Decline to Nowhere

What was I doing last Friday? Coming home to you for the last time. Dreading the day I would leave you forever. And now I'm in this cursed place.

I hate it here. Everything is so far in Jakarta. A centralized country with nothing left for anyone living far from the capital city. I don't know anyone. I don't remember the streets. I don't even know their names. At night I stare at the empty lot outside my large window — oval stones at the ground, a wall with shades of white and gray, a part of the messy roof.

All I keep I will trade to have you back. Only you understand. No one else will. I won't talk to anyone, ever. No one can feel what I feel. Everyone is fake.

I miss your clean, lavish water. I miss your leaking ceiling. I miss going up to your roof when everyone else was asleep. There is no staircase in this unfriendly house. Nothing to cherish. Nothing to come home to. Nothing to contemplate. Nothing to cry for. Nothing in this nowhere. Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

Remember us, house.

Friday, July 27, 2012, 9:23 PM

Rain in July

Nature coughs,

misreading her calendar again,

and so it rains in Jakarta's July.

Your slates of roof cry

their recondite tears.

Acidic drops on our food,

as if your solemn oxidation

were saying how much

you loathe this separation of trust,

of us. Forgive our misdoing, house,

for we are the unemotional.

Phlegmatic phlegm fails to reunite

our legacy. There is no new moon,

no more longing under your four AM sky.

How do you say goodbye

to something so familiar

that sadness feels like insincerity?

We wrap memories in black plastic bags

— each winding a faithless motive.

A deadline to furnish. Ignorance,

reconstructing our anatomy,

renders us untrue.

The thickness of our blood

blander than water.

Sunday, July 22, 2012, 10:42 – 11:16 PM

Goodbye, Dead Kittens

You smell like chicken broth

and what's left of our old love.

Everything I treasure must die.

Those motes of dust on your left,

like a prehistoric protozoan

forsaken by its colony to withstand

the turning of the Universe.

My irregular stains on your skeleton.

With a sense of urgency,

nothing can hurt me any longer.

I savor sorrow for tomorrow —

when we are apart.

Reserve Death for me, sweetness.

I only wish to lie forever your child

in this embryonic twist, ingesting

your delinquent nourishment.

Was I not your baby?

One that kept falling

in her restless tiny slumber

to kiss your linoleum feet.

There is no one to hold but you.

No one to contain me —

my madness and misery.

Fresh blood seems pretty on my palm

when I am leaving you

and your unrivaled fidelity.

I am the betrayer.

Sunday, July 22, 2012, 8:59 – 9:36 PM

Mean

Four artless eyes inquiring,

"Can you hear us?"

Their calculation wavers

between anxiety and answers.

I am swallowing my tears —

not for the sake of our last night together,

our last goodbye,

but because I am mean.

Funny how sentiments somehow

turn to sediment. Shutting myself up,

not a word of rejoinder, but vacating

everyone and everything

as ire blossoms inside. Its tendrils

like slime curling and hurling

a million of mites raking my aggression.

I cannot save my children,

even when they are not mine.

I cannot invest enough sympathy,

not after misfortune started stalking me.

When people speak, I shall be silence.

We are leaving our peaceful soil,

my dearest. Soon your demise.

My planet is now Mars;

I am learning how to fly.

Will you remember us

in your underground dormancy?

Our thirty-one years, eight months,

and twenty-five days.

Sunday, July 22, 2012, 8:08 – 8:42 PM

Three of Swords

Give me worries, pen, and paper

My night begins outside your womb

With what — I do not know

An empty floor missing its occupants,

those worker bees

Arabic verses droning

from an imaginary mouth nearby

Like a play's change of scene,

bright lights replace dim whims

I am lost

Inside a train station

as old as Dutch colonialization,

everyone collides —

North versus South, lovers everywhere

Too unaware of unhappiness,

they float in soap bubbles

I am one of the homeless: a vagabond

running to the end of the world

A wind-up toy. My gaze a qualia,

lowering to indifference

Loquacious competitions,

even after dark

When will they ever stop?

