Tomic Riter

Tag: creativewriting

  • Jazz, Paradox, Night.

    Rubbing my eyes off cigarette smoke. Rubbing my chest. Thinking about an orange sky. Listening to Layla. Layla. Layla. That goddamn guitar riff opening my eyes for the first time this evening. It’s nothing of an evening. Nothing much but it’s there. Words do not matter and yet I write words all the time. This whole life is like a paradox. I am dead and yet alive. I do not want and yet I want. I do not need but I do. I do not care but I do. I am tired and agile. I am fed up and I feel ecstatic. Tragedy brings me the joy nothing else can. Alcohol kills, cigarette kills, love kills, seeing anybody around kills, empty bottles kill me the same, empty cigarette packs too, lack of love is a straight rusted dagger through me. I am such a kind, walking in and out of existence, walking in and out of everybody’s lives. When I think about all the jazz, I feel that Coltrane was overrated. Dave Brubeck and Mal Waldron and Duke Ellington deserve more ears. Taking a walk in the corridor. Miles Davis playing Rubberband Of Life. Coming back dancing in my chair. Thinking about a million things. The wind outside, the leaves rustling, the night, this night. My head running through the events of the day once again to see if I missed out on anything. I don’t think I have but I am sure I have. Part of the paradox, I guess.

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  • These goddamn people.

    Every day this attempt to put down as much words as possible.It’s a strange evening. The music is here but I am somewhere else, stuck in the dump of trivialities once again. Drinking beer and lighting cigarettes hoping they would save me again. I don’t think they will. I really don’t. This time it’s different. This time I am going down for good. This is my last innings. I am finally at the edge of cliff having the last piss of my life. What a fucking music. What a music fucking me What a fucking fucking music. These goddamn people. Their very attitude towards life gives me headache. I am head down bleeding out of my stomach, the capitalist teeth tearing me to bits. Fuck. FUCK! Another swig of cold beer, Another cigarette. The devil is out of the box and he won’t go down easily. He is alive and he is laughing like he has never laughed before.

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  • From the graveyard.

    Four rounds of cigarettes and black coffee. Sometimes, five rounds of cigarettes and black coffee. Sometimes, everything goes berserk and I lose track of count and my room starts smelling like fire broke out. Saw a clear orange sunset after a lifetime. Saw it until the sky turned grey and finally disappeared. Then walked back into my room thinking about another round of cigarettes and black coffee. Soon midnight and the silly want of not falling asleep. Another round of cigarettes and black coffee will follow. Outside is quiet as if I live in a graveyard. Maybe I do. Lots of dead people around. It might not be a graveyard but it’s nothing less either. Equally full and equally empty. Equally scary. Even the tree leaves rustle like the tree leaves in a graveyard. Damn. Am I really living in a graveyard? I am sure ghosts have a sweeter tongue than these people. Almost midnight. Time to pack up and fuck off to my grave.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE AND PURCHASE MY BOOKS

  • Thinking about…

    Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about getting up and boiling eggs. Thinking about falling asleep again. Thinking about getting my shit together. Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about walking to the garden for no reason, but it’s too hot outside. Thinking about lighting a cigarette.

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  • Shit is deeper than you think it is.

    I am alive because I am alive and nobody can guarantee my life. Nobody can tell its expiry date, not even those astrologers, palm readers, lawmen, gunmen, bandits, snipers, doctors, hangmen, retail sellers, cinema hall goers, economists, conspiracy theorists, gods, philosophers, psychiatrists, healers, priests, butchers, facefuckers, assfuckers, blowjob givers, dickheads, cunts, the terminally ill, the mad, the insane. Nobody knows shit about anything. We all have been fooled, HA HA HA HA HA HA. FOOLED!!!

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  • Rewind. Repeat. Smoke and die.

    The wound takes time to heal. First, there’s redness. Then a little itching. Sometimes, too much. Then the new cells form and then, new skin. After a time, the wound disappears, like it was never there. But sometimes, the hurt continues. The flexibility just goes away. The bone gets weaker. The skin wrinkles. The muscles slacken. Even a little twist begins to hurt. Sometimes, you blow wind on where it hurts hoping it gets a little better. Sometimes, it does get better. Sometimes. The song keeps changing. The voice changing. It’s a whole goddamn playlist to cry over tonight. Lou Reed playing again. A call interrupted the mood. Not an important call.It was just my mother. 30 seconds long call. That much is enough to tell her I am still alive and everything is alright. Rewound the song. Played again from the start. Almost broke down. Almost.

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  • Blues, Coffee, Cigarettes, Lighters, Matchsticks.

