Let Us Drink to Eternal Love

You ask me to stay for loneliness

is all you know after a lifetime

You will feed me lushness

and we will each drink a glass

of eternal love

Come the clearest air

through gallons of acidic downpour

A picnic under the full foul moon

listening to a wolf's broken heart

piercing the cheerful sky

There is constant fuming

of fatal deaths and ancient decay

yet you and I think

of how delicate I am to

the youthfulness in your strength

like a lesser god competing for fame

Tonight we swear no promises

for when all is dark

I close my eyes and greet you

in my very last dream

Thursday, February 28, 2013, 6:05 – 10:03 PM

In Blindness

To study poetry and to write some

should not equal comprehension

but a mindless pursuit of Time

a thing of avoidance

from the urging of Death

in your blunt, bestial tongue

How blind am I

to conserve a life away from the Sun?

How invalorous, how indignant

when fierce civilization means

a chance of evolvement

an offer of experience?

Thursday, February 28, 2013, 9:16 – 9:44 PM

Statistical Self-Pity

You shall read my two-thousandth poem

and remember who you are

Tuesday befriends sour coughs

that I am alternating

between dizzy drama and sleazy sinusitis

My rotation quicker than a disaster

fashioning dark circles in dehydration

To some, I am old

a mere child to others

To myself, I am an exhausted life

possessed by an inflammable aim

too invaluable to hypothesize

Need I master empiricism

before joining multisyllabic vocabulary?

Instead, I fancy generic astrology

making love to my emblematic sign

When I am somber, puffy, and

less than your chore, I

shall keep my childhood promise

to be chaste and touch the very bottom

of the sea where my grievous body

splinters into mermaid dust

thinking of

you, most beautiful, you —

the one who keeps me alive

Thursday, February 28, 2013, 2:24 AM – 3:50 PM

Stevon Who Lives by the Sea

Villain, I feel you nearer and nearer
as my life grows smaller by the hour.
Clock ticking, heart sinking,
I am sailing to Forever.

Enter Prophecy. Clouds melt
and six closes the day.
You are gallant as the God of War:
parched in parochial quaintness,
more aloof than an albatross.
Your breath zephyrean, words weighty as Wilde's.
Interrogative interest blooms in your brownest irides,
slightly adjustable to a smirk. Oh,
are you not the perfect actor for this part?

Have we met, you hint.
Only in my dreams, I scream.

Today I entertain Hope, all glittered
in secretive gaiety. You are comely as I thought.
Fabrication of an ideal resolution —
awake, alert, not at all apprehensible.
Graphic insomnia serves fever for tea: Exit Criticism.

Thursday, February 28, 2013, 12:46 – 1:31 AM

One Pill, Two Pills, Three

Feed the rain pain:
It will sing to you

I do not sleep
I leap from midnight to morn
in two white pills (sometimes three)
one Misery, the other Insanity

Bid Sunrise farewell
through stubborn denials that
dreams shall not relay deaths

Who are these people —
why do they die in my head?

I swallow complications alive
spinning tales of smile
where you and I reunite
turning Fate the good foe

The grayness of your gravity
pauses my sobs a while
when pearly noon smothers
angrier than the forest fires



Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 7:55 AM –
Thursday, February 28, 2013, 12:36 AM

Love Is a Bore

For you misunderstand how it feels
to fall into the dark
where death is velvet peace
and red pills a tease

Indefinable as a myth
I glimpse to locate you under my bed
the monster who abducts my leg
to a scariest world
where obedience a trade
and love is a bore

Intoxicated by rain
thick as a mule
memory misplaces sorrow
as involuntary rashes like bruises
spreading thin from my skin
reactive to impetuosity

I was born
abused then confused
stood tall on my own
to be gunned down by a petty whore
whose asexuality matches mine

Last night misses tomorrow
ripping my staleness in two, only
to find you:
the cure in everything that calms



Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 7:06 AM – 8:09 AM

All the Useless Things

Like rising in the eleventh hour
and reaching for survival
but only entering
a smoky void at the end of the channel.

Like meeting you by sheer luck
in the hospital garden.

