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9.1k · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I would imagine my shoes full of broken wineglass
     and I would bicker, shoot, hum, wring
     carefully take them all out,
     with my godcrazed sweaty hands
I would see hallucinatory men in love, all destroyed with jarring
     scars on their arms because of the Great War,
     wrestle each other to steaks in the dead beach
     moaning with their twenty year old cigars
     still in their tortured mouths
I would see children playing at Dawn,
     They never grow older, always the age of eight
     They all played games with me, especially
     In those Westfield overblown supermarkets
I would dream of a pure Strawberry Field's kingdom,
     With John Lennon’s flannel shirts and a picture
     of some artist’s wife wanting to jump off the Brooklyn bridge
     Thinking I’m related to Napoleon
     who I forgotten about, ever since we left Chinatown that day.

So I called the twenty four hour hotline, where all the suicidal people call in the middle of the night,
      groaning in my bathtub, thinking of my visions,
      knowing one thing, I cried,
      “ I don’t want to turn into a cockroach like Gregor did!”
Instead I turned into a Shakespearean agony girl in two days,
     and wrote dramas in my room at midnight
     hissing of the mistreatment of slaves back in 1821.

After, I wept of the romances of the guiltless terraces in the tiny
     exhaustible corners of the street, in the abandoned libraries,
     and went back to school half-insane filled with gibberish stanzas
     and academics that sounded like more gibberish.

Then, I was I crowned with pinnacle ‘Madness of Thou Brain and Sick Oblivion, with auditory hallucinations’

I gave my one synapse yell to my only friend in town, and they all
     sent me to some institution where I felt more belonging than I
     did in eight years.

I met a girl who was planning to read To **** A Mockingbird in an hour,

I met a boy from Juvie who smoked too much and took too many pills

I met a boy who was just as sick as me, we played Twister in the
     dark until the nurses caught us holding hands,
     I never saw him again after that.

I met a girl who completed her suicide two days before her

Can you see it yet? In the tiny inexhaustible corners of the streets?
     In the abandoned libraries?

In little time, my generation will beat their visions to the streets,
     their innovation will rise to daring freshness.
A poem that reflects the society of modern times, a hallucinogenic mess of questions, but still somehow surviving and standing firm in its ideas.
3.4k · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
     roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
     supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
     fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
     their blue and white skirts blinking across the
     school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
     publishing endless magnificent papers,
     about Shakespearean tragedies,
     among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
     riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
     themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
     listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
     the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
     impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
     hours jumping up and down of wondering where
     to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
     drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
     and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
     disappearing into the small town in the rain,
     lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
     shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
     but ended up sobbing to the dark haired naked ******* the
     Korean drama.
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
     shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
     because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
     a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
     morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
     afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
     I would have poems and catch a quick ****** of the sun,
     go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
     with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
     nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
     the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl
3.4k · Sep 2018
Madonna Skull
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
Greed and sin and fatigue possess our flesh,
we wear the richest quartz
to wash away our stains.
Like a pet we feel the guilt,
our tears lull us to remorse.
We sink into a pillow of a million writhing worms,
too stubborn to move,
Each day our Free mind will **** and kiss vapour
We’re discontent to show our secret streams of captive cries
Into the stinking pit of Man’s Will,
& turn back to our woeful design,
each day we offer vows of faith and
charms to each other,
but turn to filth to flow into our lungs,
A tormented art,
A banal fate,
As we deconstruct passion,
A solitary riot,
A shrivelled nerve,
A flask,
A phantom,
A Madonna skull.
2.6k · Oct 2018
I met a girl
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
As I was standing under the dropping rain,
I talked to a girl
& light as corked nades
She spoke softly
And I
hummed and awkward
To her love for poetry
where her eyes smiled with her speech…
Nowhere else could I find more of a love sweet thing.
We talked for two minutes under the drizzle
While we waited for the rustic buses to come
to pick up our tidy loads
I thanked her
She smiled like how Kindness would have smiled
I beat curses
& thought I near found a lover to be loved
But she said good-bye
And in my sunken mood
the pale cloud drops sank into my shoes.
Would love your feedback <3
2.2k · Oct 2018
Canto 2
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
When the stray-people come cry with me,
Suffering, our teardrops breathe in deriding grief
Of course, I don’t know of God's Love,
But I almost found it when you cried with me.

