Friday, November 30, 2012

Near-Death Paradise

Red pills, white pills — which am I?
Your only chance to discard all hopes
and dream with the desolate dreams.
Death is my morphine, hypnotic, as I lay
in the arms of Morpheus. His only child.

I am Red.
Ms Doctor bleaches me to burgundy —
pink — to the ashen contradiction of my vomit.
Perhaps I am also Blue

when all I see is Black. Burial black
as dingy as a cemetery. There I make friends
with no one but dim glow-worms that drift
but scarcely fly. Their illuminance
renders false green in gold, much like spite.

I am twenty,
yet antique as my parents' teak treasury.
Dead Grandmother would love me —
she commands the crows.

When I die, aloneness contains,
softly inducing, lowering me
to the finesse of inferiority that is my hearth.
It is liberation after a long haul.
You cannot opine, shall not relate,
for Death is mine.

Friday, November 30, 2012, 10:01 – 10:34 PM
November prompt, day 22: paradise.

Destruction Incarnate

Rage, rage with the thunder.
Strike like lightning: twice, or eternally.
My mildew skies gurgle in grime,
turning hazel then lime. So much hatred
rests within — might I be thine?

On a Tuesday, I was born:
Night's child, confined to the dark.
And on another Tuesday, I swore to die.
But this time, bathed in bright light.
Sun's ember majesty rescues me.

What life is life with so little and then none?
What am I living for? Not one soul.
Without the aspiring enemy,
without the honor of true greatness,
but unfortunate guilt that glitters like gold.

Wickedness reborn —
I am adjusted to a world without sounds.
Curiosity ceased after some time
and youth with its misguidance loves me,
but not my meaningless entity.

Loneliness is a clock on the wall: It quickens. 
Tears shed, stars melt —
                  what difference will it make?
Run faster; try harder
for Felicity waits at another end. 
What do I care? When

life is never my preference. Death is
a friendly black that does not choke.

Friday, November 30, 2012, 12:20 – 1:10 PM
November prompt, day 29: birth.


And who might you be?
A stranger offering admiration for my digital facade,
an underage boy with too much time
but insufficient education.
This side of the world bears uncontrollable lust: unjust,
for its anonymity, its contagious debauchery —
disrespect its currency.
Will you be another misled stud?
Or simply a synonym to everyone?

I shall be your teacher,
here with that proud air you cannot withstand.
My lecture ends when you are good.
I am the force of instability. Your opposition.
Opinionated as I am, you will not question me.
I am unquestionable. I exist for myself alone.
A private party with no invitation.

Just beneath my beautified veil,
that cursed attractant,
lies the ugly. A thing of depressive damnation,
like remorse plaguing you night and day
through successive seasons of vocabulary.
No, you are not to avoid what you can, though you will.
I am that nuisance, constant irritation,
the headache you may not compensate. A dead fish.
You do not desire me: Escape from the ugly.

Thursday, November 29, 2012, 11:32 PM –
Friday, November 30, 2012, 12:08 AM
November prompt, day 4: just beneath ___.

Thursday, November 29, 2012


Like the bloodsucking pair crawling
inside your heel, I cause you an itch. I hitch.
The sting of a threatened red ant,
minor but deadly, that ravages your skin,
inch by inch. Am I not lovely?
Bruised and tumultuous,
purplish ink diffuses over your limbs
like confused spider webs: I spread.
To your chest, to your scalp, scalding your rarest part.
As you lay there in the coppice,
strangeness creeps through your backbone.
Oh, I am that thorn you cannot gouge.

After anger comes contemplation —
then: tedium, repetition,
that social fetter they call hospitability.
Will it ever end? This game of compliments
to mask a cycle of insecurities.
When everyone becomes a bother,
I disguise myself in infantilized charm.
Soon, you shall agree:
My invisibility is an acquired degree.
Never will you see my true configuration —
only enchantment — until
dread begins in a gory surprise.

I am nesting: You are my host.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012, 11:48 PM –
Thursday, November 29, 2012, 8:44 PM
November prompt, day 7: circular.

To Marry a Corpse

I am looking for something —
a thing that does not end in tears.
Jaded and jarred in vinegar,
my brain now a pickle.
It tastes better with troubled times,
with earthquake and everything that breaks.
Won't you be my permanent acquaintance
                           — if not a lover?
You shall keep me for three years from today,
five at most, until my two-thousandth verse,
until decay drowses and I decide to burn undersea.
There, with skeletons that swim and sway,
I feed the fishes with my fiery flesh,
never, never alone.
Something will grant you strength,
stronger than any man
that has ever loved in heresy but cannot change.
I store no feelings left inside of me —
but gasoline that occasionally spurs blasphemy
before God and His winged angels.
Profane is part of my flame.
I am made of tamed madness,
perhaps sprinkled in apple cider for spice,
but never, never sense.