You, my falling star, you live in the mirror
where everything is monochromatic
and hyper-romantic.

I, the lifelike dream you never tame,
jump from night to night evading light,
wishing to hear your name undersea
before I burst into a myriad of lifeless foam.

Will your devilish wings foil my plan
as I slip atop a tower?

Like pressing both eyelids when
a scorpion's venom spins
from the epicentrum of my brain.

Like growing older and possibly wiser
but never agreeing with any trend.

Like starving my way to stardom.

How you, my only one, become
the side-effect of inhuman despair —

like nursing fun in
the crimson temptation of a poisoned apple
and booking the loneliest plane to nowhere.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013, 7:51 PM –
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 6:51 AM

Decrypting Desire

Lover, we met and parted.
You sacrificed me in your selfishness,
while I, in my foolishness,
perceived how you emerged
in anyone and anything.
You kept fleeing, veiling,
devising endless games leaving me hints,
but you do not intend to be tangible.
Every bit is a bait. Everyone is an impostor.
Every post, every path, you will never be there.
You are everywhere and a ghost.
The parody of a paradox,
the suicidal part of my redundant wish.
                                                  My first kiss.
I am the ant trailing your sugar,
often times drawing a lonely boat
to a most secluded island where you wait,
unmasked, black as Death.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013, 10:49 PM –
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 5:06 AM

She Has No Use

Her lover lives in the mirror;
she in a dream.
Her voice is wind chimes;
her heart the buzzing of car alarms.
She has no use but to love you.
Her drink is the drops
falling from her red, red eyes.
Her home is a hole in the center of the Earth
where heat stings like Hell
and hippie rodents
her somewhat distant neighbors.
When Moon cracks and Sun breaks,
you shall be the last one standing there —
chips of her forever riling to cut you.
It is you she had hoped to find:
the violence in your gaze,
darkness in your hands,
and oneness spilling off your mouth.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 1:53 – 2:10 AM

Birdlike Spirits

You stopped me from writing.
My heart still breathing,
heaving in its very last beating.
One by one, you metamorphose
into a formless nocturnal parrot,
so red in your musical vibrancy.
                                       Time droops.
A contemporary chant repeats its tune
past five seconds. No one bothers
to investigate creatures of the night.
They simply be. Now he is mad,
looking for you. I am, too.
Trapezium boxes electrocute my hand —
not as blunt as your whiny, jittery fangs.
I know not what to cling
when your plumose sweet things
are all that I can ruminate in reference.
Sitting to numbness is my only place,
waiting and waiting for your swift ghosts
to come rustling down the pond.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013, 2:11 AM –
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 1:44 AM

Psychology of Rejection

True love lasts only for six days

How brief, how vain
knowing emptiness again and again
the feeling is now counter-argument
I am not the one
        neither are you

The nobody you used to write to
for pity, courtesy, August dormancy
but we are nothing but strangers
We do not want it to matter

Fearing to lose your presence
for technical malfunctions
was a waste of your time
Twenty-four hours
seemed enough to cause a sin

Was it true love I offered
the truest of its kind?
I shall last for eternity
calling you
throughout ten thousand lifetimes

But you
proved me wrong

Outside my dream
love never exists
and my vision fits a chapter
of a fairy tale anthology
to take a chance as if tomorrow
the world would end

A hopeful poem on Monday
in the faintest happiness
of waking
without planning suicide
of wishing to live for you

An illusion
after too much loneliness
for no one has the intensity
to be my reality
and feelings are imaginary
a way to survive each day
but they are never there

Can you hear my heart breaking
twelve thousand kilometers away
from your winter?



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 2:38 PM –
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 1:18 AM

Psychology of rejection is from a search result in Thesaurus.com.

Blandness and Abuse

I am too good

to write of you

whose moods are none

but ill manners

savoring treats like one

of true contender

I am too bland

to speak your tongue

of anti-fantasy

and reposed self-abuse

You, in your

oblivious diplomacy

miraculously morose

what is there to reimburse

but these lies?

I am near-dusk

not yet dark

angular in refusal

heading North for Arrogance

and sixty-three counts

for wasteful confessions

May I insult

unstoppably?

