A Dream Came True

But I have never fallen in love.
How will I know?

A dream retold:
It is spontaneity, pivotal instancy.
I see — and in a split second I feel.
No questioning, no terms or conditions, no objection.
Doubt is extinct. I am not alone.
Simplicity that does not build, does not develop.
Certainty surer than destiny — it is gravity
twice than the force, stronger than virtue.
I lose myself, balanced onto eventuality
as Time wraps us — he and I.
I need not speak, nor will he smile.
I am the prey, motionless victim — so is he.
Or, perhaps, he is the Venus flytrap;
I am limp as a docile housefly.
Luring, alluring, he stares: I may not mind.

Years passed and the shock
still hollows my chest. I seek and search —
but nothing is found. No one to recompense.
Who shall requite?

Second lucidity brings compatibility
after twelve years. It is dependence that binds
with soothing convictions
of what is incomprehensible to anyone.
Older than anything, it is genuine.
Never will it oppose. Yes and yes, a nod and embrace.
It knows without learning.

You, in so many inexplicable ways,
exude its giddy remedy.
Your faraway elusiveness its identical curiosity.
But you, ungrateful confusion,
you cruelty,
you cannot and will not contain me.
You accuse alliance: deceived,
disfigured in your disservice.
You injure trust for a selfish poise.

My dream, you are not him.



Wednesday, October 24, 2012, 3:23 PM –
Wednesday, October 31, 2012, 10:40 AM

Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely

Do I appear any better from my cheap Chinese music-phone?

Hello, James, let's make the whole Internet jealous.

I really love it when my hair is so messy cause it makes me feel like a mermaid. Call me Mermaid Mel from now on. Also notice that I almost smiled in this picture. Dumb. Smiling is forbidden. I am better with unhappiness. Besides, everyone only visits my blog to search for an Indonesian whore. Who bloody cares about reading my writing, right?

Just so you know, you idiotic perverts, I look twice prettier in person, and behave thrice meaner. You would be so intimidated that you would not have the courage to talk to me. You'll see.

Happy birthday, Mermaid Mel. Being thirty-two gives me every right to hate and curse more. And to be SO much crazier. Watch your step, boys. I take personal enjoyment in defaming and blocking anyone.



Show me the meaning of being lonely is from Backstreet Boys' song "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely".

To James

(Because Initiative Counts)

Living is the easy way out; dying is hard

To live is to dress up — a holiday from death

We frame ourselves in public televisions,

translating gestures into unspeakable moods,

recurring and concurring as the fanatics we are

Yet, how do you see —

as the honored passerby, or the admirer

gaining secrecy from inside a tree?

You wish to begin with jealousy,

sowing its corollary for a month's harvest

Behind your sunglasses, you speak; you creak

in carefulness of feminine intricacy

that I bestow to cracked fingerprints

upon a trial most painless she is suicidal

For life is ever kind,

favorable to those who linger in kindness

Their alternative love shifts between

empty and rarity — much loved am I!

Can I not jest in faint tragedy?

Can I not get tired, as they are tired of me?

Let us be frugal with words

Let me tell you a fact that is not true:

To die is twice quicker than to lie

Once you are madder than a March hare

sallying amongst obscure records,

fishing for ten thousand unheard artists —

only then, you shall find me rotting

in some virginal Bornean sea, wafting

to your drowned lad but falsely, falsely afar

Wednesday, October 24, 2012, 3:50 PM –

Saturday, October 27, 2012, 11:50 AM

Holographic Hallucinogen

Traitor,

we shall never part —

you and I

Lights lengthen over the stream,

casting creamy paste of prejudice —

shimmery, shimmery —

I thought it was the Moon —

                                    but no

She is royalty: all pride,

too haughty to level down

in the gutter with the rest of us

The pond is empty of perfection —

breathing dead black —

mirror that speaks without spirit,

crushing and rushing, crippling our little slum

Shops summoning, inviting money,

but the shoppers are too sleepy in our poverty

And you — where are you?