Thursday, November 29, 2012, 12:08 – 12:35 AM
November prompt, day 3: scary

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

A Boy in a Hospital Lane

You were my first suicide, my last goodbye
A stranger brought by the angry, sultry wind;
the classmate I never knew by name
You were no one and the one in everyone
and I forget you — the way you never
remember us when I miss your magic potion
Nineteen and thirty-two: Which are you?
Not the house that buried those babies,
but her wistful affinity welling forth
with the runaway floods —
Yearly, if not too much, I collect enough change
to buy another version of you and your vein
I smear a pound of blood
and hang myself on the nearest tree
digging a tunnel through some secret wormhole
bundled in a fantasy — why would you not
relive our fated story? Try
and find me beneath the dead leaves drying
all over yesterday's ground
Like a test of Time, a proof of identity,
you, darling, my truest lie,
you only answer to my selfish spright —
Now answer me:
                           Is your name Death?
                                          Or is it Love?

Friday, November 23, 2012, 9:08 PM –
Wednesday, November 28, 2012, 7:27 PM

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Moon and Mice

Only love,
I am wasting another day in tears.

Three AM. What, and who, am I waiting for?
True: not you. None but myself,
writing me, speaking to Jealousy
that everything hurts, every bone cries.
Even the full moon outside hides
amidst tall pine trees and
spooky branches spiraling to Heaven.
I used to greet her from behind my red window bars.
She vowed to be my friend, but she lied,
just as everyone. Never trust those who glow
with beauty. Trust is for the dreamers.

And there I am: alone as always.
Peeking with my weary neck.
Typing misfortune in two hundred words.
Looking for salvation that never comes.
Independence is now a crime.

Oh, such melancholy is my melody.
It dwells in me like a lost puppy.
On my left is a giant canvas painted by night:
A thousand shadows play,
shooting and whirling, beckoning Tuesday
as I converge with a band of mice
selling their pitchy inconsistency. To me!

Time, stretched, suddenly radiates.
Eyes smolder, spine splinters, I throw a wish
to the only star willing to revoke me.

Monday, November 26, 2012, 9:38 PM –
Tuesday, November 27, 2012, 3:49 AM
November prompt, day 2: full moon.

Broth of Loneliness

Every noon,
Sky plays some rainy rupture on the radio
with thunderous drums and lightning rums.
I am her most faithful listener.

You, lost child,
the thief who stole my heart,
silently stand with a bucket on the ground —
harvesting rain. Leave it a night.
Let tornado spice the water with turbulence
and your impatience invigorates its temperature.

The next day,
lit a fire underneath. Dream with it.
Unearth my bones that you cherish so
from inside the mahogany casket.
Snap them in twelve, for the years
you have installed to torment me and my sanity.
Let them burn, blazing with the morning star

and like tears,
like weeping salt transpired in the troposphere,
they will tender in a lifetime of solitude.
It blooms with pinkness that marinades your soup.
You shall drink it in your antique copper bowl.
Drink my loneliness —

savor the sea that distilled me.
Can you remember?
Our first, second, and last trysts.
The finality where our hands touched,

                                              once and forever.

Thursday, November 23, 2012, 3:43 AM –
Tuesday, November 27, 2012, 1:32 AM

Monday, November 26, 2012


If I could,
I would collect all the love in the world —
one from you, from him, her,
each one from everyone I meet.
Love from trees, roads, wind, and night.
Moon's love, Sun's love, every tear of rain.
When people speak of love, or whisper I love you,
I shall extract each expression stranded
in the empty air, bottle it, and make it mine.
A million jars of many shapes and shades
crowd my four-by-three square
that there is no room left to breathe.
There is only love. Caption of affection.

Each morn, I open one pot
and let love transfer into me. On and on
until the millionth day and the last one dries up
into nothingness. And I am a beggar once more —
slumped on a frantic train station
scavenging for what is left of conversations —
waiting for bits of love.
                           Where is love? I ask
deserted compartments and feverish railways.
Love does not live in me —
I am again the most loveless loneliness,
searching, searching without knowing,
begging without giving.

Monday, November 26, 2012, 9:52 – 10:29 PM
November prompt, day 26: collection.

