There is a pear above me
hovering reluctantly.
It's skin firm,
the colour of meadows in the midst
of spring.

Tightly it clung
to that little stem on the branch
which exerted much effort
to keep it away from the ground.

It looked down on me
wanting badly to be picked.
To be kept inside my pocket
safe - and could be taken out
in dark moments for company.

It could also be tossed roughly in the sack
to migle with other pears.
Scratched pears.
Battered pears.
Broken pears.
Happy pears.
Wounded pears.
Rotten pears.
Abandoned pears.
Neglected pears.
Hate pears.

Love pears.

But it clings, above me
completely out of reach.
It sways in the wind,
impossible to be climbed.

And all I can do
is wait here,
down here, down below
until time exhausts the branch
until it decides to push my pear away
in moments when I am most unprepared.

It will fall on the ground
and I won't be there to catch it - like people execute to people.
Its flesh will cover the pavement
the soil will sap its juice.

It will kiss the soles of my shoes when I passed by
Its remnants will knock, then eventually pound.
And I will see that my untouchable pear
has been reassembled to be a ruin
that shelters history
that homes the history people
with historical names
and historical nails
and historical breath.

That house will contain the smell of oil lamps
lost letters, burnt maps and scarred love
and my pear will accompany the parchment
that human thoughts choose to abandon.

Until then,
I will not be writing for a while.

My back touched the fabric
of the couch
as I slouched and tilted my head.

I let my elbow fell on the armchair
as my thumb flew between my lips
and my teeth perched on its flesh.

My forefinger
ran back and forth, restlessly,
on my nose bridge

as I inhaled the details
of your head thrown backward,
your hair suspended in midair.

some strands draping down your chest,
your mouth half open,
your secret self and your entire being

all seducing my peripheral vision.

Once upon a time mermaids exist.

And castles.
And princes.
And villains.
But never witch, and princesses.

Silverleaf stands above the bricked walls of old shops where hopes were traded for a three year memory.

The old shops breathe on the path made of leaves and twigs and wishes. It ascended to the tower that looks up to heaven forever, to the turrets which the clouds never abandon, to the place where the prince lived. With his wicked uncle.

His mother, with a hair the colour of winter and eyes where dreams lay, died after childbirth. His father whose veins were made up of stars and heart of sandcastle, was murdered in his sleep. And he, the prince, like his parents, will inevitably be killed.

When the time comes.
After he had been crowned.
Before he rules the land.

As he was young and the air was crisp and the day luminous and everything the shade of honey, the mermaid found the prince. Her scales glitter in the sun like crystals basking in summer glow. Her hair was dripped in promises. Her eyes the shade of lilac, of verse, of those people whose world has been swallowed by the sea.

She said hello to the prince.
And smiled.
And the prince fell in love.

As everything does.
Before it falls apart.

The prince went back beside the cave wall, on the stone, to meet the mermaid, day after day. He told her endless tales about burnt maps and oil lamps and treasures and pirates and chivalry. He promised her great lands, and gold. He said he'd build a vast ocean inside the palace where she would live, after he had married her. He said they would have children whose name would be the name of the remote islands, of silence, of the distant worlds and secret happiness. It was the place where he looked at her, interminably. And kissed her. And made love to her. In summer time. On the stone.

And in that moment, I swear they were infinite.

It came. The prince was hailed as the king. The greed to be fulfilled. The uncle to do the act. The death to arrive. The prince to breathe his last.

So with a sword made of glass and unicorn's tears, he stabbed the prince and twisted his heart and snapped its beat like a flower's stem. In disbelief the prince moved back. In triumph his uncle laughed. The prince's hand darted in his pocket, felt the flusk, parted his mouth, exhaled her name and locked her memory in the bottle. The prince fell down. The bottled broke and scattered themselves like confetti. His heed fluttered away from his palm, into neverwhere.

He stooped low, the uncle, and carried the dead body of the prince to the cave, beside the stone. And owned the palace and ruled the land.

The mermaid emerged from the water, held his neck, pecked on his cheek as if marking him hers, and took him to the place where every second never ceases.

And down
And down
And away
they

went.

I pray for the truthfulness of your existence.
How I ardently desire to ****** you,
*******!