Caught in the rustling shadows

of pine needles and yellowing curls,

the disposable,

refurnishing these roads

but never brave enough to promulgate

I am tired

of trying, of crying, justifying,

of everything: Everything is wrong —

just as you are wrong

So I stay in the delusion of your illusion,

counting the steps I take into night,

singing with the dark — and you?

You never come home

Tuesday, October 9, 2012, 3:37 PM –

Sunday, October 21, 2012, 2:41 AM

After all I am alive only by accident.

steven is a no-good idiot. i don't know why i kept contacting him as recent as 1-2 weeks ago. he won't change. i talk and he responds as little as possible, almost without feelings. he offers me social pleasantry. saying he's always busy. of course he is. but when you make no time for someone, then she is not that important to you. i will never be important for anyone. not him, no one. and so, i have the need to damage my relationships. people like him teach me hate and make me feel suicidal.

i'm glad you asked about him from the poem. it gives me great satisfaction to speak ill of people behind their back. i can detach myself from everyone. and to see how much atrocity they can tolerate.



After all I am alive only by accident is from Sylvia Plath's poem "A Birthday Present".

Useless Is Life

Rainchild, is death as cold as my stare?

Work takes me around the city,

circling our campus ground

and everything we would consecrate.

Buses and trains travel with life.

Most days I imagine you sitting beside me.

My birthday comes before your burial.

We are never meant to part, are we?

They renew our private vehicle,

our ghostly chamber.

The air redecorates while sadness remains.

I see figures in black and white.

Lights wriggle and slide along a ceramic river —

bodies hunch in lethargy.

Remember our antemeridian jadedness?

We used to be human.

Thursday begins.

My spit crayon-gray — washed by disgust.

Teaching a class, then hush — a silent nothing.

It goes on and on until late afternoon.

Numbness propels as I lie on the ground:

indecisive orange mingling with brown,

gazing at the grainy ceilings,

porous in their flame-resistance.

Icy nuisance drops all over me —

stomach shrinks, cowering, glowering with fright.

A tiny machine warms my insides —

reciting an elegy to suicide.

A deck of tarot cards winking a wish

and what will mine be

as the mind submerges in hate

that echoes Steven-Steven-Steven?

Thursday, October 18, 2012, 11:47 AM – 2:15 PM

Elegy for a suicide is from John Poch's poem "Elegy for a Suicide".

How to Grow a Poet

On the first day you bring your poet home,

toss her to the darkest shade with some tea

and vanity. Let her drink in agony —

let moonbeam dwarves her soul. Unlit,

her imagination will sprout —

and chocolate — for nutrition to cite.

Say you love her time after time

till she freezes to covet you. Continue —

then, retract. Disaffect. Give her enough

rain to complain. She may become too depressed,

somewhat suicidal — let her be. It fuels more energy

for tragedy — watch her writhe and write.

Ensure the cage is not too cold or hot.

Moderate. You don't want her to melt

into nothingness. Or doubled sourness.

She may try to coax you

to set her free — but never give in.

Her words are honey; her avowal sin.

Promise her everything — variety, rosy fidelity.

Tease her with inconsistency.

Confusion may cause her clarity.

When she is a constant whiner,

challenge her with a deadline: a poem a day (or three).

She will endorse the course to conquest

and comply with the constraint.

Respond to her antisocial enmity
with disinterest. Push her to loneliness.

Most of all: Leave her alone.

As she sobs and she screams,

the elements of her sanity will begin to disintegrate.

Drive her mad —

for only the mad make the best poets.

Water your poet with febrile pain and watch her grow.

What would a poet do without her woe?

September 24, 2012, 10:26 AM –

Thursday, October 18, 2012, 10:19 AM

When I Read a Gruesome Book

its prose sums you up and harks:

You are a little part of me

and ninety-nine percent discrepancy

Oh, we are mythical pixels —

exact to our syncopal cores

So much likeness in such a baleful scale

Our equalized gambits — remember?