Sunday, November 25, 2012


 Since man is made up of the elements
fire, and rain, and air, and live loam
and none of these is lovable
but elemental

DH Lawrence, from his poem "Elemental"

For the coldest glass that tinsel my texture,
for the tiniest shrew timidly tiptoeing
among an army of feline rascals —
threatening my wellbeing in a clash of species
Oh phobia — let me be, once this once!
The odor of dampness refuses to mend
as I offer my geranium skin for mosquito sting
Speakers yelling pastry like punishment:
This shall be a night of my longest lament
since man is made up of the elements —

but mine is fright, not blood, not blood
Just a jolt of worry burdening my tapestry
Mountainous weight scarcely a base
to witness a circus of unnerving gaiety
Cats gambol: They prance, flying in a trance,
sniffing acid juice that glitters like foam
And the enemy in her autocratic urge,
conventionally sexist, mandates obedience
Rare, if ever, will I lessen in my aplomb
Fire, and rain, and air, and live loam

cause in me louche obscenity
like the secret sounds of water nearby
or the geckos that echo each other's name
I taste the sleepy sky in its listless home
growing weary to the clinking of earthenware
Families gather in their normal counsel
while mine is nowhere to be found
Only the closing of blue melts into steel
sorrow, without mendacity, artfully slothful
and none of these is lovable

I sniff the naked remains of November rain
like the cooling zest of my morning
energy drink, half-frozen, effervescing
inside my mouth, quenching but not quite
The garden flavor of the outdoors
brings forsaken infinity, lush and needful
My body thirsts for more —
luxurious green, waxy in its lyrical fix:
my extinction superficial, carnal, bestial
                     but elemental

Sunday, November 18, 2012, 6:06 PM –
Sunday, November 25, 2012, 11:02 PM
November prompt, day 18: glosa.

You with the Sad Eyes

Sweetly thin sugar coats the pill
in near-death red: You come back
and come back and come back to Death
for it is planned; tears wash up your cheeks
with the warmth you cannot touch,
waiting for the climactic consequence
but the sequence will not surge

The body agitates —
only puncture in your left ribs,
its pain trying to strangle your heart 
make it end, make it end
Thus you are a crook looking for your fine:
the superlative six

Once you tasted Death — its perfecting
culmination — you shall never stop
until it kisses you in all kindness, until
your consciousness bursts
in little shimmery sparks around you
and you are home in the dark

Everything ends when Death starts
even when the sky is bright white
like your holy knight
that saved you once but never twice
You are never magnetic enough for anyone
and the sooner you realize, the wiser
you become: You become everyone
except for your love of subversion

Death, destruction, detachment —
you are their child, their destiny
Long for them as you long for me

Thursday, October 25, 2012, 12:12 AM –
Sunday, November 25, 2012, 5:34 PM
You with the sad eyes is from Cyndi Lauper's song "True Colors".

Saturday, November 24, 2012

To Death with Love

And what about Death?
What about its peaceful misery
to those who feel too much? We emote.
Articulation of the slightest distraught.
Growing sorrow and reaping pain.
Loving yet never come to an end.

Death is a wingless angel, is it not?
Beauty in its palest mystery, eating me,
eating me like a bad disease. But it pleases.
It teases. My yearly obsession in retrospect
that I long most to touch, like that night,
a night when I was twenty. It came for me.

Six scarlet pills dissolved. How sweet!
And it knocked, it knocked on my door.
But Mother,
then the doctor in her white uniform
and her white tablets that tasted like chalk —
they took Death away from me.
Why would they? Why would anyone?

I touched its ecstasy,
the blackest cocoon of oblivion.
Death was silk made of prayers —
enwrapping me in a dreamless sleep, long
and luscious. Lovesick, I fell into another creation,
unlike Earth — its air laden with red poppies.
I breathed infatuation.

But Life — that deceitful, dastardly liquor!
Life loved me twice more, more than Death
or delusion. Time nursed me back to health.
My brittle brain woke to a quaky morning
and two little elves in a radio. I looked
to find myself nowhere, alive —

                     not a song, not a song.

Friday, November 23, 2012, 9:22 PM –
Saturday, November 24, 2012, 10:24 PM

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Five Hundred Poems

I have been too lazy to attempt anything lately. In the past two days, I gathered all five hundred poems plus the two translations I had published online. It was tedious work that took approximately SIXTEEN long, torturous hours of copying, pasting, editing, adjusting, everything.

Portfolio collection is the worst chore of an unpublished author, but I did it. All 502 poems from December 2007 to mid-November 2012. The compilation comprises 84,500 words on 584 A4 pages. Seems like a big book. I've no desire to publish it, regardless. They're all junk.

Read the poetry published on this blog in Rhyme and Treason.
Poetry from my first blog in Suicide.

Since then, I haven't completed new ones. There are those November chapbook prompts from Poetic Asides — but I'm not that inspired or aspired as what I did with the April prompts. Of course I will still keep the promise of two thousand poems and a suicide. Just need a little break after the five hundredth.

