the rain drowned us.

it was in the depth of the afternoon,
on a sudden early summer,
a sad four pm that cradled us
when the rain started to pour
from its tearducts.

just when there was no place,
may it be in the heart of the garden
or a small hut out in the ruins of a parking lot,
we were, at the nudes and naked, nowhere.

but the rain stopped

but no, no creeping sun

and when the clouds cleared up
and our thoughts all silenced up,
it was us on an idle bench
which was somewhat wet and damp
from the light rain;
we were nowhere.

the rain drowned us.

If you let me explore
you with my rougish tongue,
through your cavities
and my carnalities,
to the stark nakedness
of your flesh and your soul,
and you’d let me have
a piece of your beautiful
beautiful mind,
I would enmesh it with
my own broken
and ****** soul.
We would be one,
heartbeats in sync,
and fingerprints, and the
panorama of memories would
bind themselves in order
to be a creature, as one,
whose enigma permeates
through the walls of this
inexplicable phenomenon. You
will satisfy the longingness
yearned by each atom that
constitutes my being, and I,
a speck of invisible stardust
in the universe, would
radiate the faintest glimmer
of light enough to suffice
the life you need.

May 2, 2015
Saturday*

What are figures anyway?
Are they accurate
Or simply just a mere calculation,
Converted from Fahrenheit to Celsius?
And as this infernal summer sun
Blasts itself high in the noon,
What are figures really?

What are figures anyway?
Let the waterworks fall,
Those cumulonimbus clouds cry
Tears crash upon the asphalt;
Nevermind that it’s summer,
Just let it rain.

And all would be well
If you just let the love flow,
Regardless of the statistics
Of the population of broken hearts
That fall in love
In the cascades and ruins of untimely rain.

And each snowflake–
Distinct and different
Falls and is caught
In your thimbleweed-lashes
As it flutters against my cheek,
Against butterfly kisses,
In the Central Park.
And there we were
Nothing but frostbites
And mothers’ mittens
And childhood spirits.
Bells begin to ring,
Like the ones from
Years of yesterdays.
And what you did back then
Was let each snowflake–
Distinct and different,
Fall upon you
Like magic sprinkled on a dream.

She’s a bone-clung loveless girl,
pillows and comforters of wanted love
suffice and supply her with the stardusts in the night,
along with the ebbing and flowing waves of her sailboat dreams.

And he is a wanderer of wanderings
with eyes that are ready to take over and under the world;
packed with all the innocence and bottled-up love songs,
with the boyish playful smirks in the curls of his smile.

Then, it just so happened that the world shifted.

They are souls meant to be.

It just so happened that two stars collided
and a magic-bag spilled all over the place.
It was a constellation pulled in threads, needles and bobble pins.
The universe was never the same after that nanosecond.

And he’d look at her
with decency and yet with batted lashes
of course, with all the guts he could muster to put up for her
as she still suffers in uncertainty
treading on thin, thin ice
caged heart, skinny love and knotted locked heart.
Puzzle pieces perfectly fitting and filling
the gaps and holes and blotches and emptiness.

Two worlds smeared with the colors
of radiant red, pastel blue and hope
lost-and-found pair of hearts
that are far apart
yet entangled and tied and bound
by the red fate heartstrings,
never ceasing to tug monotonously
on their constant constrained heartbeats.

They are souls meant to be.
And souls meant to be.
And souls meant to be.

Filter the perfect shade of the forenoon sun,
Not too bright, not too dull.
For with ease and carefree thoughts,
You let the sunbeam-drizzling fairies play
As the beauty reflected in your retinas.

Capture this scenic view:
Where the burnt chestnut colored oaks
And mudstained sweetheart sundress of yours
Dance in three-four beats of waltz.
The Crayola strokes of the skies
And the watercolor streaks of daydreams and nightmares
Paint the canvas of your disquited thoughts.
This is the peripheral view from your suncrashed irises and corners,
This is your world.