Crucifix against contention

Yet, you —

you and your gratification

of inexperience

of I-have-no-clue

legalized languor you placate as pride

The worsening of you

Love labels you my Poe's raven,

Norman Mailer's capital cynicism

pretending to be Jack Kerouac

Some sort of cure for boredom

But, ah, we were too raw for love

and too selfish for lies

Two ugly ducklings battling

for the graceful swan's prophecy,

sabotaging each other's soul in solar spite

Our secret hid in the Tree of Patience

(winning tastes like freedom,

thus we drained the face of victory)

— its fruits abandonment

We tested, tried, clung and renounced

when little is not enough

You were everything I want

Sunday, October 7, 2012, 10:53 PM –

Wednesday, October 17, 2012, 2:50 PM

Today, Today, Today

Five years ago

Do you remember?

We were still talking at this hour

It was Happiness, was it not?

I came home smiling (I still knew how to smile like a child)

We were only pretty when we were in love

And you were the only one in my diary

Where did it all go?

To a disillusioned state of mind

Professional Sin

I am working on truths.

Morning and its mythological calibration

that separates pulsatile quality

from the rest of the activities.

Jubilant parody of a mirage —

Ixora red and salmon,

scorching pinkness yet unharmed.

Retrospect inhales blushing night-lights —

their fluorescence forgetfully shy.

What do you call that gassy typography

trickling down and floating in its gory sound?

I may have been living in a dream —

opening my eyes to fuchsia froth, moonstruck,

breathing words in a giant absence that defines fullness.

The frosty Sun my mother —

she sends me to a symphonic school

on a glowing bus that whispers "Fur Elise".

My pen whimpers tales of suburbia on a tired notepad —

misspelling each line.

Slender fountains spritz

next to a Roman hero and his lightning horses.

I am your slushy downtown girl, sweetheart.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012, 6:33 AM – 2:22 PM

The Bane of Religion

We seek the comfort of God in unlikely traces:

the sacrament of traditions, predilections,

bodily reactions, and even illusions of power.

Mine is a hobby. A substitute for love.

It keeps me alive when Death is all I choose.

It lulls —

feeding me nectar sweeter than mother's milk,

salubrious like LSD injections.

The physique craves, raucous like stones

                                 — oh, subliminal joy!

It conditions the mind to be an avoidant. To run.

There is an order of chaos

rubbing me on all the wrong places.

There is pleasure — minus its crotch —

and there is torturous temptations.

A plane heading south without minute direction.

It journeys — from countryside to Cassiopeia

to the end of the Universe

where immortal beings crouch and

life becomes antimatter.

There is God in all of us. Mine is an insult.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012, 5:57 – 8:44 AM

What Are the Leaves Saying?

Scientist, busyness is the perfect mold

for sanity and so you shall be farther

and farther away from where I lounge.

Psychoses do not term ourselves mad —

we are dirt's dilemma, dingy little drama,

alienated by those rare breeds holding spoon and fork

beneath their chandelier practicality.

Their mouths spewing pastel alphabet soup,

scooping logic cereal,

luminous in numbers and exactness.

It is Fate's misdoing:

to separate my want from yours. We must be apart.

I, eyes shut, listening to the complaining leaves,

walk amongst fragrant Gardenia children —

their budding chalkiness my privilege.

At night we converse in versicolor classicism:

plucking some stars, drinking their gold,

vomiting romantic scorn that consumes.

                                     Our business is idleness.

Today, Jakarta's noon was windy

like your green gargoyle eyes

that thirst for convenience and keep recycling their regret.

I told autumn to bring you back to me.

Do you hear them, too?

Monday, October 15, 2012, 3:11 – 4:03 PM

What are the leaves saying is from Anne Sexton's poem collection Letters to Dr Y, verse dated May 5, 1970.