I'm thinking to stick to the one or two poems a day, and then bind them in a PDF file after one hundred poems. Not as enormous as five hundred — the load is too exhausting. Right now I've been scanning my old blog for a different voice, since the one I'm using on this blog sounds overused. Should be interesting to dig up my mind from 2010 to 2011. Perhaps I will appear like another speaker?

Frankly, I don't care about quantity or quality. I only write so I don't entertain the idea of slitting my wrist before time.

Jim Benton's cartoon cat sums me up in two sentences.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012, 7:05 PM –
Thursday, November 22, 2012, 12:46 PM

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


Dear Suicide,
I miss those waves of flood around our old home —
they tripled and bubbled and
filled the wet empty roads with the soul of the ocean
Afternoons felt like a monsoon in another world:
Cars nested in garages, people under the blankets,
no sound but the gurgling wind jostling with waters
Like snow melting into foam,
our sky was the clearest creamy ice

These four months have been pure loneliness —
with abandonment in the new house
When I shut myself in, out, no one cares to join
I push everyone away — never needing
the static noise, the fuss of pointlessness
Is closeness a natural impulse?
Perhaps I am not as human as everyone
Vacancy environs the air
till I gasp the essence of liberation —
and this is the mode of balance: my personal heaven

My friends are only two:
a four-winged termite intoxicated with fluorescent light,
dizzy in its circular dance,
and a sobbing kitten missing her mother
British pop songs shuffling, I only miss home —
our home — where we first met

You were a foreigner, a taboo concept,
and yet I became your pet —
associating to something no one can object
You are mine and mine only: We possess eternity

Tuesday, November 20, 2012, 7:27 – 8:20 PM
Personal heaven is from Yahoo! astrology.
November prompt, day 13: letter.

Monday, November 19, 2012

To Oblivion

Night, wake me up never
Let me sleep forever
that I may not count each second of Time
wishing for a quicker tomorrow
that I may not wonder how
yesterday went by without a cry

Fever, warm the worms inside my head
as I wait and wait and wait
wailing while sowing the seeds of Rain
acting as if I were their sister
Within: a growing empty —
sick, sick Anne, how I miss you

Music, rewind:
Transport me to those days of sorrow
where I was at ease before dawn
coding hieroglyphic moods on a stone
befriending gorillas of Congo
and fairy tales for tea

Ferris wheel in the sky, deliver me
to the door of Mr Without Memory
that one day I can be myself again —
a child of two and thirty
too afraid to call myself a woman
Take me home, Misery

Monday, November 19, 2012, 3:07 – 6:58 PM
November prompt, day 19: wheel.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Scheduled Humanity

Plans and meetings
make the world go 'round
They seem happy — are they?
(Don't cry don't cry don't cry
that is only Envy dripping)
I cannot like, cannot conform
I cannot even try

And the heart thickens —
swollen into a lump of lonesome glory
All along, alone is what I seek
What if anyone reads me — if anyone?
Inconsequential in every sense:
not what I am meant to pursue

Oh Life, I haven't done anything
but lying here listening to the gutter
channeling rhythmic dissonance of rain
that bathes me in silence and serenity
of not wanting, not going
Trading everything for intrinsic wonder:
the clunks of factories for modesty,
friendship for introversion

Locking my lips doesn't feel wrong
when all I need is me
and my constitution is so narrow —
it will not contain two

Sunday, November 18, 2012, 3:10 – 4:33 PM
November prompt, day 15: trade-off.


Transfuse your words into my blood —
they are all I need

Lucrative like a license, the sea medicates
these wounds with its gastric pulsar

rotating — someday its sullen shark
shall gobble me up, crushing limp bones,

reddening half of the conservation
You will revive what we once lost, you:

my substitutional love,
my consolatory prize — someday when

furtively I glance at the valley behind
the trees that sing a nightingale's sorrow,

where patience halts tomorrow,
you shall comprehend, this and all, that

I am made of demands, of hissing
spiders that glean dews like crystalline

I carry so much, so much of you in me
but so little capacity

that I shorten my longevity — can I
run and run and run till the day is done?

To keep a sum of wickedness is what
my heart is here for — someday

will Death solve it all?

Sunday, November 18, 2012, 4:15 AM – 2:25 PM

Wish Potion Number Three

A posthumous Pulitzer Prize in poetry —
would that shut people up?
Telling them I plan to die seems like a plea
for warmongering. All the verbal abuse,
the unnecessary pity.
Things I am too tired to contravene.
What is it with people and their godlike intervention?
To make them feel omnipotent? Useful?
Those pathetic martyrs and their noisy interference!

