NRIKO Sep 12
sea art in the form of red.
throw a body in, watch
the fraud blue turn into
milky red.

have it for breakfast,
fill a glass with it half-empty,
fill your mind with it
half-full, watch yourself
by the mirror

ever so asymmetrical,
and so you can't fix your
identity - watch yourself
turn into more
meaningless milky maroon.

but of course its good
for your bones.
scramble around, legs
chopped off, hands
untouched but mind

prevalent to succumbing from
a bullet shot but now
that you think about it
that bullet hole
takes the shape of a
slender woman's finger.

human art in the form
of primitivity, stab each
other in places of erogeneity
and lack of trust.
the kind where sea art
takes place right after
individual human expiration.
or the stabbing.

the stabbing, i tell you.
i tell you . i tell you.
but you'll look at me
differently, knowing you'll
hand me money
instead for tonight's

and take yourself away
back to the sea.
who threw you in, i wouldn't know.
but sea art takes place
in the form of milky blood.

and so i have my
physical memories of
you for nutrients and
for breakfast.

[optional pt.2]

there's no need for
grocery money

but it is not me
who eats

i simply
watch the ones

they are

yet they
call a

"sea art".

this was a mess basically this doesnt really have much purpose but its quite interesting to me, so i decided to upload it anyway. it might make no sense but it starts to eventually.
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden **** of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”

- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
  Apr 20 NRIKO
Anam F
starts with a sob / echoes all around the room / eyes open, eyes close / a tiny hand, gripping a finger / the universe too small for it to hold  / is this what dying is? / the feeling of utter relief, utter finality / flowers growing in the ***** between its fingers / the moon in its eyes / never forget / always remember this / but the image is already slipping away /

this is you, eyes burning / a door slam, sound of crying, a broken picture frame / was this the reward? / for the months of waiting / the agonizing years / the ghost of what you were / you were told / they are never grateful / they eat your food, break your heart / but they come back, one day / one day, they come back / will yours ever look back? /

so you wait, and you wait, and you wait / swallow the screams / cage the anger / set it free / hoard the hope / your pandora’s box / take the bet / invest your soul, your spirit / you’ll win it back one day / you make the lunches / wave goodbye with a smile / laugh at the door slams, the eye rolls, the sullen face / you believe, and you believe, and you believe /

you are as you are one day / they come in, silent as a thought / you wait for it, hope dancing in your lungs / the floodgates open / the apologies are spilled out, mouth full of shame and spit / joy is prickling at the corners of your eyes / the lanky arms hug you, pressing years of memories back into your heart  / flashback to the very first day, the very first words / “I love you” / you think, this is the first time you have exhaled in a long, long time /
NRIKO Apr 20
caress a ghost's hand to feel less lonely
undress her nightgown to feel her boney
structure and look into her eyes of ebony
what you cannot find within four walls
comes to you here, in your “baby doll”’s
presence, in waves of red light and calls
from people who prefer to think they missed
you but in reality theyve never felt rinsed
hands from blood that has stuck ever since
you raised them up high to struck a chord
in someones neck- only to feel a cheap sword
up your buttocks but not feel pain or sorrow.
written in march
NRIKO Apr 20
The demon squirms under your touch.
The chair that was once possessed
by someone (or was it “something”?)
that could not move on from
their, old, familiar comfort.

The demon squirms under your touch.
Under your index finger, your ring finger
and the finger of promises
(that are yet to be fulfilled)
that is stuck in their plump limps.

(These plump limps are not to be on the
Same wavelength as you- In fact,
These pretty lips have been forced
to utter mumbled words of
ambiguous desire for your sake.)

You lay the (perhaps trusted) demon
On the train tracks, hoping for it
To lavish in the indicator
of sweet, fresh death.
Of Endless Blood.

The train comes.
The conductor does not stop.
The passengers do not scream.
The train goes for the demon,
Seemingly Deliberate.

The demon- it opens its eyes,
continues to breathe.

Regardless of the fact that its
Existence was woven exclusively
Because of your sins-

The demon weeps.


He weeps for heaven as he does not belong in your head anymore.
(He is real. He is an outcast produced from / a Heaven that has abandoned him and / now- you too?)

The train keeps going .

You, the Troubled Human, board the train.
(You feel something heavily pull at your / nerves and now you contemplate your / actions in opposition to the court room in / your head.)

You leave the weeping demon (dream)
(You cannot understand if the demon  is a  / dream and had / nestled itself deep in your roots.)

From where you stand, you see snow on its eyelids. You force yourself to kneel inside the compartment.
(The gesture is no longer an ode to the / demon’s Creator, for the Creator has no / desire to listen in on humanly matters.)

You pray for the supposed antagonist that lays its body, bare and vulnerable, on aged and ***** tracks.


Existence breathing in & out.
Existence that soon will bloom into ruby blood.
It slides from your scalp to your legs and to
the soil that birthed you
(Mother Nature listens in, whether she is  / proud of you or not, / you have grown to not to care.)
Existence, it tunes in & out,
For people that live on the edge
Of Nirvana.

Drums that are held by a ribcage are coming to
a promised halt, to an exasperated outro.

The demon (the Dream, the Ego) dies.

No one squirms for anything these days.

- Eoz

The angel. It stares at me-
For what, I wonder?
In its glossy eyes-
So wet that it could reflect
My staring face back
That remains anti-climatic,
That remains forgettable
That still remains staring.

The angel. It should laugh-
At me, the Fresh And Modern Fool
Who is short of sparks
That go off in the heart.

However, the angel- it does not
Come to me with its
Face red,
Face puffy,
Eyes glossy
& losing faith
That is reserved for its Creator.


In fact:
It has not come to riducle me.

For my lack of speech,
My lack of basic human tendencies,
My lack of basic silent rhythm shared
between one person and another-
Instead, it wants to ask me-
Or better yet- it Demands me,

“Who is it? That has hands
As red as this blood pooling
Out of me,
Never to stop?-

“Whose hands can stab,
An angel without agony,
Without underlying trauma
That nurtured him?-

“Who could possibly pray
In front of me,
With their hands bloodied
In association with a blade-

“Eyes without remorse
Or personal passion?
Why, why, why, oh why?
Could it be you?-


“The Fool?
The Fresh and Modern bufoon
That fails to begin yet
Fails to end?”

- eoz.
originally written on march 28 2018.
she wears six
around her neck too
ten in chinese
puked onto the
floor and lingerie.
she wants to tell
me / that maybe
we're on the same
plane of
but i cannot
read lips
nor can i trace
the tattoos
she burnt onto
my back in groups
of four.
so for eternity she
pronounces death
her tongue between
her teeth of heaven
and teeth of ****
stuck in purgatory
to hiss "s"
as my favorite
she keeps
trying to
dilate my pupils
and convince
me that her
skin is what
i need.
i cannot feel her
but neither can
i afford to
forget her.
in cantonese, four is pronounced similarly to the word "dead".
ten looks like the shape of the cross. and six is considered a number concerned about humanly affairs or in relation to the tarot card "the lover", in other words "the heart" yet can be related to the devil. in the first line i am trying to depict that, she too, wears her heart and a part of her darker side for me to see.
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