Hot Leather Haven

Death, you trap me in Trouble Town —

wanting you, wanting you,

but never nervous enough to drown

Too young, too early, too little of me

that traipses like third-world tragedy

Shall we wait for another Holy War?

Two thousands may be longer than I thought

What of it? What about half past four?

As a silvery sky smudges its blue —

I am bluish, too — silenced after

the first mossy clay becomes curmudgeon,

the lightless plot sluttish and

red windows my warden

But the mattresses — they are my clouds

my path to pretend behind the hidden pea that proves

I am your true princess: Marry me, marry me —

are these purple bruises not pretty?

Thirty-five degrees of tropic sweat

sticky between my persuasive breasts —

calling you, calling you —

My mischief evolving into a bacterium

inviting to be disinfected

with your diamond ring on my wrinkly finger

senile in its ninety-nine carats of wild gray

Monday, October 15, 2012, 9:45 – 10:36 AM

Without Being Asked

I want someone to write me a literary poem

I want someone to sing me a soulful song

I want someone to wake in the middle of a deep sleep and write me a letter because he thinks of me

I want someone to think of me — and think of me and think of me and think of me for days that he feels like he is about to go insane

I want someone to wonder about what I am doing

I want someone to spell my names right

I want someone to recall my birthdate and birth time

I want someone to know how many kittens and cats I keep, on how many mattresses I sleep

I want someone to hear my voice and replay it replay it replay it forever in his memory like a bad dream

I want someone to realize why I cry

I want someone to tolerate my violent hate

I want someone to appreciate that I read and write instead of socializing

I want someone to recite my favorite authors

I want someone to feel the strongest pain in his heart when he misses me

I want someone to recognize all my lies

I want someone to listen — really really really listen and never forget a thing

I want someone to make me feel so lucky to be alive that I would not want to die every single day

I want someone to see me and no one else

I want someone to want to talk to me because talking to me makes him feel better

I want someone to remember who I was

I want someone to call me love the way he calls you love

I want someone to read everything I write even when it is not about him

I want someone to die with me — because he has nothing more to live for

Sunday, October 14, 2012, 7:24 – 7:46 PM

There Is Nothing Left to Feel

I wrote you a book. It has all the pieces of my first blog — the ones under your broken title. Last year, or earlier this year, when I printed them and collected everything chronologically, came a feeling of loss. It was all a waste.

The first and last time I wrote you an honest letter, you read it and left the window open for thirty minutes. Then, you went to your Instant Messenger — without a word, without a sound. That was when I knew you are not the one.

You have no need to talk to me. I am just anyone and everyone: I do not matter. Not good enough to remember, nor to receive a timely response.

You chip yourself and give it away for entertainment, for feel-better adjustment. You wish to save everyone — but I do not want to be saved. How difficult is it to understand?

I never need you. You make me feel so unloved, unwanted, commonplace. I am always invisible. In the end, you are the same as everyone and anyone who left. Why would I need to rely on someone like you? You make me a social obligation — as bland as your homework, or paying the bills. My feelings deserve nothing but excuses. I have nothing left to feel.

After crying too much, I decided to die. Just something I have always wanted to do since 1999. You are one of the reasons I want to die — you know that, don't you? Your positivism disgusts me to the bones.

And there it is: my impulse to destroy.

Saturday, October 13, 2012, 9:22 – 10:00 PM

There is nothing left to feel is from Darren Hayes's song "Feel".

Queen of Hearts

If I were the Queen of Hearts,

I would slay all who broke my heart

and paint my dynasty red with blood.

I would rule ruthlessly

till my people cried ceaselessly

and the ocean glistened with their tasty tears.

Authority makes unfailing intoxication.

How fancy life must be!

Then, came Mad Hatter

(whose birth name was Steven Erik)

to pronounce:

"No, no, you are better than this!

You have so much love to give!"

The madness only spelt his title —

never damaging his mood.

In truth, he contained nothing

but self-righteousness — all egocentrism.

