Flights of Fancy

I’m back! If you missed my last post, it’s because I forgot to put any tags. Yes, I’m an idiot. As usual, the short piece – this time a poem – is at the bottom of the post but I would appreciate it if you could all stick around for the entire post, as it will be pretty short and it will include some recommendations.

I have a love-hate relationship with rap music. I am naturally more inclined to listen to rock/punk/etc so rap isn’t always the first thing on my mind. Recently, that changed. My love for punk and rock remains but I also discovered some Korean rappers. I already knew about the great RM, Suga, J-Hope, etc but then I found Outsider. Holy shit. If nothing else, just give his song Loner a shot. I promise it’s amazing.

Then, yesterday, I found the iconic duo LeeSsang (리쌍) by chance and fell in love with their profound lyrics. My first introduction was their Tears of Pierrot trilogy, which I greatly recommend, though it’s very sad so be warned, as well as Painter/Song of Fire (화가), all of which can be found on Daechungpower’s youtube channel, with English subs.

Finally, today, I ventured into Big Bang’s territory and found T.O.P’s Doom Dada. It’s wacky and confusing and weird but also kind of funny and creepy and awesome. There are lyrics vids available for it, which I highly recommend, though they won’t clarify much, but the MV is worth a watch too. In fact, this song was my main inspiration for the poem in this post. Outsider made me feel; LeeSsang motivated me to write and change the world; and T.O.P inspired me. They’re all wonderful and deserve recognition.

Interesting fact: I came up with the title Flights of Fancy months ago, knowing I wanted to write something with that title. It’s the first time ever I came up with a title before I had an idea. Now, without further ado, I present to you:

Flights of Fancy

Flights of fancy,
on a spur,
whimsically this,
fancily flying,
fancy flights.
From day one
he beats a drum
freely, fearlessly
‘fraid of none
he beats his drum.
On a whim,
jumping up,
flying high,
burning bright,
burning out.
This and that,
zus en zo,
tu i tamo,
free to peruse.
And so he flutters
from one to the next,
always looking,
stuck with second best;
I wish this were the end.

From flowers to masters
to cheeses at night,
beers to piñatas,
no end in sight,
his endless plight.
Painting and sculpting,
even karaoke,
jumping and running,
fierljeppen out of spite,
never quitting.
his next pursuit,
forever forgiving,
singing lullabies to
crying babies
of the human variety.
Finally he found
a passion that stuck
and started writing
your favourite book.
These flights of fancy,
moments of spur,
looking lonely,
abandoned and dull.
And so he ends with
one last word.


Sleep-deprived poem


Words look silly

Coelho seems deep

Thoughts run wild

Body’s adjusting

Time’s run out

Teddy bears can talk

Music on repeat

Bed not comfy

Pillow too warm

This sleep-deprived poetry

Eyes fall shut

Mouth drops open

Drool trickles out

Subconscious keeps fighting

Dreams all around

Lights turned off

Your goodnights said

No quick kisses

Right before bed

Or those kisses will undeniably lead to more, i.e. sex, which is bound to destroy a perfectly good night’s rest, not to mention how it will disturb your neighbours and children and scar them for life or at least until the next celebrity break-up is announced because evidently such shocking revelations have precedence over the dull reality of flooding and landslides and the inevitability of deaths of thousands of individuals due to wars started in the past, wars fought in the present, wars left to future generations because clearly having flying cars will reduce all human suffering exponentially and the world will be a better place even though most of the bees will have died and the birds will have followed until it’s a wasteland of cockroaches and humans because that’s an acceptable goal we’re collectively working towards, as mentioned in the Bible, which is undeniably the work of God because what else would he occupy himself with but telling men it’s okay to stone their wives but not to mix fabrics, isn’t that common sense, because even though there is only one shade of black clothes seem to have the ability to not match based on the fabric your black clothing item is made of, so unpredictable, exactly like their human counterparts which are all different shades of black but should nevertheless be generalised and preferably be shot preventatively in case the grime in their jeans pockets could be weaponised and innocent lives would be lost, like the sweet old man who shot all those people in Las Vegas, which is probably a conspiracy by the Leftie libtards because how could a sweet old god-fearing man who loved country music and once helped an old lady cross the street do something bad, which was an isolated incident that shouldn’t inconvenience him too much like that darned rape case did to his neighbour whose forced community service ate away at his precious baseball practice which was a total set up by that little minx who deliberately got drunk and asked in her sleep to be undressed, and who enjoyed it because she screamed no so loud she must’ve been close to orgasming when that little Jewish punk interrupted but it’s okay because he was taken care of by some very fine people, like it should be because Hitler was obviously just misunderstood as he’d been so fervently discriminated against by the gypsies and homosexuals, which are currently even allowed to get married, which is a disgrace because the tax benefits that come with getting married are clearly reserved for Johnny and his cousin, I mean wife, and his second cousin who is also his second wife but the sister-bride to his third wife, though soon their daughter will be old enough to get on a lift with all the big men in Hollywood because being a star is something she always dreamed of and practices while in the shower, which good ole Bobby the friendly drunk supervises with gun in hand in case any robbers would come to harm his niece while she soaps her tiny little titties under that hot stream which he gladly would’ve enriched with his own hot stream were it not for the fact that his bitch of a wife threw out his Viagra the day her birth control stopped being free and he hadn’t had time to get a new prescription between beating her half to death and watching a rerun of F-