Whiteness bewitches me: I step inside

Locked in space. Coldness

coming to a halt in an intersection

of intangible orange

Rush hour is the Devil's dance

I am coming home to you

for the last time, lover

Friday, July 20, 2012, 11:32 PM –
Saturday, July 21, 2012, 12:11 AM
Three of swords is from a tarot card suit.

Lipstick

I render my lips reddest

to kiss your unsuspecting cheek

a stain of true love

pouting all the while

Consider it a memorial

a woman's territorial stamp

(madness as it sounds)

You walk in maturity's path

stronger than your age

with my lipstick caressing you

for I am yours

without an atom of doubt

Emollient hands

and their triumph over time

forever waiting to hold yours

And when they meet,

it is home we find

Like reliving all the lifetimes

we passed, searching

without the other half

Two hearts choke in fright

Its simplicity, natural proclivity

At the same time

deafening without a sound

Yes, I am talking to you:

you fragile tranquil child,

one I cannot nominate

for the sake of friendship,

whose name I cite in three

This morning, after another sign

Repressed subconscious shouting

your holographic virtuality

transporting us to where we are:

unresolved conflict

          and selfish ideals

I shall not let you go

So close, so close we are

Won't you come

with me to Death, child?

Tuesday, July 17, 2012, 9:40 – 10:34 PM

Teacher

Monday makes me a traitor

She confiscates my Muse

promising worldly pleasures

of crimes, commuting, congestion

Sprinkle some counterfeit conversations

and I am whole: Today I am a teacher

(one fancy word to call an idler!)

As the roosters riot, they reinstate

my rock-and-roll alarm —

thus I wake where the dark rises

Milky Way distends between violet and indigo

The crescent moon flirts far up with dainty stars

in a ghostly naturalist's artwork

A teacher is more punctual than the sun

Bear sixty minutes and roll the game of pretense

racing each morn with other sentient horses

Worries dangling within, I cannot romanticize

Daze, demands, reluctance —

pulling the strings of their puppetry

My doing, my doom: money my God

A wrench with the stench of garlic in her lexicon

juicier than a poisoned apple; redder than lust

Monday, July 16, 2012, 7:07 AM –

Tuesday, July 17, 2012, 10:18 AM

Destination: Lost

Trains —

first to Kampung Bandan

second to Bogor

and third to Tanah Abang

forty minutes of delusion

Sitting alone, lonely,

worried to sick that the waves

of electric rails

would swallow me whole

Frozen cream their fortress

inside silvery tins as long as history

Motion sickness coaxed me

to peer as an eight-year-old orphan

reaching for no one

but the bleeping darkness

glitched by rows of neon lights

Steel dragons stealing the silence

slicing Jakarta into stations with

eyes in their forgiving windows

Then I got off at Death

perhaps a league near Palmerah

when downpours writhed in wrath

whetting my head with foulness

my books with grimness

into a blue bus, a red bus

walking to the house I loved most

where I tossed half of my heart

to the sharks in the gutter

Sunday, July 15, 2012, 6:23 PM – 7:12 PM

The Forbidden

A thousand times

you raped me in my memory

naming me yours,

licking my face as your vocation

Blood rushing to one tendency,

callous hardening, friction and force

thrusting in a volcanic eruption

Fury flushed your face

and your arms caging me

in their uncouth masculinity

— lonesome as they were

A snake's hiss creeping

inside your unholy tongue:

acerbic vocality greater than mine

versifying hardcore poetry

Red hot dimness our sun

flickering when you cited

mine, mine, mine

How many more?