A giant mushroom bloomed:

the Caterpillar (also known as Cedric Jean)

was smoking heroin, blabbering in French accent,

"Have sex with me, My Queen.

I have enough love for every woman."

Apart from missing context,

his aspiration was to mate with everything that moved.

Between idealism and secondhand love?

Slaughter sounds like fun.

Thursday, October 11, 2012, 11:37 AM –

Saturday, October 13, 2012, 6:30 PM

Like You

your words are so young

so repressed, carefully-paced

They are a domesticated animal:

obedient on a leash —

serving, forgiving, with no scar

but humble hope

that draws a distance between you and my Earth

Do you reckon how cheap they are?

One day, you shall be the last one I talk to

and death bores me (as much as you do)

It has been like this in thirteen recent years

the itching to cry —

but everyone —

everyone will scorn my instability

this manic-depressive mirth my cadency

And what comes after negativity?

You are a stainless-steel-haloed evangelist

How do you compose boredom?

                                   You lack trouble

How do you think and tire me so?

                                   Move to Owl City

Does a PhD in chemical engineering require you

to theorize ennui in three lines? How elegant!

Be selfish; be unkind

I miss your phantasm —

another concentration of you

Today: make no more dissatisfaction

and no more of you

for I thrive in private consolation —

one outside your tentative reach

Let me carve a hole in you —

deny what I can do

Friday, October 12, 2012, 12:56 – 2:30 PM

Absolute Rain

Worship me:

I am the Muse of poetry

of pseudoscience that segregates

for nothing is absolute —

unless, you fail to question

Peel after peel, people pretend

to perish within

They try to magnify where I kneel —

only to find dramatized constancy

I am conclusive rain that blesses this town:

How natural it is that you miss

When I choke, I cannot fashion jealousy

but to fall and famish in rampancy

I am one to seep into soil

Season retells a pound of my nerve —

how it crawls and bawls for a remedy

I pour — like a multiverse

waiting to plough its fields of stars,

sawing moons till they bleed desperation

Earth closes and I am lavender —

the succulence of choleric water groaning

fuming till it melts bottled emotions

of lovers who are no longer argentine,

ignorant in their warlike supernova

Sunday, October 7, 2012, 9:04 PM –

Wednesday, October 10, 2012, 10:36 AM

Light-Emitting Diode

I miss you tonight — and I shall not lie.

With a promise, I gave you up —

determination made after contemplation.

You are severe stomachache: depression and dizziness.

But love, I am lonely lonely lonely. Thrice than tomorrow.

Yesterday's yellow sends me nowhere

as I keep thinking of that corner, of a dream, somewhere.

You are everywhere in every man.

Too weak I become with torment after torment.

Remember us. And come to me.

Let us meet at the end of Sun's dirty shadow —

where our gazes complete. A story without repeat.

That feeling, mind-wrecking aging.

You are a wish made out of longing. And too much dreaming.

When will we let go? How? Awake is deadly.

Too much light from the store: enchanted by your LED.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012, 12:39 AM –

Tuesday, October 9, 2012, 3:52 PM

Winter for Beginners

Our fool is a she

: decorous in her tropic turpentine

Thus morning moans

as the alarm dabbles her to dance

Bones break in impropriety —

too cold for an indecent young lady

Morbidly Monday dresses her

reimbursed in green grudge and polar flowers

The dog startles her discipline,

straying into the pathway of rum and runaway

while the glassy sky is too sexist for her

She recoils — like coins

jammed in a radio routine — its mouth wide

gaping to demobilize her trust

Oh these months reeking of debauchery!

Swallows nesting with her atop an old curse,

babbling, babbling in acrylic language

— so much recluse in a minute of pause

Amongst tree branches, she searches for life

that is not refusal nor erroneous —

those jolly birds — what are they called?

Unseen shrubbery that sings, that sings

like Spring falling in love with a bad thing

And in aloneness she revels —

some shabby motes of sunray befriend her

The buses are her sugar stepsons

Can you smell the traffic light?