They gather so much, too much aversion
to death — or destruction, negative statements,
anything that conflicts their convictions.
What about mine? Oh, is it four, is it five?
Has the day begun another early nightmare
to devour our need for idyllic incompetence?
Forged to move, I am still nineteen —
that troubled teenager in love with the oiled blade
converting her into an atheist.

Death is divine: It pumps assonance into me.
Shooting illicit fireworks
while taming my manic obsessions.
I gain nothing but convenience. In it, maturity
softens and strengthens till it doubles and dangles
as a flea lands on my tongue, snapping it in two.
My head so full of ink, so dead so dumb so dancing.
I am Arcadian, an ersatz lover — depression is my LSD.

Sunday, November 18, 2012, 3:39 – 5:04 AM

The One

He who reads my thoughts
before inspecting the glazed cosmetic cry.
He who does not smile,
does not bother to say a single hi.
Alone he stands in separation,
a man of his own — a desolate island.
A crow whose broken wings
make way for the dull, desperate ground;
a preacher losing his words for acceptance
whilst looking at the sky. He is agreement
causing contradictions. A most broken mirror.
A puddle not running for the shore,
he sees me in everyone,
wrecking my will before needing to intertwine.
He was a poet once upon a time —
never the hero, nor the voice of propriety,
nothing of such kind. Not pompous gallantry,
nor the joker of the century.
Perhaps the beast, underrated, like a lone wolf
taken for granted. His skin is the tone of dismissal.
Living in a glob of lies,
a faithful liar himself, trained to falsify.
He who shall not question the day I wish to die.
He who volunteers all mistakes, yet rectifies.
He makes my other half, in a world so irrelevant —
not mine, not mine, not mine.

Saturday, November 17, 2012, 11:13 – 11:55 PM

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Questions for Love, Unanswered

(How to Be Lonely)

Love, even the smallest speech of rain
douses volumes of dejection. In me,
irradiant silver like beams
of unwelcome gestures — bothersome,
rejected, irreverent to him, them,
or every other name that comes forward.
Your image distilled in time. Are you
not a promise? Childhood innocence unpurified
by two steps of edification: hope, then betrayal.

Lies and tears savored,
I pack my last breath — while you there,
you swing by a song in our playground, investing
another thirteen years of my emotional coma.
Must I wait for so long?
That water is a catalyst for suicide,
that I am deprived of all socialization.
There is nothing to see beyond these walls —
greed, and more greed. Life-size robotic gray matters

programed in a cycle of survival. Who are you —
or what? You dared to chip yourself in two,
you sneaky unceremonial imitation!
Am I to worship many gods —
a cognate to the lecher I once engaged?
To deny myself for a privilege? And how —
how do I allude to your black-and-white bliss
without the salty grains of deathlike woe? 
With every turn 
at every corner, I long to seize your form —

Saturday, November 17, 2012, 8:16 – 8:56 PM
Emotional coma is from a short movie in a compilation titles Paris, Je T'aime.
November prompt, day 17: how-to.


The sleepy sounds of my downtown sweetheart,
a soothing chaos, labor their way
through my memory lane where you build a refuge
and never come home. Where, where?
Acerbic sun so arrogant,
roasting sweats into languid humidity —
am I not the one?

Knock thrice at the gate of my asylum —
step inside, Stranger.
If you like what you see, you can have it all:
condescension, healthy appetite, and
eighties rock songs you have never heard about.
Oh, but I — may never need anyone.
I am the antidote to every want.

Do you not fear to lose control?
Tilt your ego a bit. Bring back that lithium love
you used to conjugate my mania.
I miss you so. Quell your quandaries,
your curious contemplation, and discreetly
drug me into your most questionable misery.
Miss me much,

even when we grow apart, aged, far
without consolation. Below us
lives an inferno — heat that rhymes with Hell.
Regret disagrees with probability
as I buy my share of certain uncertainty.
Please — all I breathe is Insanity.
Will you tamper with the dark
                                and undo your heart?

Saturday, November 17, 2012, 4:36 – 5:34 PM
November prompt, day 16: last line of yesterday's poem as the first.

Nighttime's Sluggish Readjustment

My neighbor lives in a box with her four babies.
Too quiet, they are almost dead.
I lie on the floor, curled,
like an embryonic castration reaching for divination.
Am I the only one alive that night?
Debts are due before dusk, recollected,
amassed without the slightest hint of satisfaction.
Don't I wish I were thoughtless? Yes,
by the look of it, I am a projectile of dementia,
of obsessive-compulsive dreaming,
determined to be called diligent.

Moss, moss everywhere!
Piercing my clothes and through my skin,
aiming for my rotten heart.
It is the rule of the Universe: to smell the invisible —
so offensive, they are tyrannical.
Only crickets' flute that I can hear.
Dog's howling to a lonely spirit
misreading the address of his tomb.
Slushing three strokes, the clock becomes a dime.
My kiss licking your needy cheek (but you asked for it).
No drag race, no one speeding against the traffic light.