Winter blues

Okay so it’s not technically winter yet. So what? My body doesn’t seem to know the difference. It’s cold out and my body is responding to that by making me sick. The fact that it’s still only November is wholly irrelevant. As such, you will find a depressing poem at the bottom of this post. Enjoy it or don’t, I’m so sick and tired that it’s all become irrelevant to me.

I went to Portugal for a few days with my mum last week, which I thoroughly enjoyed because Lisbon is a wonderful city I long to return to and we were lucky because it was 20-22 degrees while we were there. (Celsius, obviously. I’m Dutch, so I’ll refer to temperature and other measurements in the only way I know.) I would recommend it to everyone, though I’m also strangely possessive over it, unwilling to see it run over by tourists. Yeah, I don’t know either.

As for my prolonged absence, you’ve got my new job to blame/thank. The work itself is fun enough, though I’m not great with physical work, much preferring the use of my mind, and my bosses are quite alright (I think I have about five, though the hierarchy eludes me), but my coworkers are awful. A few of them are quite alright; some I can tolerate for the duration of the workday whereas I actually like others.

My problem lies with a select few, who haunt my nightmares even on the weekends. They are loud, obnoxious, stupid*, judgmental, fucking slow, complain a lot, too damn nosy, rude, and plain disgusting. They suck all my energy and motivation from me. They’re the real-life dementors.

Me being who I am, I hardly ever talk back. You need to really piss me off, while I have confidence or when I’m completely indifferent to the world around me, for me to explode. As a result, I kept quiet. I hate that I am this way. My neighbour kid – she’s 14 – has the biggest mouth, is annoying af, and a little stupid too, but at least she stands up for herself and loudly proclaims what she believes is right. I dislike that about her because her opinions are often bs but I envy her for it too because I would like to have the same ability.

My energy levels are low, I am sick and tired, my mood is unstable, and I haven’t had the mind to write. Good thing I have a bunch of pre-written stuff waiting to be read.


*by stupid I do not mean ‘slow learner’ or ‘less bright than me’ but those who are wilfully ignorant, proclaim their ideas with confidence, assume rather than ask, aren’t willing to listen to other opinions, and will use nasty remarks and actions to prove their ‘superiority’. You know the type.

N.B. everything below this point belongs to the poem, including the post-script (title in bold)

Searching For My Will To Live: an attempt to capture the zeitgeist

“My bag is larger than my will to live,”
said the girl on the train.
I look up and check the size:
a small backpack. Not bad.
A meme forms in my head
with her words and the tiniest bag.
I laugh to myself though I should cry;
I’d lost my own a while ago.
Looked on the train, searched at my job,
even checked at school: the place where I lost it.
Nothing. A failed attempt. Futile.
Relationships; marriage; kids; mortgage; travel; money; fame; success; sex.
None of it can fill this gaping hole.
Humour. Laughter.
What’s left when nothing’s left?
What’s real when reality seems absurd?
So we laugh.
“Amazon key to bring sweet relief of death… to your HOME!”
“Timberland: perennial labour for us ánd our boots.”
“Only twenty mental breakdowns until Christmas break.”
Our mass embrace of nihilism.
Life is absurd.
P.S. I still haven’t found my will to live


(Readability intentionally poor -> stylistic choice. Feeling dump. Experiment. Please comment.)


The midnight sky was lit around us; there is no escaping it in a city like this. But it was quiet, unusually so as the natural murmur of voices had died down with the rising moon. I looked at him and had to bite my tongue. He was beautiful. I wanted to tell him but this was neither the time nor the place so I kept my mouth shut, left my thoughts unspoken as to not disrupt this spell we had going, so magical in its fragility. He looked out over the city from the balcony we occupied, his facial features all larger than the average Korean’s. But that was part of his beauty, his charm. In a world of conformity, he stood out. The image before my eyes would have been perfect in one of my films yet the thought of my camera never even crossed my mind. We were in that moment, lost in it forever, a part of history to melt into all others. Serenity. Tranquillity. Peace.

