let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Reading: some shitty Internet news.
Listening to: bread seller, rooster, the wind, the wind.
Last watched: Scorpion.
Mood: abandoned.
2014 October xx, 6:42 AM.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

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

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

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.

Monday, February 25, 2013

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

Thursday, February 21, 2013

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

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

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

Monday, February 18, 2013

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".

Sunday, February 17, 2013

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

Thursday, February 14, 2013

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:






Friday, February 1, 2013

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