who needs to learn
to wrap the tides
while the fisherman
cast the net of fire
from the darkest seabed
locked the doors of events
to keep an ancient calendar
still glowing on it's eyes
but within the time
the firts cry came
the lips of the ocean
became reluctant to return
for us to be afraid
to saw the wraith

of the fish

1
in the beginning was believe
above the fate's monochromatic
on a length of the piano's bar
— : in which colors it will stop?

2
you were more fathom, about
— a poetry-like score
— a syllabic-like tone
likewise — as I am-like me

3
there is a clink that you drag
either from the flat or the sharp
— that's half of my grasp
transformed from the sounds

4
— an untraceable of whom — was
sculpted — aligned on an epitaph
— an untraceable of the sounds
you disguised — with the words

5
how — the shift of chromatic scale
sounds like a ***** of question mark
— is it quite likely its arch was
the origins of an earlobe-shape?

whichever comes first
an arch or its point
you scratched on

a question mark
can not answer
the question itself

indeed so — even
in languages
which hasn't been created

1
a singer — he want to go to the moon
and I pinned on his head. he wants
to sing with all the heavenly body
and allege about love to his lover

2
another singer who like to dance
also pinned me on his head. he walks
like a moon — hard to tell the contrast
of black and white from a cubit

3
and again, a singer. I am as cursed
too lazy to go everywhere — to like forever
I want to be pinned on his head — sing along
and dance from a stage to another

4
and I am —
they'll refuse me
if I'm not me
: but do not

even — which burned this hearth
can not break free itself — from
a gin of its own tongue — since
an ember starts from the word "fire"

an opportunity are also promises
will test its own sincerity — on
stirring-fate in a hot cauldron
which vaporized a lot of anxious

"should I believe
on the potion i made — if
that shatter in this frame
is my own fear?"

after its legs got subdued
for the ages of the sun
so stopped a wonder
at a roughly odd

            in which corner
            on the doorless temple
            the first step will begin?

            in which steps
            an arrows hit the rain stream
            so the count be unimportant?

the numeral explode at the sky of your eyes
it's pieces of fragments got scattered
insert in between the niches of
the womb of a language

but none of us can't
utter an intact word

those gone years be smokes
since your name is a candle
then be burned: your
mini-tiny-little-prayers

the air bear the bubbles of fate
an expanding times
will explode like a balloon

but I'm a clown at your party
folded up our memories, into
a globular on my stomach
— stab it at your will!

why should blow your own age? —
until the question was smoke, there's
something remains unanswered
: "Happy Birthday!"

what if
you have to disgorge
all this frigid?
--- do not left me!

the bonfire
on your *****
see one's way
to ignite
our solitude
--- pulp
your own jitter!

before sorrow
come after
to the verge
of your slumber

your will-o'-the-wisp
rebound from nothingness

so let it winkers
to my wrinkle

to become the words
: valiant and resilient

as brave as my question
above

I want to believe
even though the flame is hot:
that yesterday
and the previous days
are still melted wax
that hasn't been burned-out

"may happiness go with you, and be happy."

hey, listen to the candle!
they sing along too, but

did you not ask, why
they've change the lyrics?

soon, both of us will know
who'll die at the end of that song

I am: fragments and metaphors
surrender, in a poem you forgot to write
until your memory becomes tear-filled
a broken morning maze of the window

but this disregard will remind you
until my name become a mirror
reflecting our bare past, before
you wear that wedding dress

is life a reflection? yes:
shadows of the dreaded days
like a scar on your face
sliced by your own silence

in my book-word of sea. the letters blackened
as though a crab carrion — sprawled out
on its slicky lingual waves:

there is a slip to the bottom of a riverbed
submerged, crushed by the froth of time
pilgrimaged by the monsoon

while the fate is a word
aboveboard — sail on my body
rowing its own letters