Three colors

steaming with sirens then sad stories —

Monday, October 8, 2012, 11:36 AM – 9:40 PM

Thai Dragon Fruits

You are my Saturday — slight disarray

entwined in plump shadows of striped lucidity

Longitudes of folded fresh clothes, galactic

in their sweet smallness, needing to be nursed

like pale pneumoniac babies — whining,

so slick in your discourse: a medieval firefly

Sleep shatters me — everything thickens like glue

when I sniff you from the pink pores of

Thai dragon fruits — my lawless mouth pressed

on your neck, begging for its moderation

You are the naked warmth of autumn rain

staunch in your recreational outbursts

Easily, almost like insanity, I rush to reach

reality, unwrapping myself from silvery

wrinkles of tin foil that covets joy

Fondling verbs, frowning in fragments,

I am growing old — older — oldest

with indiscriminate patience that misaligns

full moon to violent imagery:

Is it Sunday I thirst?

Tangible decline to incoherence, the honor

of disentangling influence — I can run and ruin

jolts of sensuous sin, like desecrating your skin

— this sobriety of losing you

Sunday, October 7, 2012, 7:05 – 10:30 PM

Risque

He's not you, darling

He is the sound of night,

this stillness that serenades my tears

I wish he were —

with your accentuated cheer that burns the other side

so I could hold on to something real

gripping senses tight by their door

instead of crumbling —

hanging by an umbrella's hinge

Chipped each day by Desire,

                                that solutes more like Despair

At four, or five,

I watch those trains settle in their sanctuary —

situational home: so stationary, so subservient

Maneuvers waiting for their mix of emotions

Rails that branch to places unknown:

I long to embrace them in my flight —

surrender in return

To lie there surveying the milky clouds disperse

until the weight of the city irons me —

scattered in subliminal beauty —

thinking to myself:

how white is the day I decide to die, how pure,

distilled in duality — mine and theirs

Waters made me come to you —

today and tomorrow —

whenever I decimate into unfeeling bubbles that burden

hinting I have to go

If not now — when?

I want to be your risky Cinderella

untying fate in a ragged dress and brittle glass feet,

clinking imaginary bells to sedate his faculty —

and those bad dreams

Sunday, October 7, 2012, 4:50 – 5:58 PM

Pen and Paper

The idiot forgets to bring her lifesaver to work

— and work is secondary — what is she to do?

Wallow in her idiocy, or pretend to be happy?

                                   Happy as everyone can be.

Morning means fury

and all that is relevant to agony.

Why must she spin like an automatic wheel

with its automatic worry? Because she agrees.

Can she not revolt and reincarnate?

Assert some irresponsibility. Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy,

despite her cleansing coffee

and ginger fixation and whatnot.

Between compassion and temperance —

she chooses to be cold.

This is a day of pen and paper:

a symphony of unimportance.

She could have deferred to fulfill her needs;

she could have salvaged herself by sacrificing solidity,

but she harvests acceptance and reputation

(like you, like you!) —

preserving the prettiest picture,

advocating deceit,

publicizing what is proper — even if it kills.

She is now ugly, undesirable as a flat ball —

but with much dignity — and less assault.

Wealth seems like a human purpose.

Against happiness —

against everything she thought true.

At least it runs like life — with injuries for fuel.

When the whole planet synchronizes, it cannot be wrong.

We grow up for a prehistoric excuse: food gathering

— nearly Neanderthals, but with fancier tools.

Monday, September 24, 2012, 9:36 AM –

Friday, October 5, 2012, 9:07 AM

Holed

Someone cannonaded my chest

(I do not know whom)

and so a riddle flows through it —

I can feel its destiny, like coconut-warm breeze,

or misplaced charity.

The hole is as big as the heart I am left without.

Observing wordlessly, I glaze

a world record of texturized privacy, for I cannot feel.

Drafty but weak, dreary, possibly happier.

There is a mystery that won't shut —

it gives me a call. My demystified art.