‘’You know, I always used to think I would be happy if only I accomplished my dreams,’’ I broke the silence. I knew I shouldn’t have, I didn’t want to, but my impulses won from my restraint. And suddenly this moment we’d created intensified, not quite shattered but buzzed with a static enough to drive you mad. And I wanted to stop talking, hang onto that last shred of sanity and peace but I couldn’t because he was there and he was looking at me with his big eyes so innocent and open I had to finish my thought. So I spoke and I spoke and the ringing got louder in my ears, in my head, until I couldn’t hear myself speak anymore but I saw him listen. ‘’I thought if I found a job I loved, if I started making money making films, if I succeeded in my career I would become whole, I would be happy, but I’m not. I thought if only I found me a man to love, a relationship meaningful and lengthy that would make me happy, fill this void inside me but it didn’t. And you are here in all your glory, so sweet, so strong, so kind, so perfect, and it’s like a dream come true because you’ve been my idol for so long I thought it would be okay, I would learn to live in the moment and be happy with my life and myself. But I learnt something today. I have never been happy and I never will be. I’m a perfectionist, always striving for more. I’m greedy that way, I will never be satisfied, always longing for more. And the thing I want most is unattainable to all but me most of all for perfection is merely illusion. I see you, I see you, but ‘tis not enough for I wish to be one, to become one with you, a melding of bodies, of spirits, of souls until where one ends one begins. With a heavy heart overflowing with love I hold onto you, I held onto you for so long. And I can’t even tell if you’re comprehending my words at all but I hope I can convey it to you all.’’

And I held onto him, held on tight. For he knew all that I felt, all I was feeling, for deep down he felt it too.

And so

we were







Message to the Older Generations – a poem

(Scroll down for the actual poem, which may be the best poem I’ve ever written)

A week ago I was in desperate need for a distraction and turned to the internet, a constant source of entertainment (and anger, but let’s not focus on that…), where I found a bunch of quizzes on a site named Quotev. After I found out which Disney princess I most resembled (Belle and Ariel), what colour my soul is (yellow), and what Hogwarts house I truly belong in (Ravenclaw), my curiosity became too much to handle and I clicked on a BTS-related quiz. Up to this point I had never heard of BTS before, I had no interest in K-pop whatsoever (despite having lived in South Korea heh), or pop music in general, being more of a rock/punk/metal fan myself, but I actually found myself really enjoying their content.

You might have heard one of their songs. The longer I listened the more I got pulled in; their voices are amazing. Of course their dancing is incredible too, as befits a k-pop group, but what really did it for me were their lyrics. Just listen to this song (and read along to the lyrics) and you’ll know what I mean. The same is true for Not Today (the first song of theirs I listened to) and Crow-Tit (aka bepsae), which inspired this blog post. The lyrics, a perfect criticism of the generation(s) blaming Millennials for everything, reminded me of a poem I wrote myself (coincidentally while I lived in Korea) that deals with the same topic. So, without further ado, this is my poem:


Message to the Older Generation

The future is important

What will you do?

Pulled in all directions

Without a fucking clue

Grab the opportunity

The pressure is rising

Do this, do that

Leads me to despising

The very system we live in

Jobs I’ll never have

I said I don’t want this

Are you going deaf?

Listen to my wishes

Do I have a choice?

Don’t want it to be a drag

Don’t we deserve a voice?

All focus on economy

Where is the joy?

Let us go our own way

My life’s not a toy

We’ll make our own mistakes

Go against the herd

We might surprise you

Ours is the world

So let us do ours

Just leave us be

Only one knows what’s best

And that person is me.

A dabble in the dark – my surrealist adventure

How much of what we write fits within certain art or literature movements without us being consciously aware of it? To what extent were we influenced without even knowing? “Revolutionary” ideas could be as old as time itself but does that mean they’re not worth pursuing?

These and other questions floated through my mind after I woke up from a strange dream this morning. Consequently, it led me to play with the idea of surrealism in literature. I never really paid attention to it before but a trip to Google taught me everything I needed to know.

It turns out that I have written a surrealist poem before in my life, I just never knew it; I was unaware of the fact that it fit within the genre. Now, I must admit I never quite understood the poem myself, I just knew I liked it. I will post it below so you can see for yourself. If you have any feedback, let me know. I’m eager to hear it.

However, I wouldn’t be me if I let this idea go to waste so I spent the morning writing a short piece based on my dream. Its readability is lower than my usual work but this is a stylistic choice so I hope you take that into account. I used to think Kafka was a weirdo for not making proper paragraphs but now I totally get him. It just has to be this way. I will post that below the poem. Its title would be A Dabble In The Dark.