    Another one of those evenings with coffee, cigarettes, old school blues loud on my speakers. Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, B.B.King. Mustang Sally on repeat. What voices! What voices! And what lyrics! They throw you right away in the sweetest goddamn blues. You can’t help but light another cigarette. And there’s nothing like lighting a cigarette with goddamn matchsticks. Yeah, right off those goddamn matchsticks. I think if a cigarette has to be lit, and if you really really want to light it and I mean really want to light it, it better be done with a matchstick and in one go. Well, that’s some cigarette wisdom right there. A lighter isn’t bad or anything to use, it’s just it’s too organised, too polished, too nice. Now, we have these lighters with plastic red blue yellow bodies. Gas lighters. Transparent. You can see the fuel right through and how much of it remains, so that you get an idea about when to buy a new one. With matchsticks and matchboxes, it’s somewhat similar but not the same. The feeling is not the same. Matchboxes with no labels or names come straight from hell. Matchsticks carry some rawness. I like that rawness, that feeling of living like an animal. Damnit give me as raw as it can be. Things too clean begin to disgust me after some time. Clean bedroom, clean kitchen, clean toilet, clean bedsheet, clean glasses and plates, clean clothes, clean face, meditation and yoga, breakfast on time, dinner on time, sleep on time, just one glass of red wine, just one cigarette, just one glass of rum, just one bottle of beer, combed hair, brushing every day, taking bath each morning. Things dirty make me unstoppable, activate all my neurons at once, fill my veins with stallion blood. Drugs could never really make me high enough. Even if they did, it was all just momentary. Somebody once told me not to chase what’s momentary. I told him to fuck off. I am chasing nothing. I am here in this moment, trying to be as alive as I can be in the ways that I know of.

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  • Enough of this shit.

    ‘Enough of this shit,’ I thought at exactly 8:35 night, got up from my chair, turned it to face my laptop, sat back, turned on my laptop, thought about writing some more shit. The music, well, it never stops playing as long as I am alive and not deaf. Once I go deaf, it will make for a completely different story. A tragic story, tragic like nothing else. I guess I’ve still got time to go deaf. I think something else will take me away before that happens. Something like my 9-5 job. Yeah. Something as brutal as that. A 9-5 job can be more brutal than any war. Billions of casualties every day. BILLIONS! Can you imagine that, billions dying the same death every day and all that for nothing? And all that repeating the next day and the next and the next. What can be more brutal than that! At least war doesn’t take that long to end you, and it has got a much better flavor. I heard that nothing good ever comes out of a war. It’s true. Nothing good comes out of a 9-5 job either. That’s my goddamn truth. Everyday brutality is something quite personal. It can take any form. For me, it’s my 9-5 job. For others, it might be something else. But that brutality is there in some form. You can see it clearly in their faces, in the ways they fail to laugh with all their heart. So much fear. So much spite for one another. So much good and mad and all that down the shithole without anybody noticing. I am a little different and completely fucked up. I have got these damned eyes and this damned brain and I can see it all. Some motherfucker rang my doorbell again. Must be the neighbors’ kids. Someday I will fit a bomb there. Someday. The rain seems to have stopped. Yeah, it rained like hell this evening, all that rainwater filling the belly of this earth. There could be some other earth somewhere, surviving on sulfur, on peroxides, on the most poisonous of the poisons. Out of nowhere, I begin to think about such an alternative earth. No, I am not getting anywhere. I will die right here with my beer and my cigarettes and my mad heroes and mad artists. That will be my end and it won’t be that bad and I do not know whether to feel happy or sad about it..

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  • Thought about your ass in my hands.

    Some cool guitar acoustics playing on my speakers. Another day. Stayed in bed until noon. Made love to you. Got up. Brushed my teeth. Threw everything out of my fridge and into the trash can. Kept the door closed. I am the biggest criminal. I am the violation, the wound, the biggest crack in this earth. I am the one who gets killed. Sat in my chair, turned on my laptop, thought about lighting a cigarette, thought about your ass in my hands again and again. Lit a cigarette and smoked and thought about your ass in my hands all through the noon. Turned of the speakers, left my chair and got in bed again.

    Finally got up from bed at five in the evening. Took bath. Played some guitar acoustics again. Sat in my chair. Lit another cigarette and smoked Looked outside the window. The same old leaves hanging down the same old branches. The same old cloudless sky. The same old sound of the rustling of leaves. Ache in my eyes. Maybe it’s from the cigarette smoke. Maybe it’s from something else. All I know is that it’s there.

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  • Somewhat like the blues.

    Some electronic blues on my speakers. Let’s see what these new fuckers have to offer. First song finished. Next. Next. Next. Next. Next. It’s good but not good enough. Not as good as the old blues. But that’s how modern sadness is, I guess. Something only half felt or felt not at all but spoken about twice as much. Something only wading on the surface, but not ready to plunge all the way down. Also, all their music sounds the same. Which makes me think, how can two people feel sad in the same way? The idea baffles me. Have they started copying each other’s emotions as well. Crazy! This music only sounds somewhat like the blues but it’s really not the blues. Anyways, I am nobody to criticize. I am no critic. Maybe this music will sound better to me on some other day, at some other time, when I am in some other mood. Maybe. I will listen to some more. Nothing better to do.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.