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RobinHoodSaved
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read my profile
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Name: arian
Country: Saint Vincent
Birthday: 9/26/1987
Gender: Male
Interests: You are my hitler, now dominate me.
Expertise: babysitting, prancing, frolicking in the woods, being nude, and eating babies.
Occupation: Consulting
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  OnceThenThrice
Member Since:
4/4/2004
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An extra comment, were myspace not so unreliable:
Sorry, just came across these words in my learning:
edacious: given to
eating
crapulous: sick from, or marked by, excessive drinking
Hogmanay:
the name, in Scotland, for the last day of the year.
kobold: a kind of
domestic spirit in German mythology.
avoirdupois: weight; heaviness
Oh, and pussit(sp, but this is how it's pronounced) is squid in
Tagalog...and I love pussit balls. Had some last night in fact. You should try
some!
Halo-halo time.
And the message:
Well, basically, I only have 20 minutes a time with the phonecard...so will only try to call you later today, or tomorrow. But will definitely call on New Years. I had more to say, but frustration and hunger have the better of me...Sorry! Well, enjoy yourself, my lady.
En aeternum,
your gentleman, Arian Cato.
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| I eat cake for breakfast and dinner, and rice in between. It is a horrid affair. I believe roundness was a sign of wealth. I do know that it is a sign of impoverished moments, destitute of academy or any sort of progress, besides in corpulent expansion. When outside, or above, the kitchen, the Beatles are unattended and the bazookas are loaded. There are poisons everywhere, fumes and grape spirits, all of which are included in the Filipino prize package of vacation. Not saying the land is benighted or rampant with savagery, but rather it is animated by a different, more instinctual, voce. I have always believed relaxing was the epitome of human endeavor and willfocus - when one is able to fully relax, one is at home, happy. I do fear the ramifications of this claim, and so will clarify in billet-doux:
I am uninhibited here, and so too am I reposed, relaxed. It is quite merriful here among the Agoncillos, meaning I am happy. This does not, sadly, imply my home is here among my Filipino kin. It does however, happily and fortunately, mean it is there in the States, in California, near your home and in between all of my transitory friends. I am froth here in Rosario, but froth from the smile of being home with you. Were an escape possible from this stifling paradise, I would gladly make it. But alas, now both Time and Space are against me. I will make arms then, and bare the moment, suspend it with all my shoulders and being, making way for Time to pass beneath as if a trolly of glee passing under a bridge, a bridge to California which I alone hold. It is a lot warmer than I had anticipated - I prepared the hiatus with two accompanying coats, one being a hoodie - and yet, it is a lot colder than I had expected as well. When the air is dull, as it often is in this temperate atmosphere, I can't help but feel there is something missing in my lungs, in my eyes, on my lips. It is a void I cannot excuse; it scooters along side me with a gait of the Past. When I return, it will be my first New Year's resolution to fill that gap, to entangle you and fill the garden with your lambence: multifarious colors enough to replace the rainbow and precede the rains.
Time's up. I remain in favor of the next time I will be able to be with you, whether in writing, speech, or person. You govern me, Joy, and I hope to do good. Not to sound too melodramatic!
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| 11.13.06 – Song to the Zephyr: As long as Time permits me I will speak of a land long forgotten and acred in the hairs of that monstrous charm of Industry. I will sew a banner of song over our heads in halo of that patient spirit we often knew as Humanity, that derelicted zephyr Who once passed through the valleys of our lungs with every scope of that harvestful Dawn splayed inside the innermost chamber of man's ruin (shades of his depths colored Hopeful). I sing of that stubbed underdog whose tail is higher than the heavens yet whose head is bowed in sacrifice to the Knight above whose stars and hues illuminate an eon of distances yet to cradle the infant eyes of that age-old song which permits me to weave, as It sees fit, the spirit of Man a new moment in Time. I sing glory to that which sings in an objective eye the creases and aberrations, motifs and dissonance, of the music sheets that man so far has had the sense to pay attention in this stay among the living – glory to the living I sing! Glory to those who hear in space and time! Glory is that which is here: Glory, the mind. (c) Arian Cato | | |
| 11.8.06 - Grandfather Clock:
My grandfather clock is waving at me
as I read my age in the mirror across
picking out the grey hairs
and ironing the wrinkles
finetuning vocal chords while
my grandfather clock is waving at me
scoping the remaining strands of memory
on an unhealthy head of hair
and a whim of machismo,
shaving cheeks in the face
of mythology, fancying the prophesized
spurt of facial masculinity,
all the moment singing ‘Dionysus’
“Where are you?
I have been nicest while
my grandfather clock is waving at me
sacrificing you doves and devices
of control to this fever-
nay, Kafkaesque trial of thieving
the castle of adolescence and leaving America
to root tarantula metamorphosis
around the blades of my mouth,
harvesting jaw guards
starting faux darts
charging at the baby bard
of my bear rearing my heart
to hearing my bearings aren’t too far
from the stars so my hopes can take flight
and grab rope uncharred from so close
and back home I’ll clothe a coat
of manhood, excuse me I mean grizzly -
no, goathood - to cloak my real age
to look harder, wiser, and old enough to date her
and it’s so close, but dammit I wish
it was closer, at least as close as Socal
so I could just birth that bear
in a little over eight hours in a carâ€
and if more, at least as close as
my grandfather clock that’s waving at me
singing my anthem ‘Dionysus’ to no one
in particular but myself
asking “Why haven’t I been graced with the same
rugged wilderness my classmates have tamed?â€
as I note the acne scarf and jutting Adam’s apple’s
familiarity as stranger but
as companion, clusters of alien germs
infer J. Alfred Prufrock
in more ways Aesop can discern,
that there are too many creeks
and crevices to read between
my grandfather clock waving at me
and every week they get deeper
until one day - probably tomorrow -
I’ll see only a relief painting and as
my grandfather clock waves at me
I’ll wonder where did the artist go
and why didn’t he plan an oak forest
for symmetry of the subject’s age,
but ultimately, I’ll know it isn’t where,
but why, did he go when
there is so much to finish.
My grandfather clock is waving at me
with temper taut arms golden
from the grand arc of time
and hands hugging the rim
as if it were a steering wheel
driving me insane until
I am dead tired of
my grandfather clock waving at me.
© Arian Cato
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| 4.30.06 - 11.6.06 – American Manifesto:
This world is too ideal, with its ignorant ghosts,
dead rappers and heroes, and infallible beauty,
that I often forget which memory was reality
and which is fantastic rebel of Thanatos –
both unable to die, but the latter with a cause.
This world is too ideal, with its ornamental blades,
origami flowers, the West, and Saki stomachs,
that I often misplace my helping hand, can never quite put my finger on it,
and have a hunch that: this dance of life is a masquerade,
and my I.D. was in the back pocket lost in the trade.
Wearing either each an act, but the latter the only charade.
This world is too ideal, with its distressed lovers,
absinthe, controversial babies, and television,
that I often question answers but never answer questions
as if their motives were zephyr and mine were martyr –
there's will birth and pass away while mine will live on forever.
This world is too ideal, with its natural selection,
poets and revolutions, religion, and America.
Too often have I been in democracy without contributing to the media.
Too often have I written about beauty to advance the government
and too often have I used four stanzas of ideals to convey the opposite intent.
(c) Arian Cato
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