As long as it takes, you said

Sadism spurred

your diverse experiments,

each becoming more vulgar

I was your masochistic toy

coerced into this

fictional account called love

Sunday, July 15, 2012, 4:47 – 5:41 PM

Pet Harlot

Like Jesus,

I, too, keep a redheaded pet harlot

Alone and abandoned,
she seduced me
alongside the dumpster

I passed on my way to work

Dewy drizzles drenched her delicacy

She was lace intertwined with clarity

At the tip of my fingers, lust

conjoined with desirous elements

melting from within her starry gaze

I took her home inside my bag —

her first customer

The softness of kitten ears on her hair

and her bewildered chameleon eyes

She's like Heaven without God

Her twinkling tongue,

like chocolate chip cookies

crushed between my teeth —

better than self-inflicted wounds

in my suicidal fantasy

When we ignite,

I show her where to touch

My hands tracing the roundness

of her bare breasts, starving for ice

in the lubricated pinkness of her purity
where we sigh and we scream 

and the rest of our Sapphic play
— wouldn't you like to know?

Sunday, July 15, 2012, 2:23 – 3:12 PM
After Anne Sexton's poem "Jesus Raises Up the Harlot".

Dead

When a writer stops writing,

she becomes everyone else

who doesn't write:

a teacher, a commuter,

a wage slave,

a crazy cat lady, a lunatic.

A hermit

with her lips sewn shut

where no words spill out.

She shouts inside her mind

but talks to no one.

Not the moon

that is her confidante,

nor the house

that is her mother.

Conversations make no sense.

Her senses nullify.

Tears may speak to one another;

they moisten her aloneness.

Loneliness her lullaby

sipped by the yellowness

of four aging walls.

And she cries she cries she cries.

Not knowing

whether night is nigh

or morning malingers.

Filth in her dreams,

filth in her tongue.

Life is dead. So is she.

Sunday, July 15, 2012, 11:54 AM – 12:16 PM

You'll Be a Brave Heart; I'll Be a Lion's Roar

Play happy. People like others who always look happy. And there it is: my automatic tears.

I knew working farther would bring more problems: longer commute, tiredness, less time to write and clean our room and tend the kittens. I accepted to teach till the end of July to create a memory of coming home to you. I want to remember you as the only destination for consolation.

Twenty-seventh. I want to die. Can I die with you when they demolish you? Let me die with you. Bury me with the dead kittens and the bunny and the turtles. Dead dead dead. So soothing just like dying.

Your love is like a drug I am addicted to.

You are my Wednesday. My worry. My weather. I have nowhere else to go to but you. People only want what they want. When I want only you. You you you. I want you to be my coffin. My forever. We are two halves of one heart. I am the ether; you are the ore.

It was you who loved me most. The one who knew how to love me the way I wanted to, the way I needed to. My true love. The boy in the hospital, my high school classmate. I know no one else who will love me the way you always love me throughout my loveless life. People are afraid of the dead. And the sad disgust them as much. I am both.

No one is there to understand. People are dumb as toads. What is wrong with them? Their untrained reading comprehension hampers them to internalize the emotions I embedded in between my lies. Too unfeeling to galvanize, they failed to catch my frequency. I am left with talking to myself and the occasional half-moon shining far above your mossy roof.

Most sickeningly, these people think I am too sentimental, dramatic, babyish, hyperbolic, and unrealistic. I can never be myself talking to anyone. Everyone lacks the intensity I crave. Not enough emotions. Elaboration is extinct in their mind.

Perhaps I will go blind if I cry all the time. Perhaps someone will finally love me and my blindness. Deprived of my essential sense, I shall sit in your corner like a heap of misery.

Where is their heart?

Wednesday, July 11, 2012, 3:06 PM –
Friday, July 13, 2012, 4:18 AM
You'll be a brave heart; I'll be a lion's roar is from Darren Hayes's song "Don't Give Up".

Wolf Bait

If life were a supermarket,

I would be stacked with the others

in the farmost aisle labeled rejected,

defected, discarded, unwanted,

disqualified, useless, hopeless,

unfit for life, the dead.

At times, you could hear sobs,

mostly when no one was around.

But throughout the numbered days,

you would only hear

                 the tap of my typing,

each stroke whinier than before.

Whine-whine-whine. Divine.

And by the end of each month, we,

the forgotten, would be wolf bait.

Shipped to a factory just outside

the town, where no one bothered.

Drugged to death, compliant, we

slunk into an achromatic slumber,

dreaming in black and white.