How I miss
the sleepy sounds of my downtown sweetheart.

Saturday, November 17, 2012, 3:00 – 3:32 AM

Delicate Dreams, like Death

So we meet again, Mr Musician
You are pretty as pretty can be,
but you allege I am prettier
Are the lovers in your love songs happy
as I am when you love me most —
or are we happier?

A backdoor opens to breezy temperance
The green grass catches my fall
as we are jailed amidst the trees
You are busy, painting all the forest green
and the fountain sparkling clean
A scene of seclusion,
shut away from the waking world
You trick me into love
And I love you, somehow, terrifyingly true

In a hotel room where
you play me a kaleidoscopic music box,
the Neverland on your wall,
I have to force a wondering smile
This is my most endearing seat,
next to you and your genteel chivalry
How can one be so refined, so eloquent?
You are a compliment in yourself;
your words narcotic

Lost in delicacy,
I wish never to return to reality, but
you are luminary, drenched in stardust
I am a drop of dirt, a pebble, dreaming
to love and be loved every time
but never comes true

Friday, November 16, 2012, 9:37 – 11:58 PM

Thursday, November 15, 2012

If I Were an Internet Slut

Since I refused to teach another class whose location is farther than the one I completed last month, I spend my November as a jobless lazy bum, doing nothing but aimless blogging.

At home, I wear short cotton dresses. The one I'm wearing today is an overused piece with a torn right strap. Obviously, I'm too lazy to fix an old dress, but I love ripped articles. They make me feel like an indifferent, clumsy, scattered-brain beggar.

My filthy past self would most probably take a webcam photo for my blog to expose my cleavage (I don't wear bras at home). You would be able to see the bare part of my right breast. But what the Hell for? Just so I could prove to lustful, socially-retarded Internet boys that I possess something stimulating behind the screen? So I could feel desirable?

In recent years, I've witnessed too many Internet girls, aged thirteen to eighteen, who portrayed themselves almost nude (showing breasts or crotch), or in a very pornographic position. Not a few, but hundreds of photos. And not on an obscene site. On Facebook, Tumblr, or some other social sites.

My first thought as a concerned teacher was: Where are their parents? Do they even realize what their kids are doing over the Internet?

Then, I reflected on my behaviors. I, too, published a few of my shoulder-to-cleavage photos on my blogs (the old one is closed now). My idea was not to appear trashy, but to give an impression of a nonconformist who will not obey the conventions of how a good teacher should present herself. I never wanted to seduce anyone, or even to attract people to visit my blogs. None of that. But I won't make excuses for myself.

So I stopped. I will not reveal any more photos where I wear immodest clothes or imply any sexual allusion, such as sucking a lollipop. That's not right. It degrades my writing and my philosophies.

I think those teenage girls don't understand the long-term consequence of their sluttish pictures on the Internet. If they wish to apply to decent universities or companies, they will face oppositions. The recruiters will think very low of these girls' credibility. Not good. Someone should inform them about this.

More importantly, I can't make any sense of why people want to have lewd photos on the Internet. What's the point? So others will adore you and tell you how sexy you are? That's fake. Artificial attention. Nothing beneficial. They're just a bunch of perverted Internet fiends who want to use you for their own sexual gratification. They don't care about you, or who you are.

I have had enough of being dumb. So should you. There are far better things to do in life, like discovering your real talents — arts, science, literature, cooking, anything. But not being cheap.

I begin to wonder if the Internet urges little girls to sexualize themselves to feel excitement from being "liked". That's just teaching girls to be brainless. Will we raise future females who are content with stripping instead of establishing intellectual and artistic expertise? I surely hope not.

And girls, explore your thoughtful interests that will last for a lifetime. Writing poems and stories feels much more rewarding than attempting to look like a slut. Because you know what? Flashing your breasts isn't an achievement.

Thursday, November 15, 2012, 1:24 – 2:39 PM

How to Prevent Suicide


I've been staring at those kitty donuts since this morning when I spotted them on the Internet. I swear, if I can eat them every day, I might not kill myself according to plan. They're perfect for a gluttonous crazy-cat-lady (me). Someone send me a lifetime supply of ultracute kitty donuts now! I'm too lazy to bake or search for them here in Jakarta.

Also, don't I need to find a full-time job that doesn't require me to commute for six murderous hours a day or something?

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

As Rain Falls to Lunacy

James who worries a little too much,
here — sip a little of me.