I am at once an epic stall of misunderstandings,
And sad questions are my reality, if you want,
I will help you find bliss in confusion,
I have wept because I am like this...however,

How is it that I still Love?
It is all at once the constant and pull of my spirit
We wept for Love till the dawn fades into hungry night
But our endeavours stand still, we were together…

Our emptiness walks as shadows
It gathered us in nights, outside the blue-button moon
A mirror of the silvery music,
The moonlight protected us from all crews

We think as bright as gleaming Athena
That all this suffering will end someday,
A flask of hope is notched to our belts
We sleep, one as weighty as damp deep jus

We wait to the slow lyres till night ends
Our bronze armour of youth clings to our hearts
These suicidal hummingbirds don’t go away,
But I can’t run away from insanity

We breathe and find a pink rose for our poor selves
Immerse in pomegranate poetry
For diseased passionate titans, in love with suffering
We blink jewels from our eyes.
1.6k · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
My vision was to create a new language for literature-
But now not only is every solution nonsense & every poem agonising,
I am a child reading too many of today’s poems realising I’ll also be writing long sentences with the purpose of deconstruction & decoration.

I rest in between my own letters of ‘a’ & ‘n’, where I can sit I peace.
Because when I’m doing that, even the spaces will become part of the essence of the work. Say, (if you calculate the movement of this earth on its axis you’ll see its beauty equates to something like the beauty in poems) It is in the essence, we have beauty in the first place.

You see: seeing patterns is the only way around this world. This idea is as flaky to me as a chocolate bar. I’m gonna write and drop my laptop two times before I get it right. I will fail but they take me as naive anyway so I'll laugh at myself because I want to be polite.

Take love, it takes many forms, but the essence remains the same.
Take books, it has variety of plots, but some meanings stay the same.
Take poetry, we can destroy form, rhyme, meter, but in its essence, the feeling remains the same.

We should write to construct a new language of unity, with a clearness to our imagination, and rely on the essence of the work to make its way to the heart.
1.6k · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
We can travel to the balloon domes in the crazy city,
We’ll bring our pink poppers and dine near the soft corners
And we'll be comfortable.
You'll give me a mad kiss on my scratched cheek, I’ll close my eyes,

We're lucky, we think we're rare.
We’ll bring our lucky cameras and take cherry Polaroids
And the ink will stain your sleeve by accident...
We’ll sit in the back of the bus,

While the evening,
pulls faces on us...
1.5k · Oct 2018
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
If song be the source of comfort, listen while it lasts
Of mere countenance shows the pleasing suffered mind
And young Pan will turn to his plaid bagpipe,
The pastel rhythms bring blissful evergreen song
As I look outside, I find the ranched moon hollow
From the empty inhales of notes so high-reached
It popped the moon & bleeded moonlight the more
Like the sippings of hard apples is sweetness of the tune
Brought to near tears, and woven crescendo crisps,
The wavelengths as exponential boughs and troughs,
Stolen her breath as I listen to Music’s golden swings,
And the pickings of a more fitting song, Make a woman
     Slighted and bent in emotion at music’s touch,
     Bending time to a halt, as surrendered passion seized.
1.3k · Oct 2018
Canto I
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
During the pensive seasons of Spring,
I felt rotten, as if a puck of ghouls
splashed their bitten sheets on me…
Sometimes, if my mind is playing tricks,

The piercing pink heaven will sing
Of honey anti-love that bites the
Soft drumming of jelly like me,
Who dance in the waves of instability.

My imaginary friends will scream on anchored sailboats
Coming back, shouting, "There! From the distance,
we travelled with Trouble up our shirt-sleeves,
And notice, they are quite unlike any other…”

I welcome them, the fairy-tale stray-people
The deluded and lonely, what are they doing here?
We only sleep when the sun stops, but curse Beauty! I say
That sun, what embers brighten your linear touch?