No.
You don’t understand.
Life shouldn’t be this hard.
You shouldn’t be grateful
Making money for someone
Invisible, sitting prettily
Dropping demands and hesitations
That he might have given
An amount
Larger than your percentage
To the over all total
Which essentially you,
Your sweat and backache,
Had generated.

And they call this opportunity,
This mindless obedience?
And they call this career,
This fundamental slavery?

**** them.

I found you.

You were in every word.
You occupied the spaces,
its continuum
and truthfulness.

Crumpled bedsheet.
Solitary pillow.
Brown blanket.
Empty bottles.
Unwashed clothes.
Vacant bed.
The light on the window.
The lighter on the sill.
Disorganized desk.
Weary picture frame.
Capured memory.
Your secret door.
Guitar on the wall.
Take-home souveniers.
Half-opened closet.
Broken shell.
Treasured letters.
Apprehensive footfalls.
Envious looking glass.
Scattered reflections.
Strange languages.
Disoriented voices.
Dissolving names.
Falling promises.
Disappearing bodies.
Reunited hearts.
Interminable glances.
Sheer infinity.

**Because your room is a world where everything,
even pain,
is beautiful.

Hey.

The thing is,
I cannot find the words
to articulate the points of differences
between love and infatuation.

I just know.

I know I am not infatuated with you -
how can I be infatuated with someone I haven't even seen?
But,
what I have for you had surpassed the space between us.

It's like we are standing opposite to each other,
directly parallel,
with this gulf, this vast gulf between us.
Dividing us.

What I have for you
is not a bridge that connects these two lands,
nor a boat to deliver me
to that other land

but an element,
an essential element
in order for that bridge to be constructed
and that boat to be built.

I never fix my room, no, never. On every corner, my books perch, stacks after stacks, like hungry butterflies destined to inhale the delight of only three summer days.

On the chair sleep those clothes I was wearing yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and last Monday and weeks ago, like fallen unremembered friends. It still has the scent of the woman sitting next to me on the bus, beside the window, her fleeting heart and endless readings and the way love flipped between her forefinger and thumb. That was the type of love that not the world could interrupt; not even the hundred years of common existence could contain.

It still has the sound of our broken steps on the pavement, the feel of the scraping wall, the drunken scent of the stranger I ****** with. His skin against my skin, his mouth staining the length of my neck, his hair wrapping my fingers, my breath on his temple, his leg, my leg, his arm, my arm, the stars dancing and our warmth defying the curse of human mortality.

Scattered on the floor were the paintbrushes, unwashed palette, stacks of newspapers I use to cover around my interminable uncertainty. I hear the wall, almost every day, discussing about my inferiority complex, about how it impedes me from creating something original, something infinite, about how it trails behind me, gasping, grabs me from behind, locks me in then eventually enslaves me.

How dare they are to go about the spectrum of these endless wanderings, these filthy fellows who knew so well that I never comb my hair and that I have always, always, hated the boring Murakami.

I never fix my bed, no, never. The propped of my pillow, the uneven creases, they will serve as the living reminder of our final encounter. I must have disarrayed the bed sheet – I cannot remember exactly when –but I have no plan of rearranging the constellations any moment soon.

My blanket swallows me alive, its edges draping on the edge of my bed, sometimes flipping reluctantly, savoring the vacancy of the afternoon, the way the light scars my books, glistens my skin that I have strewn everywhere for the mother of otherness to eat.

Most of the time, in my sheer insanity, I set my room afire.

Forgive me I will not be writing for a while. The butterflies had taken all the envelops and the dungeons badly needed new decorations. Rearranging the stars will not take long.

I will be back.
Hang on.

As the police
arranged their shield
You stood upfront
and raised your fist.

Your demand
for humanitarian reforms
was answered by beatings
yet you resisted

and struggled
and clenched your fist
and waived your flag
as thousand marched across the streets.

Stones trailed behind you.
I'm glad you're not the type of woman
who burn a life
in the bar

in apathy.

My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive.

My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way.

But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights.

A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness.

I call this wreckage.

I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness.

You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked.

The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body.  "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea."

This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.