Let your knees down to your sore feet
Be engulfed by the chasms of the bewildered grass,
As the smile makes it way to your plump spring lips;
Callused fingers from guitar strings
Twirl and twist the blades,
Cutting through flesh
And green and red and blue and yellow,
All sorts of color came spilling from your playful bruise.

From this panoramic view of yours
Of a wonder wonderland,
Where the ticks of clock
Follow the sunflower throughout time and forever,
This is the beauty of that stem:
A key to escapism
To a well-dreamt lovely world.

We all perhaps know how Wendy waved at the night sky,
bid a goodbye as good as a farewell,
at the illusion of a pixie dust-flickered cloudscape
of a voyage setting sail
to dreams and fantasies stretching beyond time and infinitum.

And she was showered with so much
faith, trust and pixie dust,
quaint tiny love-stained lips
promises a kiss and sealed acorn, tight around her neck.
And the sparkle in the glances of her
lovely pair of blue crystal teals
manifest in the whereabouts of a star second to the right.

But the Big Ben struck half past childhood
and play pretend and silky nightgowns are long time over.
Innocence is robbed by a shadow
lurking in the premises of what could have been
for once the clicking of the keys
to the lock and latch of the gates of the yesteryears,
it could not be undone.

The hook of a deceiving treachery
robbed all the glow of a child’s pearl laced smile
and the mere belief of the existence of fairies and the magical mystical boy
who never grew up.
She once laced her hands with his,
past ephemeral and London night,
and straight on till morning.

The desires of her heart got lost in the sea of nowhere,
as it raced against the foolish time;
we all perhaps know how Wendy is never never return
to never Neverland.

Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.

He dips his feet.

There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.

He swims along.

And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.

He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.

Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.

*He has crossed the river.

If you are absurd
And you love it,
Then you would probably
Love this tale as well.

I love to be in the nostalgia
Of the bitter and blatant;
No cream, no milk,
Just the black swirls and whirls with rivulets of tears.

And postcards were scarce
And you play Ella Fitzgerald
And drink seven cups a day,
And no, honey, it’s totally fine.

Delve and dive in the nightmares
Of the past and the disgusting cheap latte,
And add tears instead of brown sugar;
It’s the best coffee you’ll ever have at two in the morning.

Explore the timid quiet night life;
Hear the billows of the gushes of the wind
And the orchestra of the grasshoppers
Within the blades of the knee-high grass.
And as the fairies and nymphets,
Dance under the umbrellas and mushrooms
And the star-clusters of constellations,
Walk past through the lane where lovers embrace,
And you, all alone, with no lover or so,
Just have to fall in love with whatever there is
To fall in love with.
The wax of Artemis, and the wane of Diana
Beams at you in static cinema-like spotlight;
The ghost of a girl with a battered heart
And the dew-damp earth and rain
On an empty 10pm cafè
And the scent of a purple paradox,
Oh, it’s death and so lively magic,
Fill the night.

Pick a petal,
And pick another one
And feel the stardusts coming into life.

You deafen yourself with the billows of your mind.
The infrared waves ebbing
that crash and bang against your brain corners,
leaving blotches and scraps and holes
of tattered exhaustment.

My dear, you delve and revel into dark waters
rivulets of teardrops and insanity
travel down through your nape
as if they are atoms that constitute
your whole existence.
Clashing with the demons and phenomenal apparitions
that reside within your internal gates of hell.

Hear the clang of brazen swords
of mind thoughts and spilled ink.
Hear them paralyze you from the mind
to the futile pinky finger of yours.
Dispersed souls and impenetrable
stringed quartets of words.

Love this.
Embrace this.

This room wherein you caged yourself
With detrimental insanity that sale past through
seas of thousand madmen’s minds.

This is your all.
This is what composes your all.

Greater than the universe that
your knowledge has managed to stretch its feet upon
and all the elements you ever know combined.
Greater than all those fed up imaginations
of your childhood.
See them with your eyes,
see them and bask in its beauty
that has its venom sink down
to the ivory crystal of your bones.

*This is your all.