What heroes can beseech the crown of Love?
We bring them to the centres of the earth,
But there it’s empty, there spring wed-diamonds folds the earth
And silhouettes dance on our naked-land bodies.

I know what bitterness I hold inside me, so I crawl  
Inside corruption, let myself choke,
into my comfortable dwellings of my modard youth,
It is sad to hate it. Let the men **** on my shame,

Let me highlight mortality in a word
That death near touched me through a veil,
With a bicker finger-point to my delirium-brain
That death seems a golden merriment, except

In night-time I will continue to rot,
In angst, in mourning, in hell’s sweet wit
That I will soon die than have perfection kiss me
With a bow, I wish to leave, it’s time to turn to Love

I told them instead to set these verses, &
Sing all they want, to the azure chorus of Spring
And to keep recklessness in your pocket,
We are lucky, to have Love bleed under our skin.
Part 1 of a Cantos of hallucinatory experiences and journeys with my fantasies and reality.
1.2k · Sep 2018
Gumball friend
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I feel stressed, I need a gumball.
The gumball machine was in the library where all my friends were studying.
With their apple laptops and $5 pens.
I just wanted a gumball to clear my head, for God sakes.
No I didnt want to study...
There I found a new friend in the Hurstville Library again.
He should've seen me read Tolstoy.
I'm obsessed with T.S Eliot.
I pray to him every week.
My friend didn't laugh at my sonnets, but he understands I have vision.
Oh I'm sorry for being so intelligent, Stephen, I'm sure you'd prefer something, nice, and lovely and feminine.
My psychiatrist thinks I'm two thirds there.
All I'm eating are tomato sandwiches to slim down.
Still lucky to be on six medications not shock therapy though.
He thinks I need to eat the gumball to calm down.
I throw the gumball at him, “take both of them”
1.0k · Oct 2018
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
The bitter blueness of melancholy hit and kissed me,
That beastal mood, who vouches in burdened pity,
It wraps me in sickly heart-strings & closed me tight,
Longing for breath, I near choked in agony streams,
How passive is this music, while trembling Venus sparks Love,
With long beams of hope declared, but little is there for me!
I so wish my heart will collapse, that suns of silver
Teach me to seek her Light, but with my endeavours lost,
I sit by holy castings of dying babels and their mothers
And weep with them, soon to replay their parts,
Should I suffer these heating cries or leave my place?
The invisible lashings of Melancholy has wounded me,
     Forlorn music plays His beating, and he will not leave me,
     Nor can he be tamed, even by the flaming might of Nike.
1.0k · Sep 2018
Ezra Pound
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
Brimmed hat, scruffed beard, fixed gaze - who is Ezra Pound?
Sir, may I be your friend?
I am also sensitive, very shy, lonesome
Institutionalised four times,
We made it through in the end

I’m not Shakespeare, but we’d make a
Good pact, a team of poets
With our visions,
And love of dejected paintings
I’ll die trying to be quite as precise as you
Sir, may I be your friend?

We’d make a good pact.
Inspired by Pound’s A Pact.
736 · Dec 2018
Schubert & Debussy
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
Come, come, music,
While I kiss your melody
Not even I, can measure
how much love you hold

Hush, listen - the soft tiptoes
So gently, tenderly - sweet!
Your tune is so light
Pure bubbles meet

Schubert’s humming butterfly
Almost forgets the May bliss
She placed Music on a flower
Till her ripples lay in care

Come, come, sweet music
The moon may wink at you
And charm may sleep
Now those notes, she will bloom

Hush, lift the sleepy light
Well done Debussy – O dear
Roses shall dream of pulp’d verse
And music, she well knows what she hears.
Inspired by Keats, Schubert's Impromptu No.3 & Debussy
732 · Dec 2018
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
What do it, he do
Jonny do, his black shoe
Living simply, lives his life
For nineteen years he lived
Daring to punch holes, breathe, achoo

Boyish fun, little time I had with you
You said goodbye before I could
Lips heavy, a hubbub smell of Klein
Ugly me with a broken ****
Tiny as Poseidon’s pool

You come with an Atlantic hug
Pouring my beautiful cotton over you
Near the waters and sheets off
Nausea! I pray you recover my blue
Balm, adieu

Your Chinese tongue, in this Bogan dream,
Lifted by my Caucasian club dance
Of zest, zest, zest
Funniest meeting you, you dandy ham
My Math teacher.