So, without further ado, the poem (untitled):


The confusion… but the clarity… so

vague but quite clear, I don’t

understand but I do.

The one who finds the peanuts sells

them, but what about the birds?

Expression, for the long forgotten.

In the end, all will make sense.

Alea iacta est.



A Dabble In The Dark:


A pallet of land floating on the sea by the coast, everything is of the purest white. It holds a couple of houses, of the cube kind with straight lines and perfect symmetry. Adjacent to them, some trees, also of the purest white, with their branches drooping to the ground, in their paleness a beauty and a haunting quality, like the once vibrant colours were caught in a cement mill, a rain of white suppressing all further growth, painting the scenery white, but just locally. The grass on the lawns barely visible, reflecting the sun’s bright rays into the eyes of bystanders, glowing under its harshness, victorious where the shore is not. The sea glistening around it, its typical blue-green shade, like glass suspended in motion, surrounding its white kingdom with shimmering beauty that somehow pales in comparison. Literally pales, as the white turns to black, oil dripping down the houses, painting them a gloomy shimmer that still reflects the sun but simultaneously hoards all light. The rays seem suspended in its thick black coating until they’re not, the sun has become unable to reach this piece of heaven on earth. The tree has morphed into some creature of darkness, the whole place in stark contrast but so similar to what it was before.

‘’It’s a monument to those lost to war, the cannons representing a better time in history,’’ the old man, inspector, tells me as we walk past the gruesome construction. He is right, cannons are clearly visible, dripping black where once there used to be something, something else just outside my reach. What had been there previously, what had I seen there before? The glistening of the sea now seems menacing to me, as if I shouldn’t turn my back to it. Something lives there, an evil beyond my comprehension, beyond human comprehension.

‘’It’s a graveyard,’’ I tell him, the headstones clearly visible against the pale blue of the sky which seems unaware of the change in atmosphere, unperturbed by the grotesque puzzle piece in its midst. There is sadness, too, coming from the floating exhibit, so pure it brings tears even to the manliest of eyes. The inspector drags me with him now, pulling me behind him into a building on our left, in which hallway after hallway connect to bring you where you most need to be. I went in there once, came out a year older. But now we stick to the foyer, looking out the window to the sight before our eyes. From this angle the whole seems less menacing, the darkness finally dripping down, letting the purity peek through, littering hope in our hearts. Wasn’t it supposed to be a living complex for the rich and famous, his wife’s golden white figure gracing the squares with her presence? They were triangles now, and the inspector seems a different man. What about the doctor with the pearly teeth who boasted so enthusiastically about – about what?

‘’Let’s go back out, hurricane season has ended by now. It should be safe for us.’’ And we walk, and we walk, leaving the construction behind us, there is no need to look back. It is behind us, we mustn’t look back. Even if it shows its true colours to us now, we must not look back, for we are at war. At war with these beasts. There they are: the gigantic elephant, its long-necked cousin the giraffe, they approach us in silence to the beat of an ancient drum, a drum only they hear as it vibrates through their bones, passed down from generation to generation. That ancient DNA, spread over millennia of peace, of sorrow and of solitude, now they march to its rhythm. Its much smaller shadows run around on the yellow grass, playing a game with anyone who dares approach, while its menacing twins march to our doom. Our doom, after all these decades, was always in the water park. We glide and we glide, the water smoothing around us, propelling us forwards, the occasional dolphin sailing past us.

‘’Watch out, it’s endangered, a whale!’’ I hear in the distance, the others just shrug. I take the chance and glide along, enter the waterslide of life, and see where the current takes me. Up and down, left, right, diagonally. I go everywhere, see everything, but the end is never in sight. Even that vertical drop, where I felt ripped from life, it was nothing. Too late I notice there is no way out. They don’t tell you that before you enter, keep it hidden to attract us, but here we are, gliding and gliding with no end in sight. And meanwhile the elephants and the giraffes approach. One, two, three, left, right, left. One, two, three, left, right, left. A toot to make themselves heard, then back on their merry way. One, two, three, left, right, left. And we glide and we glide as our doom approaches, helpless, all we can do is let it happen, steer to the right when we would go left, not aware the outcome will remain the same. After we’re done with this endless cycle, we cease. We forget to enjoy this, we are at a waterpark of all places, too focused on getting out to enjoy this moment. Too soon it is over and I have aged again, I’m unrecognisable, even to the youngster that operates this thing. It’s the end of the road for me, following in the footsteps of all those who went before me, laying the foundation for those to come. We are all the same, nothing will change. They are already lining up to get in here, the stray ones ridiculed until they submit or disappear.

I am here, I am here, and then I’m not. I have ceased.