Your name, your name, your name
exists to bless certain boys with thick juice
of jealousy. One a French bastard,
the other an American hypocrite.
But you already guessed that.
Will you be proud — will you be horrified?
Will you insert tiny crumbs of love
in between those lines you accumulate for ages?

Someday I shall publicize a band of mediocrity:
hoarding handsome young men
from various countries
of this imaginary Universe we call reality.
You, them. Are you not tired of me
and my moody ego? I collect selfishness in glass jars,
labeling them with each month, each year.
They keep me company —

better than shiftless lads
in their self-conscious hamster wheel.
Victimized males, I shall abduct your ferocity,
all your frozen fantasies, those subverted inhibitions.
Come, access another page. These words
are nectarine: detaining without your knowing.
A serial murderer in the making.

Today I am not lonely. The world is.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012, 10:08 – 11:13 PM

Passive Aggression

All I wanted was to have a friend who likes to talk to me as much as I like to talk to him. But when I found two, the only two I liked, they never liked me.

I don't like my parents, or families, or anyone else I know. I just liked these two boys — as much that I felt an emotional attachment to them. Even when I never met them, or when I only saw very little of them, I just felt an inexplicable connection to them — something that I would call chemistry. It didn't happen in one night. Much longer than that. And throughout the process, it felt like I knew them and they knew me. I can't feel anything like this with anyone. I just can't.

Perhaps it was magic. Perhaps it was my imagination running wild.

After years, came estrangement. I don't know what happened exactly — we just went astray. I tried every possible way to reach them, from pleasant to putrid, anything. Nothing resulted in requital. I am tired of trying. My initiatives, my contact. Always mine. It's like I don't exist in their world any longer.

For our last conversation, I told them (ONLY them and no one else) that I decided to commit suicide after completing two thousand poems. The first boy pushed me away by saying I was terrorizing him. That wasn't my intention. It wasn't a joke, either. I really want to die. Nothing to hurt him or anyone. It's an urge I can't fight or ignore. I have to do it. He wouldn't understand this and left.

The second boy said it was not my fate to die. He thought it was a wrong thing to do. And worse, I saw on his Facebook that on the same date of my emails to him, he received video links from a friend that represent "suicide songs". That crushed me. How could he discuss something so personal to me as freely as THAT to ANYONE?

I don't divulge my plan to other people. Hell, no. It was just to them, the two of them, cause I thought they were the ones who mattered. And he — he was so indiscreet that it ended up on his fucking Facebook wall as suicide songs. NICE. He turned trust to absolute distrust.

My point was to inform them this confidential piece of information so that when it happens, they won't wonder where I am. But all they cared about was THEIR feelings, THEIR needs. No support, no tolerance. I thought they would be different from all others. But they're not. Self-obsessed pricks.

And so I won't talk to them anymore. This is to remind me, that whatever happens, I will NEVER EVER talk to them. I'm too sad and too hurt to talk to them again. You know, I thought I finally found the friends I've always wanted in them. But I was wrong. I'm always wrong.

Life is nothing but independent aloneness. I'm content with talking to sky and trees — weeping while waiting for the day I die. No more false friends.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012, 11:04 PM –
Wednesday, November 14, 2012, 12:09 AM

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Punk-Rock Teacher

When I taught for two full months from September to October, I had to commute from this bloody suburban where I live to West Jakarta. Each day, it took five to five and a half hours. SERIOUSLY. It felt like intentionally bruising my body to earn twice the average income of a college graduate in Jakarta.

Therefore, I had to adjust my usual outfit of high heeled boots et cetera to a more practical sporty getup just so I could jog from bus stop to bus stop swiftly and comfortably (though still exhausting).

What I wore: knee-length skirt, shirt, knitted vest, sneakers, socks, backpack, watch, scarf and gloves for when the classroom was unbearably cold. Something like this:

Stupid teacher.

I don't admire such a look (too childish, not stylish enough), but it was necessary to ease my movement so that I would not experience extreme muscle pain and fatigue. What I prefer is this one:

Suicidal poet.

That is definitely my most favorite style, more of a suicidal poet and less of a geeky teacher. More like myself. Actually, the company would permit me to look like this. But I could not find any flat-heeled female boots that are as comfortable as running sneakers for my long fifty-minute walks. And I don't have any leather vest. Indonesia is rather incomplete for punk-rock fashion. Even if it exists, it will be too small for my size and I will have to go to a tailor to make one. Too much trouble.

Pictures were assembled on Looklet.

Living in Another World

This sums up my communication with Steven:

Except that I normally composed a long email for him for SIXTY FUCKING MINUTES. And the greatest response: NO FUCKING REPLY.