Says you’re a good dozen or two
Could let out my strangeness for you
Put your foot, on my insane root
Then I could feel good for you
But your tongue is stuck in my face.

Midnight rant with ramen coma.
Ugh, Ugh, Ugh, Ugh
We can hardly speak after
I thought every Jonathan was you.
Here comes the language of sighs

A camera, a camera,
Clicking pictures like a curse
A picture to your phone, apple eyes,
I began to talk like Siri.
I think I may well be dreaming.

I have always liked your sincerity,
With your backpack, and your gooeygoo lips
And your light moustache,
And your different lids, softly blinking
I’ll sleep well on your body, Lover-man, O You-

No God for you, but Nietzsche would be okay too
Virtues still squeak through
Every girl adores good patience
The picture I have of you,
I can see love on your patient chin

You’re at the top Jonny,
Let’s try not break our pretty red hearts in two
I was seventeen when I met you
At sixteen I tried to die
And get back, back, back with someone new

You pulled me out of the sack,
And you stuck me together with glue
And then I knew what I wanted to do.
I made myself the best model for you,
A poet in a sundress with a crazed look.

And now a Love of the beauty and the beast.
I said I’m the beast, not you
So Jonny, I’m happiest through.
Months of friendship if you want to know,
Jonny, you can love me too

There’s something you can make out of my fat heart
A dancing accessory for you
I’ll be dancing for you,
From the hospital to library, I knew it was you.
Jonny, Jonny, you Lover-man, I do, I do love you.
For Jonathan.G
Inspired by Plath
642 · Sep 2018
The Playwright
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
The imagination is evidently pure; its here --
The ascent of ideas and valiant colours, and hysterics
In matrimony- on this delirious evening mood
(But he needs more paper to write)

We are familiar with The Great what's-his-name?
Ah - The Bard, out of the reserved shadows he would abrupt,
Create scenes of quiet saints turned to garrulous beings
(But he needs more paper to write)

On his tattered paper, he would write of idle witches, comedies, tragedies, of
The insanity of Love, the flaws of princes, fools, knights,  daughters, servant boys,
His work resembles that of festival with black and blue harlequins
(But he needs more paper to write)

The pity for Jesters, Twice as bloomed as the audience laughs at him!
What pessimism, what insanity, caused such a twist in this plot? they say
To understand the agony of the human spirit, where he writes inexhaustibly
(But he needs more paper to write)...

580 · Oct 2018
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
I take the pain of life, and feed it laughter
Of solace, of crusade vids, of dumb rage,
     Bring fear to a halt, one ha!
Now twice, it may shift the human severed mind
Sighted laughter begets, begets
A nerve pulled to uproar update to joy
Pondered the learned man shy to gilded scoffs
But finds chuckle over Beauty fooled
Over Love's lot bellow to inner fondness,
     Bring fear to a halt, don hey!
Kind Beauty closed her eyes, bumped swollen laughter
Never shy, reside timely laugh till breathing troubled,
It’s wasted bounty near to live without wit's mirth
How worshipped laughter able free fear behind the smile.
321 · Sep 2018
Ma jolie fille, à moi
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
There’s dirt on her shirt, after the rain.
She rubs it off a thousand times.
'It's not coming off.'
She wanted to cry.
She lay on the pale bedroom floor,
with her ***** white shirt,
with the rain outside her window.
A flash fiction.
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
I met several doctors who I made a trust,
With care they spoke with a calming tone,
A human mind can only honour a doctors grace & will
So in verse I speak of still, beloved doctors as fellow-fearing men:

A hand in need, make you a friend indeed, or not,
He walks in the room and sits with you, then
You ramble on too many gawping lines of Apollo
But gentle as a musk-shadow, he listens still

Next to you is your mother,
Who speaks lowly, bows her head to her child’s
Baffling monster-lines as flowery gid nearly
Chokes you to a slight dizzy nuzz.