The stars are shivering tonight
as your breath cloisters round my neck
while the hands of the clock
move backward

ohmigod.

It's beautiful:
watching the clouds dissolve the left-overs
of our fatal grace.

This is how we disappear.

"We haven't written anything yet," she exhaled.

The afternoon sun glistened on the panes, but there was a slight overcast on the far-end of the horizon. A thin streak of gray, like an ink spilled on a bowl of water.

For a moment she continued to converse with the ceiling, her eyes fixed against the whispers of the roof. She closed her fist but her thoughts kept running out of her grip. It was a state of sheer clarity. She can vividly see the minutes suspended in midair, their faces anxious, afraid, uncertain and with each flinch of the hand of the clock, she had captured the details of how each of them fell, one by one, on the pavement, their flesh asunder and perishing slowly.

"The table pressed against the wall looks defeated in the darkness of this dungeon," she cursed, more to herself than to the atmosphere as her feet traversed the labyrinth of their discarded clothes, crossed the room, drew the chair and scattered her verses.

Career, in his mind, is just a 20th century invention. My admiration seared when he admitted that he doesn't want one. So unlike a typical human being, that man. Four months later, they found his lifeless body in the Alaskan wilderness.

I could have married him, you know? I could have run away with him beyond the edge of the world - two hunted individuals leaving the stereotypical expectations of this stereotypical society. We could have had children, you know, whose names would be very strange, like the sound of the ocean in its sheer stillness or the explosion of its raging waves.

You know what made him beautiful, among all the others? His act of defiance. Most men that ever existed are coward *******.

As the ocean
sat on your tongue
and waited to flood over me

you've disarrayed the stars
and draped them
on my skin.

My exhausted blouse and your restless jeans
are the sheer reminders
of our unimpeding infinity.

And as I locked
your waist
between my legs

The world quivered
then burst
into a series of flicker and flames.

This is how I shall remember us:
We crave a love so deep
the ocean would be jealous.

Through the half-opened door, I watched you dissolved yourself in the thousand places and hundred years in your book. The sun hadn’t gone out today, like yesterday. As you flipped the pages and contain love between your fingers, the cat beside you remained uninterested to the benign indifference of the world.

Your coffee had gone cold, cream flared indiscreetly like those letters I have written and never sent, torn to pieces, all bits screaming your name. I can hear the sound of your tongue licking your lips – you always do that, before you form your words. After I disappear with you.

The sound of my footfalls echoed and I watched it wrapped the wall, covered the hinges of the door, up on the roof, and then dripped on its edges, fell like rain, kissed the pavement madly, then broke irrevocably like hearts. In our sheer vulnerability, this is how we encompassed the world.

I moved closer and you disappeared in your secret self, again. Roughness seethed my palm as I invade the space you have fenced. I wonder if this curtain had ever questioned how long has it been since you last summoned infinity, with me.

In this dungeon.
That night.
When the stars were disarrayed.
When immortality was defied.
When heat was lingering on the wall, in the atmosphere.
When I dismembered the universe just to melt with you while the entire space is screaming at me to run.

You must have heard my plea, my open mouth just above your ear. You should have heard me, to never stop your lips from measuring the length of my neck, to never chain your hands set wild between my legs, to let me bury your hair strands between my fingers, to always encompass me in your scorching breath.

And then eventually,
To burn me away.

The smell of ink and abandonment lingered in the air as I stepped inside the room we had scarred. Dust has found a home at last - a place where all your faults were accepted and my hope was never questioned. This is where we hold our entire world. This is where each second lasts everlastingly. This is where forever lives.

Tissues slept on the floor like confetti for my return mixed with crippled promises you have dropped and forgotten.The bedsheet lay awake, exhausted, weary, heaving the sigh you exhaled in a lock room - the smell of your desire, of my frustration, of our longing, of my name. I wonder if they had kept your heartbeat. I wonder if I could have it back.

I wonder if I could have you back.

The silence had preserved every single thing you have uttered - every word a bar, each sentence another lock. Your voice hanged themselves on the cobwebs, the cobwebs had consumed the space and you had filled me with wishes, longing and regrets. I have never expected you to say hello again. I certainly never shall. You never did. You never will.