The only times he sounded enthusiastic were in the first two emails and first IM chat. Other than that, nothing significant. I wrote him so very much. I'm sure all of it equals more than anything anyone ever wrote him in his entire life. But since I eat meat, I receive the cold reaction of "I don't know you and I don't care". Suppose he only acts kind to herbivorous girls or the few people he interacts with outside the screen. For others, he's always BUSY.

Worst of all, he once told me on IM that he didn't want me to feel neglected seeing that so many people have treated me that way. What a load of lies. I've seen people like him since I was eleven. All talk and no proof. I am so irritated right now that I can trample on his laptop and destroy his research data. And burn all his stupid bikes.

Vandalism seems fun.


Sunday, November 11, 2012

Failing Death Test, 2012

Darling, let me name myself
your least consequential experiment —
for that is what I am to you:
your trial and error, a thing of no use,
never good enough for permanence

Or let me name myself evermore
as you store me on the farthest angle
of the shelves where you stock your friends
that when you exhaust all and every one,
you might tempt to search for me —
should you hold the key

I am a bottle of plain water, so flavorless
my expiration date is never and forever
So featureless — you eject me
from the smallest bite of your memory

I dream to vanquish you with my hurt,
to condemn you with all capacity
How do you damage me so?

When they —
they reclaim affection time dedication
words words words

I am loneliest:
This year, all I am is temperate hate since
you are too busy with school
to watch me die

Saturday, November 10, 2012, 9:56 PM –
Sunday, November 11, 2012, 10:01 PM

Overwrought Photos

One day when I am gay, violently gay, I
shall rip my flesh apart with a razor blade
till I befit my raggedy start —
My cheek, plush and plump,
will bleed, will bleed, will bleed
in two asymmetric slashes: my gallant scars
Prettier than I have ever been, but not
your version of pretty nor
beauty magazines' perfection — all mine
My kind of beauty: defective, evil,
a product of Disorder

Men succumb to incapacity
of ill-advised superficiality: deifying delicacy
They dance without being told —
to symmetry, pictorial properness —
gently calling it "biological evolution"
And once I worry (I shouldn't),
agreements shall license scientific bigotry,
swift as males' primitive mating season

The more I notice bareness, skin
disclosed in bawdy parades, unabashed
in raving competitions of visual whores,
the less I lean to expose myself

You, men,
and your brutal attraction of shapeliness,
your dysfunctional brains
should benefit from a surgery —
an alteration of the current commodity
where women are only worthy
of face, chest, and curves

Monday, November 5, 2012, 9:58 PM –
Sunday, November 11, 2012, 8:46 PM

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Failing Death Test, 2010

See me run from him

as I picture us
the way we should have been: side by side
walking towards Jakarta's National Monument
Did you not pledge I would have your very first kiss?
But Love is never ours

I remember how you found me
with your blue eyes slightly sullied in lust
The child I always dreamt you would —
missing me each day with all that you could

You thought you loved me
but your intention never holds the courage
nor fidelity ever supposes your intention
Thus, we were thrown out of space
unguarded, unschooled, less than levity

I thought I was forever yours
that you would not give me up, regardless
Had we met, you would have seen
eyes that no longer speak to the world,
prime that points to north of apathy,
a body missing Death
that you would never catch me

It felt like I loved you — or I thought I did
but nothing of it mattered
as I do not matter —
neither does regret, apology, counterargument,
or sixteen-year-old Indonesian postcard

I am an adjective,
a piece of the past, another of your experience
both oversentimental and disposable

Saturday, November 10, 2012, 9:05 – 9:58 PM


We cannot remember who we are
We only suspect —
                      among drizzles of dreams
and memorabilia that glide along these streams
of neutralized potency, mutual insurgency
There it is: the beacon
that warns how I am near, and you are far
Uncanny as we are, we are untruth —
almost the peccadillo of proof and spoof
One consoles; the other reproves
And so I can barely whisper —
a soft uncertainty brewing in the mind,
rehearsing its mauling convictions
You, there, construe consistence of the many,
while I consist of none
I reconstruct us — an alien term in itself
where dashes coalesce with ampersands
There is only you and I

Saturday, November 10, 2012, 1:46 – 2:11 AM

Friday, November 9, 2012

Nothing Matters

Go on as you may
Go and travel far, beyond your far-sightedness
As I shall stay, here with Sadness
counting the drops of rain
that moisten the stones with Loneliness
Late-year observation plants the least hope
of childhood prayers and promises
But imagination is never a Time Machine
No matter what beauty it brings,
which calmness they sing —
I stand forever a prisoner:
hands tied, eyes shut,
mouth muttering mere madness
Three wardens have come to take my soul
Outside the school, they hang me upside down
Dark water wets, weakens from head to chest
as I begin dying, trying not to think of you

Friday, November 9, 2012, 10:22 – 10:48 PM