The doctor's tired but nowhere else
Can your delirium be talked about, it’s a sign
The times of medicine, the wanton times, perplexity on your face
Can ring more information to him that your words

You speak softly of your stupid butting voices
That nags you when you sleep,
That your temperate sighs just as constant,
You hope the doctor puts you to sleep.

You talk about the Swedish sailor you write to
With regards to the young boy’s permission,
He never seems worry about a thing,
It’s your only friend perhaps

And the cruellest stormy month won’t help
With the raging episode of a seventeen-year-old
You’re suddenly tired, and the doctor bids an increase
Of your sombre tix to more milligrams, more dulled yonder

What doctors learn to find in your unstable state,
An array of some positive meaning,
That doctors do, what do they must go from
Person to person, exchanging notes of you, with you

That their tiresome intellects don’t stir their patience,
Few patients greet them in desperation, busy men and women who
In the span of day, practise and train their hearts
To be these masters of people’s happiness.
263 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
All I want is to always be very young, with no worries of tomorrow. It'll just be the vitality in our bones as we dance to our tune of childlike bounces. This is where my dreams align and present-high dimensions seem so bright. Where I pocket my enthusiasm in a tight knot and play with it every-time my brain tingles with an idea. I want to recover my childhood with a pop!...
To my friend who have looked at me in all my childlike personas, you are a sport, you are a dancing pal.
252 · Oct 2018
Dream Land
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
As my dream world does not need any eyes to see
Fainted-sight nearly never lose its vision,
To find truth as of a wonder spectacle,
Near as the interlaced connections in my mind
Will spark a fantastic find or wish or click
In sound of a new sight for all to see:

A pungent child, and distinguished clown, his loud bellows
Of laughter and inspite of joyous encasement,
a frowning juggler, a coy boy in boots
And a fluorescent jumping castle
Muddled in a festival of such this May,
Merry people below thousand scattered balloons

All of manic heights from feisty whirlpool rides.
That these festivities might twirl into a dream land
That pokes at little men in need to mischief-hay
Embers of cooking sausages, discussion from the winner-goat race
The purplish-nagging bubble-gum that
Lands on the mother's heeled shoes…

What somethings did we wish for? Standing mext to
the exquisite gushing of lemonade frenzy stall
Seven bright women dance on stage,
Their Columbian accents beating and developed,
Teenage archery competes to Artemis cue
Within a wrinkle they missed the grains of cash

And seven hundred travellers roam the grass
Perform their coy group marches, crowds gaping
And it pleases the children.
Dionysus breathes warmth & chuckles to the place,
The gracious torch fell on the harlequins backstage
With their panpipes and rainbow flags.

The son of the policeman was dressed as the Genie
For some reason, he liked to flock the youth
Together in a circle.
And there was always a grazed stuntman in the centre.
there was mad-shouting and the children
Took no notice of the drizzling rain.

What grace-frenzy dreamland this might show
That it will be sad outcome for it to be in only one mind
To express the mist of experience
In a word or two, seems perplex-hard to do
I arrange such wonderland and fairy love
In a seamstress of rose-tinted speech.
247 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018

As she lay dying there in the sleeping water under vigil skies,
Her paleness and poised hair drooped as her soft ankles thinned.
On this dying night, weeping violets and lonely daffodils sweep beneath her
Under the damsel skies, where the stars were bright, with rose tinted spectres above.

What innocence! Where soft eyed men pour their souls in foaming despair
Floating in dew time; Flowers shake beneath her quiet memories
Only in a dream, she felt, that the rivers let her go with no sweet pain,
Away from the foggy embrace of soft manes, called ample to sleep!

Within her sighs, pathetic Nature vile her against the Fumes of men
Yes - there she drowned! Twice the burden on the crazed self, her poor mind!
Although it seems as it were too lonely, the desolation and stillness, soft as muses
For twice she died! For the scatterings of a Man's heart, and bruised voices pouring forth

It is not plain to see the Spring turn to dreary sounds of woe in ember
She died with a Love, like a pale knight of many dying conquests!
What soft kisses fill her body's breath; polished gentle hands float
In the abyss of roaring sounds of freedom, as sweet as a White butterfly!