Perhaps even selling

bits of ambition

like mature women

in their worrisome

inconvenience?

And I am too raw

to renounce mediocrity

A shadow

of everyone's doubt

fending immaturity

in my degenerative clone

Monday, February 25, 2013, 4:09 – 6:49 PM

The Verge

They speak

of love

kisses

and things I know not

I am a rewinder of Hate:

It is Hate I dream

to Hate I wake

in a room so perfumed

cyan as the ocean

on the verge of tears

Crystal Sun embalms

weather simplifies

My weight's a burden

laden

in synonyms of Pain

Oppress me, Day —

and Night!

Slit feathery throats

of little birds that sing

cut off their wings

I, too

may crumble

and corrode

in lengthy aphasia

purging myself

of every composition

Still sensory lights

where rejoicers embark

positioning

their codified glamor

my limbless clamor

Oh, I

the King of Absurdity

All the world my frown

You, my believers

you bear no right

to make one wrong

Monday, February 25, 2013, 2:58 PM –

Monday, February 25, 2013, 3:57 PM

A Fish-Tank Future

Eyes dry up after a certain age.
Sentimentalism is last century's appetite.
Tomorrow I plan to go senile
when visitors grow a price tag upon their heads
and I shall name them by the numbers.
One hundred thirty nine thousand
and nine hundred. Much better than proper nouns.
Hunched, I am covered in diamond dust,
never heeding the sounds of life
outside this aquarium. The gods keep me alive —
with their meteor showers and Halley comet surprises.
I just dance and dance to strawberry music
with yellow rose buds and the vines on the wall.
Slow Death hanging by my side, making me happiest.
Were I an aviator, I would be eternally etched
in your glassy heart, spilling it
with fizzy champagne greener than your eyes.



Thursday, February 21, 2013, 8:23 – 8:51 PM

Finding Mr Perfect

In the search for perfecting sleep,

a wakeful heart is necessary.

Once again, I am a broken twig

drowning in saline wind —

fiery water my only friend.

I have always been like this since forever:

                                    wrong.

My flesh uncooked, my language unhappy.

People assemble somewhere 

to establish the singularity of their law,

while mine is a vampiric dream of nude self-love.

You can never tell

whether I am sad or satisfied.

To everyone, I am sane objectivity.

To the mirror, tears become my fortress.

Vinyl darkness captures most of me

and two diaries ate my nineteen-year-old blood.

I like it like this. I like it alone.

I like being reawoken

to a banshee's screeching in the next chamber

and the bathroom tiles singing my song.

Thursday, February 21, 2013, 2:39 – 8:09 PM

The Ghoul in the Woods

Kitty, kitty, the four of you

went to the woods and never came back —

swallowed by the ghoul

Your distilled pain pours as rain

pitying parts of my madrigalesque mind

minus its grouchy oldness

Your purr blitzes its way home

in sprints of unnatural guilt

You become the chill to my solitary madness

I should have loved you sweeter,

not this regretful horror

too tardy to mend a character

Perhaps I should grow a soul,

watering it in each antemeridian chart

with breezy pollution

In dreams, we shall be inseparable:

You multiply in rolls of cottony fluff

like some gentle version of mental massacres

Outside is creaky hallucination

where a vague magenta lantern

sprays vinegar into my eyes

Sounding odd may be a gift, but not a trade

Questions are all I have

and the midnight air your grave

Monday, February 18, 2013, 11:18 PM –

Tuesday, February 19, 2013, 2:09 AM

Neither Care nor Curiosity

The bay fills with deadening
invisibility that makes loneliness a thrill

I am browsing for a can of feelings:
to compare my present with the past,
to ignore Earth's untainted rotation,
to be

Songbirds whistle
wildly at midnight, morning,
any animosity in between —
I only wish I could
a whistler at first, and then a rain-goddess
commanding dark and light to bemuse the skies
catching a storm while dancing to rust

Oh you and you and you —
won't you be my unwilling savior?
Simply noting, never reacting,
you can be lightning in your golden wings —
you can be my everything