All the while —

hygienically processed,

our remains

into the barrels of goodness:

flesh, bones, and blood untouched,

purer than a vampire's venom —

fed to the wolves, put to good use.

Their hunger our savior.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012, 4:29 – 5:01 PM

Spoilt Brat

the money i spent on tuesday, july 10, 2012:

morning taxi fare to work $4
lunch (rice, fish, tempe, vegetable soup, iced tea) $1
afternoon taxi fare from work to a mall $3.4
bajaj fare to home $1.6

shopping loot (in chronological order):

red knitted cardigan $5.6
purple knitted poncho $5.6
gray knitted top $5.6
pink bohemian skirt $10
mini cotton shorts (which turn out to be TOO short) $4.6
long red skirt $14.5
white blouse $12.6
black denim wedges $10
red flat shoes $9.6
pink lipstick $3.8
black eye shadow $3.3
eye shadow brush $1

total expenditure for a day $96.2
money earned from teaching 7.5 hours in one day $120

an average indonesian lifestyle (say, a college graduate working as an english teacher) is very cheap when converted to american dollars. but also note that i always choose things that are on sale or originally cheap cause i don't need expensive brands.

another fact: not all indonesians make $120 a day. that's quite a lot for some people here. as a comparison, my mom used to work as a state schoolteacher and she made $400 a month. my dad works as an engineer for a small consulting firm and he earns $750 per month. my friend who is a freelance researcher for marketing companies can make $1500 per month.

but even if i get more salary than average, i don't always work five days a week. and i still save most of it for my grad-school plan. that would be about $4000 to $5000 for a master's degree in literature (which is one of the cheapest majors).

still want to buy...
dorothy of oz red shoes (with heels)
masculine silver ring (so i can look like a punk teacher)
flowery hairclips
some black skirts
a black turtleneck top
that orange knitted sweater i forgot to buy!
usb modem for when i move to another house at the end of july
face brush
extra-chaste virgin condoms (because i just LOVE sex!!!@#$%^*)

too tired to search for all those yesterday, so i might go to a mall again this week if i have the energy. asking my dad to drive me there cause i'm such a spoilt brat.

red shoes are so addictive.

Aku Cinta Dia

part-time english teacher
part-time crazy cat lady
the poet's dead

to annoy you,
and to humor my rainbow-dress obsession,
please gape
at this super-pretty summer dress
that i covet so

SOMEBODY BUY ME THAT DAMN DRESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i stole the picture
from some spanish fashion retailer
on the internet

since...
my indonesian bank urged me NOT
to shop online with a credit card
(for its insanely high risk of indonesian hackers),
i canceled my credit card application

buy me that dress for my birthday today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


now, an indonesian translation quiz:

what is the english equivalent of the title of this post?
why did i choose that title?

do not cheat (i can tell)
do not use any translator
do not ask anyone
use your own linguistic instinct
you can only answer if
you are not a speaker of indonesian

first comment with the right answers
will get a virtual french-kiss <3



tuesday, july 10, 2012, 10:37 p.m.
dress by juice

Black Fetish

How beauteous is your black hair

in its criminal artistry —

How much it reminds me

of our long-winding misery

The way you keep it a promise,

a romantic act in your premise

like a revolutionary sun whose

radiation I long to re-contract

A lustrous piece of art,

a debacle in its honorless flight

How many phrasal analogies

must I define to claim my right?

Your cerulean ideals, however,

grow cold, losing their context

after too many second-thoughts

that you dub to be my fault

To and fro, we go,

each minding our separate flow

No more of our endless nights

Now blackness rings with fright

A woman,

no matter in which dye,

is ravenously beautiful to men

for all men are blind,

tasteless as a mouse

Monday, July 2, 2012, 10:40 AM –

Monday, July 9, 2012, 5:05 AM

There Is No Life

Half of my heart,

Today I am leaving you again

for homesickness

Twenty-seventh is near,

closer than a whisper's ear

Forgive me — I did not know

It is light darkness my vindication

— purposeful sacrifice

Busying to forget the tears

Dragging my steps through

your door, where there is no evil,

into the wilderness beyond us

That big bothersome highway:

the real world

I have been living

inside your dream for too long

that the treacherous Fate

insists to wake you up

Suck me in —

Bury me with the poets

inside your tree, pass

the threshold of our tragedy

Without you, there is no life

Monday, July 9, 2012, 2:18 – 2:46 AM

Aged

Some bodies precede

their expiry date, like mine

Trapped in time, I stay young

Youth is the Devil's sign

You are too remote for your race

when elimination of passion

simply transports you to

an extra day, diluted as any other

You are too outgrown for your size

when mental damage seems like fun

Nothing is able to destruct you

A mind too demolished to drain

You are too tired of this Earth

when neither love nor lust

can extrapolate the value of

your faculties: Your excerpt denies

You are too old for your body

when you wake after each dream

and you pray:

Let me die today

Let me die tomorrow

Let death sink faster,

faster than my sorrow

Sunday, July 8, 2012, 6:04 – 11:56 AM

More Foolish Than Folly

Antimony, because

esoteric queerness conquers

my so-called common sense

I am a snowball made in China

That bulk you name your heart?

                     A werewolf

Stringent as I mop these tiles

to steer clear of transgressions,

the decay blooms

like little flowers with eclectic

hues unnamable to humankind

Poetics slips swifter

than a cockroach's carcass

taxying on a leisure trip down

the blue plastic pail — and

this is where the Muse quits

Effrontery, my dear, certifies

Catch it quick; catch it like a fly

Blabber much while you can

Confuse the masses and

cleverly call it "anarchy"

Cunning is always in fashion

Sunday, July 8, 2012, 9:48 – 10:32 AM

Stolen Wings

Sparrow, sparrow,

come down to my lair

Let me pinion your restive wings,

one by one, till you are done

I shall weave them into my own,

each feather sewn to my back

with spider's string

I shall swallow your song

when morrow migrates me

to a monastery

to renew my poetic license

and the words fly,

right above you, hovering

into the blue. These words

that you gobble each day —

these words that you chew

without stopping —

you throw them away,

without delay

for my words are wrinkly

Old as a holy page,

they are my own mistake,

a product of a plagiarist,

of heeding all the wrong songs

Won't you lend me,

lend me your misery?

Sunday, July 8, 2012, 2:47 – 5:29 AM

Devil's Remedy

Why, Mother?

Because your daughters

will never replace your only son?

Because he needs you

the way she and I never do?

Because you are too pretty

to sever a family?

Because silence sounds better

than these screams?

You will not feel until

the weight crushes your skull

the fist dents your ribs and

the kick snaps your spine

Until blood runs down your flesh,

you will never empathize

Soon, there shall be no envy

No more of your precious son,

but two ugly daughters

— one of them a murderer

When the Devil delivered him,

he created me, too

Into your meek milky arms,

I was born a murderer

to cure evil with evil

Sunday, July 8, 2012, 3:06 – 3:37 AM

Selected Sentiments

Your truth sums up convenience.

When it pangs and it piques,

it knows the nearest exit by heart.

Isn't it lovely? Selected sentiments,

like poems, portray the agreeable.

Never the unwanted, the unlovable.

Happy thoughts pickled in poetry,

ruddier than a clown's smile,

twice more reassuring.

Clowns swear smiles as red as mine,

but theirs are eternal, painted.

I dabbled mine as a mask of age.

Something to let you see that

you cannot reach me.

You cannot touch me.

You cannot have me.

You cannot.

I am the unthinkable: that thing

you are too afraid to read alone.

Your hypocrisy writes in anagrams.

Rearranging  servility into

"I am the enemy."

What lies have I not heard?

What doublespeak have I not

dared to decipher? Not yours.

Not once they are ever yours.

As night laments, my soul stale

in the kiss of death-infested

breeze. Isn't it lovely?

