Hail Raymond!
The corners of the room is with you
The silence of the room is within you
The empty and the hollow feeling
is reaching a thousand yards down,
aiming for your throat and you cover
your heart just a little tight for no butterflies
to escape

The sunlight intruder through the window
tells what muscles are made for and you're
not one for more than the hours a creative
mind to waste

The night is your salvation,
Words, alcohol and cigarettes are your
salvation

You don't go well .

As businessmen, in your eyes, are just
men playing God paying other men to be
their broad daylight bad omen

O Raymond, you've written so many letters
to yourself and you don't read them

You fancy the letters as the steering wheel
of your life and those letters aren't
steering your life well enough to sound
mentally well

Raymond, you have so few friends, vocabulary and ambition for today,
what did you do today that is different
from yesterday?
What limbs you have aching now?

You've become so poetic and yet
you are behind, far away from those who swim happily through the deceiver's pool

Raymond. Raymond!
You need to wake up more than
everybody else, the rapid smoking doesn't
help but if it helps you,
may your seasonal belief in faiths and miracles save you from your flesh.

Raymond, we won't be getting
anywhere anytime soon.

Raymond, don't let go of the last hours
of solitude every night.

It's our only hope.

Raymond, you poor *******.

dead bodies moving dead bodies
you know the theme, the scheme,
the thought and the idea

the bodies, dead, paying the bills,
moving dead past the dawn
eyeballs rolling up as windows
closing and doors close and open

the bodies, mass production,
lots of bodies
Monday, Tuesday, Shitday
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and Christday

Neighbor Allah never greets anyone
and he talks to himself in echoes
Buddha is all smiles and virtues
but no muscle, Buddha's daughters
are out clubbing tonight ******* their
oriental curves, selling their oriental
scents and cold white skin
to Allah's *** deprived sons

Christ is the only father and
he disowns his nieces and nephews,
I knew years back that I am a distant relative

just dead bodies, yours and mine
produce, corporate livestock,
labels from the heaviest bills handed
over in sinister alleyways,
sinister exchanges, hitman to hitman,
extraction to extraction, fraction by fraction,
bodies serves as platforms,
nonliving chopping boards for the butchers
dressed up as elves

the bodies, limb by limb, sagging skins,
rivers of hairfalls, scratch marks,
Ms. Universe stretch marks, the *** tapes
of the cheerleaders whom silent and wise
boys yearned for all through years of fading
innocence

Closeted gay professionals keeping their pointed ******* when nothing's wrong with them until consent turns from probationary to mandatory and hate and red and blue and green and yellow flags and pedophiles and bigots and white supremacists and Allah whisperers and Allah fanatics and Buddha hypocrites and China takes over the world and feminists, and third and fourth and fifth and so on genders and Trump and memes and Filipinos and mental health and memes and mental health and memes and literature and literature and activists and who ****** who and politicians and what Americans, Australians, Chinese, Japanese, British, Candian, Irish and and North Koreans and K-Pop plastic lips and hips who young girls and boys from isolated islands gets ****** for and hipsters and the nine to fives and the ***** to give and the snobbish *** girls in parties, in clubs, in alleys who wants to get ****** by all the celebrity status ***** all just becomes a tiny pinch for the dead bodies not to see and point the flower and shoot the gun to end the human war.

the slowest, heaviest and the
lightest thing the artist carries
is a bag of bones and meat

slouching on the sofa
eyelids as heavy as
boulders

the artist tries to stay awake
as his brain fries for a little
pinch of creativity

the urban pollution embodies
the scene, his inspiration,
and the artist is missing:
gone along with the radio waves

a mild, slow torture is upon
him, he disregards this,
he smokes a cigarette
his eyes lay lifeless
through the night,
as cars, bikes
and garbage trucks fills
his mind

midnight calls him for sleep,
before it,
he remembers some
beautiful things in his
past life and never he
make it past through a single one
on the back of his head

he doesn't want any of it
and he is unconsciously
made to think that way,

he has given all of it away
to the void, doesn't remember
much about everything,
year by year and
what remains is
a shadow of him,
the world was never easy
on him

and the world
always criticized him
with one word:
'pretentious'

because all the world's
intelligence and cunningness
lies solely from that
particular word

with him as a witness
from this comedic
tragedy.

There are nights that I want to
take the world with me

and I just don't know what to
do with its burden,
I let go empty handed
and still feel the weight
on my shoulders.

I turn to people, literature,
and sometimes
to God himself
and still, I come empty like these cigarettes in and out of my system.

It's hard to stay hopeful
when the help that comes out
of their mouths stay
as mere letters in thin air.

For a world that is over populated,
I feel so empty that it's humorous, irrelevant and hidden.  

I just need a little bit of time
to reflect about everything,
from years and years back
and when it all comes clear to me,
I'll shatter the glass:

A final form, reached right
before its due.

What makes you
leave your bed
and
smoke like
it's your last
at night?

Images of a
former love?

Chances
you could've take?

Words you could've
repeatedly
said?

Or committing
another bad
poem?

And so on,
and so on.

There is something about
the silence of the night,
it could be your hollow body,
your exhausted
mechanism,
or
the only hope that
you keep holding onto.

How many cigarettes
does it really take?

How many hours?

How many
scenarios playing
back and forth?

It stops when
you don't realize
that there are
still so many
questions left
for you or
for someone or
for something
to answer.

And in the daylight,
you deal with all that's
unimportant.

In the night,
there's nothing more
important
than dealing
with
knowing what it
takes to sleep
rather
than
exhaustion.

Me,
I try to
take them
all with me.

She's more than
what she think
she is.

She's stubborn and funny,
doesn't want to be
called 'beautiful',
and a little bit of a snob

but I like her that way,
not letting anything
in her way stop her
from getting what she wants

but she doesn't know what
she truly wants.

She's beautiful in her
own kind of way
and she doesn't know
that.

Says that she doesn't
want to get married
because men
always overrule
women based on
some people she knew

but it doesn't bother me
as much as it used to,
as I told her;
our moments together
is what matters to me
no matter how short
our strange relationship
will live.

and when the day
comes she tells of
our story to her
children, grandchildren,
I may not be there
to hear it,

but I know
for a fact that it happened
and

I'm all up for that.

a part of something
I try to become a real part of,
I say 'hello' to a long
time companion,
a long time friend,
a former love,
I'd get a 'hey',
catch up a little bit
and soon enough,
like a room someone's
about to leave,
they'll turn off the lights
and what
would remain
inside
is either
a sleeping soul
or just
an empty room.

It takes a lot to move
a muscle,
a waste of energy,
time,
thoughts
that costs multiple
hours to get over
during
most nights,

and to use your
heart,
you'll have to
pick it up like an unfinished
book,
try to continue where
you left off
but it usually takes
where it began,
remembering
takes a lot as well.

It has
been so long.

I put mine on the floor,
stare at it for a while
and try to see some
good memories
from it,
then leave it
like a grave.

Someone may put
flowers on it
or
someone may
pour whisky on it,
someone may
move it elsewhere
and for sure
it ain't
going
to be
me.