And with her handsome self, her garments flow deep as winter's face, to the bottom!
Ploughing ceaselessly against the bitterness of Denmark's treasures, darkling we listen
To her angelic voice that melts her own hair, preserve what's left of her!
The Tender innocence! The forlorn child! As we stood in tears against our land, dreary!

Yes- You have died! The breath of the disastrous wind played a part in you passing.
And we wake in incandescence, Is this a dream or a bitter awakening?
That your little lips won't touch the cheeks of your lovers,
Nor your several hells fail to come terms with the love you have cherished

What can April flowers do to your begone body? What shall I dream now?
A curse to valour and nobility?  What beauty lies beyond her?
The pale voice of Love bestows you, the distant cheers of men at sea
With your twisted hair curl towards the seasonable thickets of death

It is in much grace and passing style you have made the saddest heart bleed
That your weariness leans yourself towards perilous seas, heavy once more
We remember with pompous caution the fragile heartstrings of man
The poor madness, leading Men to bow the knee to preserve your infinite virginity.


And the poet, comes seeking for flowers in the garden for her passing,
Where she picked a great Lily, poor Ophelia, will be for all, everlasting.
Inspired by the Shakespeare's Hamlet
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
What sound, what fury be the lovers words?
Now promised love anew, sliding head,
Restless heart, heaping sighs, mislead
The bounty confines of wrenched fool,
Thinks for the aching punnet flock of doves -
was mistrusted, for lovers speak kind lunacy
Nor loving poet seeks to find, lesser woe,
Better woe, against the eyes of his lovers’ gum,
Till they fiddle gently to the dire back,
Marvel sounds, magic times, songs of past
Fiddle with earliest lovers’ charm, go forth
Ending heat turn back to warmth
For separate time, distant chores, some fume
      Settled on her lover’s chin till nigh
     And lover’s words gone rest to ghostly chime
Inspired by Shakespeare
240 · Dec 2018
You say you love
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
You say you love, depriving me!
I see ten thousand lovers’ kisses,
Beside their dying babes,
O speak of their love, due, profound,
Touch the fire, with your heart.

You say you love, strangely me,
What do, the painful sleep of agony
Steep, thrusting, bled the blue in me
O wishing star, love me fair
Sting of an angel, you do to me

You say you love, clear speeches
It lives to fail with sad character,
A mossy act of false, what empty love!
With richer fondness you can cherish
My wailing heart of golden fire

You say you love, truly?
My vein bleeds a lofty care
My jealous merriment, for you
On my fixed love, it bruised my heart!
With twice nets beneath the blade

You say you love, grand cues but,
What sad cheeks you turn to me,
O show your fire - o show a littlest fire,
Which blow to deepen bliss to love
With stain, will bloom my daft heart!
Inspired by Keats
218 · Dec 2018
Resting Song
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
With woe, rest – heed, then bow
        Heed, then bow
Tomorrow will chance a lesser woe
        What blessings go find
A better sleep than a thousand so
        Snores of slumber began rest
In idolatry, restore the body raw
        Till lessened troubles,
        till rested woe.
207 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
The terraces and neglected cafes stays pretty, and even quiet.
The weight of day. The sunset sugar pills. Blue lamppost, a big blue.
Teasing ******* friend, mocking the boy with the piercing on this left face,
The lipstick was twice priced, yes so, A one, five and two with two makes ten.

The chit chat after more chat of short people, talk people, spokespeople
and Notpoeople. Strike twelve, now boredom. His huffing flu resolved itself
"Yessum," he tried saying. For whatever reason. Was a boyfriend of hers.

Indecisive of the next blow. With his little socks and socks of red and green
Put on orderly. Hopes to avoid his thickening, unforgiving secret. Still mixed clues.
A puzzle, a puzzle piece in the centre of question. Arises the attitude remedy.
His only skill is comedy.  A blaze morning sun rises now. Oh dear, not now.

Strolls about resembling exactly of kings. A King, he told himself to be like.
Waiting, waiting, in a hurry he's waiting to wait for the girl to come, presently.
In Proportions, he waits presently. So easy and a little hasty, here she comes -

Sugar on ice, not all but a slice delight, my precise precise. Having lunch,
Delicacy lemonade, in likeness, with a perfect meal with sauce on fries.
There's too much honey in his drink - Tender change, good meal they say.