We slept in our mask and redressed in denial.

Forever is still etched on the atmosphere. I can feel you touching the small of my back, paving your way through my spine, reaching your way to where the burnt maps, love letters, crumpled clothes and drawn out nights were. I can feel you possessing my nape. I can hear you whispering my name. I can see you piercing the night. Why do always you have to be so wonderful?

The scars you have etched on my skin breathe like stars on the pillows you have wounded. They glowed longingly for that smell of yours they’re acquianted with. They stood beyond eternity. The inteminable look in your eyes before you sleep had tampered the wallpapers - the audience of those nights we own, when everything was forgotten, including the world. The story of what if and what could have been filled the space between us - never allowing my arms to cling around your neck, never wanting you to kiss my ear, shielding you to find us on the swell between my *******.

The clock had stopped working.

At least it won’t steal my time.

Maybe I can sleep tonight.

Maybe we can be infinite.

It's noon
and the heat is inconsolable.
Dust conceals the birds in flight.
Car horns are inescapable.
Traffic seems interminable.
Smoke perches like hatred and blame.
Beggars linger like guilt.
Prostitutes on the subway
embrace hour like a lifeline.
Construction workers battle death for a morsel.
**
As you arched your spine
and pushed back your neck,
the light passes through your window
and illuminated the sweat sprawling restlessly on your chest like hasty scribbles.
In this broken world,
I find your ruffled hair fascinating.

Aye aye, capt'n!

Capt'n eh?
I do look pretty stellar in boots and a pirate hat.
I could wear an eye patch,
but make it see-through,
so it would actually be sun glasses.

Why?
With sword,
and maps,
and chivalry
and oil lamps
and distant island.
God! You're enchanted.

She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

It was empty, that part of the faculty area apart from the tables, the afternoon light passing through the window and the ravines dividing the place.** Her spot was full of dust, past dated old calendars and dreams of its former occupant who was eaten by the ocean and drowned. Well, at least the rumor claimed.

I don’t know if it’s true, but everyone knows what the former occupant did last summer. It was about two weeks before her wedding when she ran away with her student. Both of them just disappeared from the circulation one day. During the early part of their absence, the staff and classmates assumed that the reason might have been just trivial, like a mere cough or a fever.

But time and weeks dragged on and both of them were gone. Nowhere to be found. No words were left. No notice either. Nothing. They simply disappeared, just like that. Like one day, they have decided not to exist in this conventional world anymore. Like a bubble ceasing to float.

They stayed in an island, it was said. Packed their bags with clothes, flash lights, canned goods – everything they could carry at a dead run. Then they hired a boat which carried them to their destination, but no one found out the existence of the boat. There was no trace. Not even a slight.

The island was remote, detached and unoccupied. People say they built a settlement somewhere in the area, made of woods, twigs, leaves and perhaps, love. But some says they have their tent, and it was where they dreamed their elusive dreams.

But a storm broke in the dead hour of the night, shaking their sleep. All the trees and vegetation swayed to and fro, trying to catch the unfamiliar song of the wind while avoiding the occasional bouts of the lightings.

It must have been beautiful, the entire universe in sheer panic, in the middle of the night, embracing you home.

Before they knew it the tide rose and the world quivered and the waves grew massive and rolled and crashed in that part of the island and that edge.

She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

Nor did the island in its former spot. It was vacated, that part of the faculty area apart from the afternoon light passing through the window which overlooks the contour of the overlapping mountains.

I placed my bag on the table, took a pen and scribbled a note saying that I’d be back some other time. She must have been in her class but I cannot be sure.

I cannot see the ocean from here.

These are the kinds of names
that cannot be recycled.
And once given,
these are the names that cannot be taken back,
thus cannot be handed down to someone else again,
especially in its battered form.

Because unlike all the other names,
in these old names reside
the existence and haunting memory
of a person long gone.

The bomb has been planted was everything that he could think about that day** as he entered the door and locked it again. Its former occupants had migrated to Egypt, since then, only disappointment sleeps in the house.

Million inhabitants will die in that festival, including the elves and centaurs that came from the west. The fair was supposed to be a venue for recreation and alliance, a place where negotiations can be conducted and economic conflicts between the kingdoms can be settled.

