure what I’d do without it. I harbour a deep well of loneliness, and if I’m able to fill even a tiny part of it, that’s more than I could ever ask for. I need that motivation to create, to push myself onwards to deeper waters – to discover things about myself that are required, if not pleasant.

So… Thank You!

 

-Chris ❤