They lost each other in April,  A signal of hurt was played in a collection of rue.

She was left with a blister, mostly solemn, absent and good.

The terraces and cafes remain pretty, and even quiet.
Life at Seventeen
207 · Dec 2018
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
Drink all unkindnesses through with gay creamy glugs
The rested brain of reason with senses drowned, with
No polished quality, nor with the beauteous likeness of tact!
The shift to jumbo laughs, till the song of drunkenness arrives
Come near, booming bounty! We’re the kindred who punch so high,
Like easy fools with faded heads, with a bottle-tease for Life
Our eyes blinker to the clippings of a soft-ochre melody,
Till the butting vows of deepest yearnings spill free
We wish to define our flying feet to straighten placement right
And with pulsing heads squirm to the Deed of liquor
Till it reaches slur-banter, and having nothing, fixing nothing,
We fall to the floor, our frolicked bodies sadly squatting
      Against the beating numbness, in reward for a dying mind
      Till rounded Time pats the lofty heart made once more sound
Inspired by getting drunk, then a hangover.
196 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
k, let’s go!
     Kanye told us to leave Radiohead behind and after class Josh
     will buy scotch
     The hound in our area won’t bother us no more.

      Nah she’s a dude, chill

Aight, let’s go!
     We have Bluetooth,
     We have Post Malone and Bernie Sanders still rite?

Adeleine's letter will eventually find its way to his post,

k, let’s go!
     Video games are a virtue.
     Mr Hoffman, science teacher,
     nearly scored a goal on Tuesday,
     he's so...[[lit.]]

Watch here:
     Tv anime girl with candy butchered by a man-turned-robot...

"The parcel came in two days early for you Joe," mum said

Juniors flee to-

Enough, let’s go!
    Boy lovers; ily lovers
    Everyone dreams of Dumbledore's palace, his poetry breaks our


­Kanye’s gig went bam bam dilla bam
                               Bam dilla bam bam
Josh died of liver failure at 54.
The hound came back, limping in the grass,
The girl-boy became depressed.
Joe slept with Adeleine.
The boys got married in 2026,
Mr Hoffman cried w a book that night. &
The juniors ran away from home.
Experimenting with language in hopes to find a new language. I wanted to capture, not the entirety of the teen, but the essence of him/her.
195 · Oct 2018
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
I feel lonesome at seventeen,
To think too much of the giddy past
During golden times of juggling laughs in
Full classrooms and challenge food for thought
Where disappointment lays flat and thin, we wait
In angst, in delight, for our charging marks,
But that was then, now this is life.

The damning weight and press of the times,
Where treasured mind lacks youthful extempore,
We write on the brief paper, hoping
The ink will write us golden words & slow the beat,
We will sooner fail than to reach the top
We hope to Triumph- breed in our scratching minds!
Until its over, the humming invite to the world ticks

After, we decide to leave to the frolicsome universities,
Ten thousand men and women sit,
Gaze at the attended paper, silenced to daydream
And professors Bleed the last strain of knowledge,
Youth is spectre and her song will best be on her way,
To a gushing point of cherished memories, and
conquests of teen-humour, loved tenderly.
194 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
We were once seventeen,
When everything is at its finest
With our first taste of champagne but
We prefer lemonade instead;
and our
Bodies with so many hormones,
o ****!
To learn we are naively in love;
with some boy who outwits you.
We play
Video games and eat too much.
The finest seventeen days were when we gave our fears a beating.
After two music festivals,
we would walk around the hills,
and then go to beach where we would talk in the cafes in the evenings.
At night,
we would be in her house with the windows open,
and the stars bright,
and after that we would say goodnight.

It'll all end in April.