I am a little metallic fish
with a thousand glow-in-the-dark scales —
that sea monster you hunt
to commission a miracle
and appease your new-age crowd
The sands of salt you farm from my bed
are my unborn babies —
they will root within you,
anchor you back to the sea

Monday, February 18, 2013, 3:05 – 4:21 PM

Dust Is Eternal

Poverty drives her moving trucks

in three straight clouds I am stranded

inside a suburban town so simplistic

it is the gate to Hell and everything

that destroys whatever treasure I gather

Alienation devalues efforts

to maintain morsels of miscommunication

when worry is unattainable and service

less reliable — insist the third combination

of an international calling code

A dial tone fears to disturb your reservation,

far too kind than I can remember,

for tomorrow's shops welcome

a million functional signals — but

will it matter?

Will humans detach and reattach

when labor requires six hours of commute

to entertain my suicidal thoughts?

Nothing else subsists —

only elimination that can never damage me

any worse than super-reality:

such intensity most cannot contain

In silence they recompense and find one

whose mold excludes monomaniacal fixation

Must a witness disconcert quiescence,

molesting the excess of hormonal imbalance,

humorous yet crazy?

My wish is not yours —

to believe in the impossible,

to question the eligibility of my motive

which was real, however brief

I have no right to feel what I feel

Wednesday, December 26, 2012, 11:45 PM –

Monday, February 18, 2013, 12:26 AM

Dust is eternal is from Marjorie Allen Seiffert's poem "Priedieu".

Much to Hate

Mask ambition as obsession

and never tell them why.

Here I nest: sunless, acidic, suffocating

on what to or what I want to.

People lie more than they breathe —

as if I could not tell! I sniff decadence

like a bloodhound lingering for bones.

But Fury disowned me long ago —

to where I do not know. The chill on my skin,

like a most comforting needle injecting

euphoric narcotics. Static orgasm.

I need no drugs to feel abused. Oh Hate,

you emulate the faintest diversion

sheltering me — away from their Hell.

The danger of falling into a thing of no use.

Are we not to caffeinate each other's wakefulness?

I have no soul but grubs and words

and money that feeds me with grime.

I am lucky to be found, that your disappearance

sucks me into a state of surviving dearth.

You are almost as sweet as Death, not as promising,

not enough faults. You subtract anger, turning it white,

bright as amnesia. No opposition, but simple vanilla,

like an estuary dividing me into fresh water and the sea.

I must not extract you from reality to make you mine

— not even when you reconcile my matter

    as if you were the one.

Saturday, February 2, 2013, 11:37 PM –

Sunday, February 17, 2013, 9:27 PM

Karmically I Seek Retribution

Eleven more days in February and I can only invent THREE dumb posts? Incredible. Worst writer, laziest ever.

Because when anyone with too much prejudice tries to ban my creation somewhere, it will only go live on Google. How's that for unfair? Sue me.

Polyvore sets become too dull after five days. All the same colorful, bright, cheerful mood where positivity is the only acceptable theme. Not my kind. I am now convinced that the site is laden with bored teens too unmotivated to do their homework and jaded housewives with nothing to do but reporting people.

Curses.

I still need to fuel my inconsequential blog for something suicidally dark. Where is Depression when I need her most? Ran away with five hours of daily commute to downtown Jakarta, I'm sure.

This month is where I am truly lackadaisical: scanned the news but hardly reading poetry, browsed memes and fashion photos, had nothing to write. Only twice that I composed verses in my mind, but then I decided to sleep instead of securing enough discipline to complete them and post on my blog. Nothing works.

No more whining, no more distraction, no more sleeping if I must. I need to get back into that pensively spiteful and sad mood. Write two poems a day and obligate myself to get serious. This isn't fun anymore.

Sunday, February 17, 2013, 5:38 – 8:55 PM

Karmically I seek retribution is from Darren Hayes's song "I Like the Way".

Spicy Scrambled Eggs

Other than fried rice, scrambled eggs are a very common Indonesian menu for breakfast. This time, I will present you a superhot spicy recipe that is soothing for PMS and very simple to cook.

