Friday, July 27, 2012

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

Sunday, July 22, 2012

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


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

Saturday, July 21, 2012

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.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012


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


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

Sunday, July 15, 2012

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".


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

Friday, July 13, 2012

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".

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

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.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

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

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

Monday, July 9, 2012

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

Sunday, July 8, 2012


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

Saturday, July 7, 2012


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


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

Friday, July 6, 2012

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

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Seven Shades of Sunlight


I love you most
when you are drenched
in enigmatic rays
of sentimental morning light.
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.
Alone the girl endures —
their parents negligent.
It is her fault
for being the unfit she is.

His rivalry snarls:
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