We were once seventeen,
When everything was at is finest.
Inspired by Rimbaud’s poem Novel.
168 · Sep 2018
Girl with Blue Coat
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
Girl with the blue coat.
'Suicide,' they said.
The Friday of May. Now for sale: Blue coat, not worn since May.
Inspired by Hemingway’s Baby shoes six word story: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
162 · Nov 2018
Senses I
Angela Liyanto Nov 2018
He popped her button sleeve
She kissed his giant hand,
O how her feet felt strained,
As Fiery pleasure plays unplanned

Holy goodness!
He started to kiss her neck
Oh, the world stops right now
She leans for gasps, o heck, o hell

He toppled on her little body
“Come I’ll show you darling”
The fundamentals, We’re such of love…
And white love tapping comes jarred

O don’t get us caught now
Her body’s too tender!
With his eyes closed,
She gave him a joy to keep

How does he charm her?
What eternity does he promise?
A listless love!
An unbinding joy for us

But the rain pulls faces on us
Milky moons come close to our charm
She’s lays forever a whirlwind
But still he loves, he loves

The levelled play kills her to yawn
Gorging tongues eat her delicate soul
She is a beautiful lover
That walks by his side.
144 · Sep 2018
Five Children at Dawn
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I see carefree girls play and triumph in zest and fun
Their bubbly eyes can speak no more innocence
Their fringes and locks of blonde hair twirl around
In all lightness! They keenly feel the grass beside their feet.

When there was an empty trampoline beside them
They hurled! with mighty shout and fired the deepest seat
And jumped! without doubt or rue or cry or fury
Where childhood bends the need for drowsy yawns.

Away! They hurled on the nets! Their dumb skirts like garments flow!
Their red faces greeted each other: running, amidst the grass
Around the metal hoops and under the trees, forlorn and deep
The message of youth being played, battled before me!

I sit in baked silence: at the balcony in the noise of the distant cheers
The rally of Hope's victories - running times is so sweet!
I learn to love their youth so dear, when childhood wasn't fit for me
Pulling time as close to youth, how fleeting at dawn it is.
139 · Nov 2018
Angela Liyanto Nov 2018
Dear sister unmatching your youth may be,
But let it grow spectre over yonder years will make true
Of Beauty’s wrappings over weighted wrinkled see
Till seventy summers be enriched by life’s long cue
I bumped to girl-hood between acoy numbers,
Fostered strong arms, and dubious holy head as well
To think of youthful misery in part for me, I  must
stroke young beauty’s cursed cheek, signed less of love
Than more of tender amiss, to see beauty-havens
What more does my jealous heating know?
Which sister’s beauty lays shaky as glassware,
If you look at your mirror, witn hazed heart droop,
     You’ll see old company, as stable bliss as she
     Soon to be distant fate for due time’s tender agony
134 · Oct 2018
Laughter II
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
I look into a mirror and force a smile
In that instant, Humour took me my the throat,
And humour had me choking, hardly breathing
in smiles of teeth , more of in spirit,
When blossomed boredom will shine a gladden Mood
Let our wanton laughs be made of golden sounds
The mirror looks back, double-dumbness show
like a live clown to be guffawed with a tool
Brings self righteous joy, need not tear up anymore
Laughing at the self be hilarity in essence,
A good homely warmth after few humble breaths
And until we see our joksters, putrid-blue smiling
Now everything seems at humour tone,
what goodness is the self sounding tune of laughter.
126 · Sep 2018
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
Little boy, with killer spirit. Died eating a cashew.
120 · Oct 2018
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
How can I, poesied writer, articulate Love?
Whoever loves, whatever loves, that soft-cheeked gentle Love,
That drives rhubarb spring into song, at Her sight
And melted passion seeps through chocolate thoughts
As self-giving women comforted in blossomed words,
Men find long ways to bring her dreams true,
As destined tune to conflict, rambles of thought & silent gestures
Remain to their nurture-kinds, from back as young lovers
Be familiar to the red-stained aroma endured til age,
Till Spring reaches its flower-cycle,  near sweet sway of doves
Of Father’s scared entwined, between heroic mundanity
Which brings clearest example of practise of Love,
     Near transparency developed to undefined great tender touch,
     Inside the burning case find treasure in Love’s safe.
115 · Sep 2018
Woman stubbed her pinkie
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
O *****, ***, ****, *******, sweet darling!
She cried.
Moved with feeling, I wept, I understand you!

— The End —