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 11:22 PM –

Sunday, July 8, 2012, 12:01 AM

Cheap

You were the first I ran to when things choked. Remember the day I had to substitute to teach seven classes in a high school? Nervous. Tensed. Petrified. I wrote you an email. It was my way of trying to calm myself. You used to be so kind, so comforting. The solace I sought.

You never replied. Not a word. No consolation. And you sold empathy for others. You wrote me a promise — that I could always lean on you. That you would be there for me when I needed you. But I don't need to rely on someone unreliable. I don't want to have hopes only to wait for an answer that never comes. I thought I found a friend, but I was wrong. I harbor too much hatred to be likeable.

So, I deliberately erased the email and its echo of emptiness. Deleting and blocking all of you. I'm glad you never replied. It recited the truth I have learnt since I was five: No one cares. No one will be there to catch my fall. Alone and alone and alone I shall be. Fighting for freedom. Squandering in seclusion.

People and their lies. They never stop. Emotional dependence is an unnecessary weakness too feeble for my fate. It hinders me from exerting strength and self-reliance. I will be there for myself. No one else will.

Everyone is busy investing cheap words, promoting false friendship. Yours are the cheapest.

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 2:27 – 3:00 PM

Killer with a Cause

The psycho has done it again.

My sister just told me that the psycho hit her eye, hard, till it bruised. Her doctor suggested reporting him to the police since that is considered a crime — domestic violence. But as always, my mother disagreed. Typical her. Weak and unfair. Accepting the insanity of her son without being able to protect her daughters.

I'm not sure about the details of what and why the hitting happened. My sister only said the psycho refused to go to my grandmother's house (my grandmother called his sons terrorists — for a good reason — and ever since, he hates her).

With his symptoms of egomania, the psycho angers easily. He demands everyone to accept his view. I'm not surprised that he went crazy when something does not go according to his plan. I witnessed so many incidents like this, with me as his target of brutality. But I haven't asked for more elaboration from my sister, to prevent unwanted drama.

If I had been there at the scene, I would have hit him harder, blinding him, crushing his skull if I must. I'm not afraid of killing someone for self-defense, or for defending someone else. He has been victimizing everyone in the family for too long. Worse comes to worst, he trains his stupid sons to follow his psychotic path. Someone must end his wrongdoings. If I must do it, so I will.

The only one he has never beaten is my mother, and this is just another of his tricks. My mother is easily controlled. She condones his sadistic outbursts for I don't know what reason. Weakness, I assume. And so, he is afraid that she will turn against him if he harms her. Without her, my father would have kicked him out of the house in 2002.

Because my mother has never experienced his savagery, she doesn't know how traumatic the impact is. It's more psychologically burdensome than it hurts physically. This is why violence is wrong.

Nonetheless, I will still fight violence with extra violence. When someone injures me, it's going to be teeth for a tooth. This is survival. I'm not backing off. Realize that there is always a justification for my belligerence. I shall be a killer with a cause.

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 1:09 – 1:51 PM

Liquid Glass

Miss me as I miss you

so when you fall,

you would fall into my arms,

insensate in their wait,

locking you like a stone

The warmth of my embrace

dead as a fish consuming

mercurial toxicity, calling

from behind the liquid glass

you stare into

What do you see?

That I am prettier than

quicksilver — metallic truth

with tears in its periphery

A sidewalk with no end

Love me

the way I never love you

since we pose no obligations

No bonds to come home to

A stranger once more

We are each other's due

with no past to call our own

In the end, gravity breaks

It wrecks in a sonata

of distrust

where you and I

reach our long-awaited stop,

wordless with equal weight:

an equilibrium

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 9:50 AM – 12:01 PM

Wolves and Witches

Night impregnated Mother Earth,

thus wolves and witches came to be

Each grave is the will of a wolf

Ghostly whiteness at first, then

shapeshifting into slurred incivility

Every strand uncouth,

like walking through a dream

that you can never shake, or wake

Amorphous beasts in packs

An occasional soloist

protruding viscous beauty

Their carnivorous appetite

still tenderer than the witches'

Witches hang down

from the cemetery's oldest trees,

slithering without being seen

Only their hiss: a scorpion's sting

Sometimes they whisper offerings

to pitiful stray souls without a home

Some luck, some love, some lime

But a witch's experiment

tends to backfire, unaccountable

Be wary — for a witch

is much trickier than the wolves

Monday, July 2, 2012, 10:37 AM –

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 4:48 AM

Yes/No/Maybe

Logic is dead;

it only speaks yes/no/maybe.