But it has been planted and many lives will perish.

He crouched in one corner and noticed the peeling wallpaper – its edges bruised and forgotten and damped and dusty and bleeding. He folded his knees against his torn garments and enclosed his wings around himself and clasped his hands, trying to calm the trembling nebulas and screaming stars, but there is no escape from shattering.

The bomb has been planted.

Swifts, on a fine morning in May, flying this way, that way, sailing around at a great hight, perfectly happily. Then one leaps onto the back of another, grasps tightly and forgetting to fly they both sink down and down, in a great dying fall, fathom after fathom, until the female utters a loud, piercing cry.....


of ecstasy.

Can be found
in the middle of the bridge
that is slowly crumbling
brick by brick
falling down the water
making it ripple
breaking it apart
then becoming whole again.

The meaning of picturesque
can be seen
in the tightness of your hands
wrapped around my wrist
as we run for our lives,
you leading the way.

The definition of picturesque
can be heard
in your laboured breathing,
and in every echo
of our apprehensive
foot
falls.

And apart from my camera,
I also carry our interminable conversations
which I will take out every now and then
to amuse myself and smile alone
while walking down the subway
and thinking of you.

I also carry the scenes of the movies we have watched
and your favourite quote of Robin Williams
and the sound of your guitar strings
traversing the chord of my headphone
as you play a song at 4 o'clock in the morning.
And sang Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

But above all, there are so much more ahead of this
than the stretch of this long, endless road.
All our dreams lay ahead
and plans and all our years.
And those moments of us evaporating in the afternoon delight
or evening sanctuary.
White. Green. Crisp yellow. And burning orange.

So I will embark on a journey.
And I will carry all these with me.
And all these,
all these are certainly heavier
than the backpack on my shoulder.

But I will bring them anyway,
believe in them,
love them
and never let them go.

Twigs scraped your bare feet
as you crossed the forest
swarming in bleeding leaves and old scars
in full haste and restlessness.

The scratches on your elbow,
did you get them when you slid
the veins aside and forced your way
out of my mind,

to peer out my eyes?

When I die,
I want to be clothed in black
and look stunning.

Afterwards,
I want my body cremated and my ashes scattered
wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere.

But before all that,
I want my closest friends
to read their eulogy.

I will sit in front or in a corner,
and listen to our ancient stories
Every word of it.

I want to know
how they would
remember me.

I want to know
if I've been good, over all,
and if I have been worthy of this existence.

Like a regular human being,
in the end,
I need to be validated.

For now,
let me lay on this bed
in an old house in an old room.

There is a certain tranquility
in watching the low sun passed between
the small openings of the capiz window.

There is incarnation.
There is finding again.
There is hope.

No matter how tiny
and bleak
and almost impossible it looks,
it exists.

My beautiful,
smart,
funny,
excitingly adventurous,
**** **** **** girl friend.

One who writes
and reads me poetry.
Sings songs,
laughs and watches movies with me.

You are so incredible to me in so many ways.
And you do it
from the other side of the world.

Peers on your window
at night
when you're asleep
and inhales the arch
of your shoulder
barely visible
to the moonlight.

And on that day you were born, my Sylvia, I murdered your father. So how you would grow up will depend entirely up to me.

I burnt his graceless flesh and mantled you with isolation. I threw his clothes on the window and buried his existence in the ground. Syl, sometimes you see him suspended in midair, I know, like a strange curve on the portrait, like a portrait wrapped in moth, like a moth perched on the wall, like a wall that doesn’t suit the architecture. But you never bothered to find out, good girl.

You were created in the course of the stars, on the backyard, my Sylvia and molded by flowers, so I must feed you with butterflies, drown you in poetry. You are the constellations I have disarrayed, the world I will dismember. You are the infinity, my love. You are the stretch of the ocean, the look in your father’s eyes before he sleeps. You are the incoherence of forever. You are the inconsistency of happiness.

My Syl, I fear that you will grow up, one day. You will leave this little cottage, and search for a better plastered wall. You will doubt my existence and those bleeding of the feathers. You will tear your skin and discover a new you underneath. You will find your crater of imperfections, you will be astonished, you will begin to wonder, you will begin to question and you will forget about me. You will begin to ***** my lullabies.