I have always been without you —

blowing kisses into the past —

with their snakelike yarns coming back

to haunt my desirous jealousy.

Have you ever been without anyone?

It feels like swallowing rain: tasteless, yet a charm.

I can live a thousand years and still

yearn for your bliss — those icy voices of uncertainty.

Everything goes down —

a wish, untouchable black, our sordid revelation.

The future reverses: I am falling into eternity.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012, 12:57 AM –

Thursday, October 4, 2012, 2:06 PM

Spiritual Cosmetics

Open your eyes and feel

Step into a wilderness of concrete architecture:

a third-world country exposing her vulgarity

Exploit yourself; be brave enough

and swim with the rest of us:

two-hundred-million jaded fishes

chained to poverty — abstract and dead

Like diurnal herds, sundown leads us home,

off to our rancid cages, humble orange and white

— forget our rabid hearts; they are no more

Where corruption pulls wilder than gravity,

individuality is a crime, blasted infamy

We belong to what is wrong

I, being the lowest wronger, steal

three hours each night, maybe more,

from an old downtown, my new best friend

He seems sorry as everyone fusses

and hustles to erase him from memory

He feels empty, slimy with infidelity

The jackal has crated his trade, close for business

when drunk stars lie down and weep

Skin tanned in soot, my limping pace faces

another war zone — verbal minefields

where I become a silent debater,

the heiress of tyranny

whose unlucky love comes uniquely lazy

Tuesday, October 2, 2012, 9:39 – 11:57 PM

Venom in a Verse

The air is yours, so is this Earth.
I am a mere worker passing by —
pen-pusher, paper-shuffler —
a borrower of doubt.

A crowd of bees, humming,
buzzing inertly, darting to one destination:
the factory of greed. Capitalists' profit.
We chorus in a video of undivided devotion,
toiling with destined choices that rake no sensation.
Respectable toys. Undying in our affirmation.

Three buses — eight is late.
Ache that compensates. Sweat-drenched veracity
flushing through my veins — I try to be nimble,
light and vertical, balmy as a mothball —
to be everything they want!
A social commentator. Good and estimable.
                                   Read on —

Strength forces to five: the end of lament.
I hide well, behind smug satisfaction and
traumatizing diction. You can never locate me.
Not after these whiteboard markers spread infection
and water bottles loan you pity.
My job is to punctuate the improper.

Passenger seats chant a generic birthday wish
(nobody else would) as I count the opaque rows
of illegal girls and Chinese shops. Reassure me
when I reach two to thirty. Next is the gate to infinity —
with bacterial slits and egotistic appraisals:

Indonesia's steel photography.



Monday, October 1, 2012, 3:37 PM –
Tuesday, October 2, 2012, 3:55 PM

October

Stealthily she lured me with sleep —
attractive in its relief. The mind, nonetheless,
saw no escape — it tortured the self
with so much commotion that I yielded
into the background of truce.

At four, I rise (that, I must).
Royal roosters radicalize, proclaiming their territory,
while I content in ruminate.
Please, boys, I need not such jealousy —
the skull stores enough anxiety.

Scanty past five,
pink turns to shoal, deserted stupidity.
The creepers have left, frail to faulty,
and asphalt corridor stretches
with no entertainment to bother me.
                                                 I cannot impart

whether to feel lonely or to flee —
this gardenia-scented morning fling.
What good will such a routine bring?
What godlike quality?
Fractures of decrepit engines answer in watercolor wisdom:

Wash your fears away
in this playground of urbanization —
cross an intersection of decay.
Life is not a revision. It stays.
No matter how overly-dramatic your defiance may be —

its cliche still recruits one of your fondest failures —
your makeshift ardency in scenes of busyness,
your plenary panorama. Soon,
it will swell in your knee, blooming in pearly pains —

their callous fluidity shiny semiprecious metals.



Monday, October 1, 2012, 8:23 AM –
Tuesday, October 2, 2012, 11:47 AM