Everyone is the same —

uttering vanity,

line after repeated line,

like herds of teenage sheep.

A click is much easier than a word.

A word than a complete sentence.

Flip — snap — toss. No moss.

Experts are only playback parrots,

a megaphone for their employers,

activists for their own subjectivity.

No, no. It is not biased if it serves

the function of the majority,

and the majority means "us".

Validity is analogous to fame,

or more precisely, controversy.

Who's goaded now?

Oh, independence.

Oh, autonomy.

What about that integrity

you buried under toxic waste?

The length of your perspective

extends to your country's border.

Outside is another world.

Friday, May 25, 2012, 5:18 PM –

Saturday, July 7, 2012, 4:35 AM

Squanderer in Seclusion

I was born madness

First and foremost: a torturer

My story is not your composition

Confusable, of questionable

quackery — yet, I feel fine

The mother cat meows

begging for commission —

while I have none!

Her kitten mimics an ultrasonic cry

calling with its soft, shrilly pitch

The two a statute: an implorer

You were looking for something,

weren't you, doll?

Well, there is nothing here

Nothing for you

Would five years be good enough

to warrant the death of you?

Oh, you fancy foreigners

with your beach houses

and your summer cottages!

What do you know about lives

outside your comfort clique?

Your martyrdom

ain't seen nothing, yet

Not even when you would be

much obliged to trade your life

to save the woman you love

For Death lurks

behind every little thing,

be it dainty or damned —

including the cat and her kitten

whose lives mean nothing at all

Through my hands,

Death speaks and strangles

I —

I sleep it off

I mean nothing at all

Friday, June 29, 2012, 10:50 AM –

Friday, July 6, 2012, 10:25 AM

Seven Shades of Sunlight

House,

I love you most

when you are drenched

in enigmatic rays

of sentimental morning light.

Picturesque

in your curtain-clad composure,

delectable as a fair maiden

braiding her long lavish locks

inside a summer sorrow.

Your people unaware

of your reflective rumination —

I, alone inhaling

your fuchsia windiness.

You speak to me

in your quaint activity.

Childhood stories

no one else knows but us.

You and I.

Our mutual understanding

they cut away too soon.

Your death a transaction.

Like any other, there appears

no happy ending to our tale.

I am blind in submission,

loving you still till

all my tears run dry.

Thursday, July 5, 2012, 10:31 – 11:02 AM

Run, Wolf. Run.

The wolf is her brother.

Outside the woods,

they grow up together —

inseparable friends. But

one morn, more mysterious

than the origin of mankind,

evil saturates his manner.

The wolf's envy

swells larger than his body.

His jealousy cuts her

piece by little piece:

mentally, physically.

Intentionally.

Alone the girl endures —

their parents negligent.

It is her fault

for being the unfit she is.

His rivalry snarls:

Never

shall I let Mother love you.

Murderous claws aiming

to maim her. Escalating

damage sprouts

her insanity

madder than his lunacy.

His unjustifiable aggression

is never her cue.

Revenge resonated,

she brandishes

the nearest knife to his neck:

Hurt me again

and I will kill you.

Her eyes red with wrath.

Comes the day Mother sends her

to Grandmother's house —

the wolf fosters succulent grudge,

fangs moldy with enmity.

Mother always chooses her, not him.

He readies himself for the finale,

stalking throughout her path.

Ill atmosphere thickens,

warning her from every angle.

Calm in her breadbasket is

the sharpest blade:

hungry for blood.

There will be blood.

This time, it is the wolf's.

Sunday, September 25, 2011, 10:47 AM –

Thursday, July 5, 2012, 9:38 AM