Remember that this is twice hotter and more pungent than average — even for Indonesians. The first taste will make you say FUCK and run to the fridge to gulp icy water. If you love chilies as much as I do, this will satisfy your cravings.

Ingredients for one serving:

Two chicken eggs.

One scoop of cooked white rice (around eight tablespoons).

Twenty-five small green/red chilies (jalapeno or any hot chilies will do).

One large onion.

Six cloves of garlic.

A half of red tomato (optional).

Sweet soy sauce.

(Bottled) teriyaki sauce.

Chili sauce.

Tamarind juice (exchangeable with lemon juice).

Garlic powder.

Chili powder.

Salt.

Cooking margarine.

Steps:

1. Finely chop chilies, onion, garlic, and tomato. Put all into a bowl.

2. Add sweet soy sauce (one teaspoon), teriyaki sauce (one tablespoon), chili sauce (three tablespoons), tamarind juice (one tablespoon), garlic powder (one tablespoon), chili powder (three tablespoon), and salt (one teaspoon).

3. Crack the eggs and place the rice in the same bowl.

4. Stir everything well with a fork.

5. Heat cooking margarine (one tablespoon) in a frying pan over medium fire.

6. When the margarine melts, pour the egg mixture and stir-fry with a spatula till it disperses into small granules.

7. Continue stirring till the eggs are brownish and the margarine dries up.

8. Serve and scream.

Variations:

• If you prefer toasty dry eggs, add the rice later after the eggs are half-cooked in the pan.
• Rice is replaceable with a pack of instant noodles (cooked with the packaged spices with only minimum water).
• Add other ingredients like sausages or mushrooms or spring onions to your liking.
• Eat the dish with krupuk, a kind of traditional Indonesian snack that accompanies any meal.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012, 2:27 PM –

Sunday, February 17, 2013, 5:11 PM

Blame Reason for Every Contradiction

I am not in love. I do not wish to be.

Sometimes Envy beckons, but I know more of time wasted and hopes squished. Here I am, as lazy as I can. I haven't written anything good (or presentable) since that very first post in February. If I've lost all will to write, may I still term myself a poet? Or would that be a lie?

Nothing is writable, nothing at all. Being jobless (by choice) for four months makes up the most boring period of my life. Thinking about five hours of commuting in a day worries me more. I am doing nothing but wasting away, not even writing, not even wanting to write. This should be worse than wishing to die every hour of every day. It's like... there is no voice in me anymore. I do not desire to say anything to anyone. Not even to myself. Loneliness subsides as I swim deeper into numbness.

Been watching some illegal streaming of American TV shows: Jane by Design, Bunheads, The New Normal, The Carrie Diaries (not exactly a fan), American Horror Story (only the second season), and Suburgatory. It's fun for a while, and then I realize nothing of it matters.

In the past three days, I also create new sets on Polyvore. I'm trying to purchase combat boots online but too lazy to contact the seller. They might not look best on me without those ten centimeters of heels. So, I simply patched outfits using combat boots on amelanniza.polyvore.com. These are two examples:

Today's Ingredients for Pleasure

You search; I flee

Impatience is here beside me —

                              I am she

Endear Thor's gales and glazes

that your little pleasure is now ruinous

They hunger, like mine,

for cold mayonnaise butter running thick

on my two fingers, blowing wet sloppy kisses

ripe as a million reddening berries

Come night, come noon,

cream and sex swirl in jagged Alpine spirals

crystallized on top of a saccharine straw

Are you not sweet every four PM?

Floral explosions bury me deep

in their incensed wars of forget-me-not

I could not care less even if I told you

of my sad surrender in yesterday's afterglow

Male weaker than female —

I am merry in my might, whimpering as

an Egyptian sorceress in lithium batteries,

spewing riddles soft as shrubbery

Solve me, stranger —

I am the answer to all your atheistic prayers,

the indecency you salivate each morn

Rub me with your anticlimactic love

as your veins shot blushing fireworks

into an emotionless brain:

                                        finally, finally!

Thursday, January 31, 2013, 10:17 PM –

Friday, February 1, 2013, 9:42 PM