Hush, my love, and close your eyes. I will make you immortal. I will stitch you with stardust. I will cover your little lovely bones with perfection. I will smoothen you like a wax; you may kiss your scars goodbye. I will preserve your name with you, and lock you both in a beautiful cage. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. Like a prayer. Like a lovely prayer.

Your fist locked like a period, began the history, encompassed the world, the silent plea, the quivering resistance, the flickering flame; your little mouth in absolute surrender. You are the rigidity of my everlasting delight, the bleeding poppies in every battleground. Sleep, my Sylvia, sleep, and never wake up.

Stay infinite, my Syl, my sweet, my love. We are greater than literature. We are larger than biography. Always remember that.

Always remember that.

Always remember that.

Always
Remember
That.

The machine's coldness seethed my hair
as the world sat on my shoulder
that made it surrender
like curtains on a steaming afternoon
sighing questions
and endless uncertainty.

I punched the buttom
wrecked number 3
that bled Espresso
which in this another night
of your absence

would keep me awake
as I intensively unstitch the truth
about your pathetically sewn inventions
and attack the facts
about the abnormality of your society
and irrationality of your culture.

I swear I ******* hate you.
And someday you will die,
*******.

On the pavement littered with cigarette butts and desolate corks. The street lights flicked on and off as I traversed the path that leads me back to you.

The soles of my shoes cratered the lane as I trod along the alleyway  that knows your name so well; on the bench nest disappointment and question, discussing what had happened; arguing what could have been. Around my legs hovers the hollow of my footfalls, trailing the breaths we have exhaled, the sweats we have perspired.

Perching on my hair were the shards of our glittering kisses. Faintly they flick, on and off, to the touch of the moon every time the light passed  through the bar, or whenever the bar passed through me. Its silver glow sleeps and snores.

Empty alcohol bottles standing beside the bin reminds me of the hours we have exhausted, your jeans and our dreams stretched between you and me. I can vividly remember the sound of our uneven gasps fluttering around like restless butterflies. Sometimes, it perched on the wall, on the curtain, on the window.

Sometimes, on your hair. Sometimes, on mine. And sometimes on my hand flat on the door while the other fumbles for the key as the entrance slowly widen and summer steals me away from the world outside.

I tossed my shoes, balled up on the couch, dissolved among the creases on the blanket, consumed your smell then closed my eyes.

This dawn , I shall be meeting you.

To begin with and probably my greatest contention, I want my time and not their wage. That money is just a piece of paper that will undoubtedly aflame when put under the scorching heat. It is my skin that I want to burn. I want to see it red, feel the biting sting of the sunrays. The scars will serve as proof of my existence - that I have lived my life, and I have lived it well.

2. I do not understand the logic of mindless submission in exchange of titles or promotions or empty regards. More important are my fellow human being, and corporate world demands lots of trampling and oppression from the people executed to the people. Mindless submission could lead to ******. I prefer humanity than any corporate position and greed.

3. Why should I confine myself in the office if I could have the whole world? Life is out there. And it has to be conquered.

4. Borrowing the words of John Keats, I want to fill my days with more delight than fifty, or even thousand years of common existence could ever contain.

Please,
lay down
and lay still.

There's so much words
suspended in midair
and I have to select

only the greatest.
Understand that I only want the best for you
and nothing more.

I tremble
as I extend my arms
and choose the words,

the marks,
the phrases,
the sentences,

the scars,
the hearts,
carefully,

afraid that I might pick
the inappropriate star
for my weaving.

I want you to be the most beautiful constellation I will ever create.

Dearest.

Forgive me.
I have spilt my coffee
on your working table.

But Mrs. Crestfold was back.
She entered the door
wrapped in harlequin clothes,

danced,
then walked straight to where I sat
whilst I was writing the manuscript for the opera.

From her pocket,
I saw her withdrew
a bowl containing

a freshly cut heart,
buried in ruby
and bricks.

She said it was yours.

If you would tear my clothes open
on my chest you will see
a never ending hole
in a silhouette of you.

Rain.

Please, cease.
Just cease.
Cease beating the roof.
Cease falling off the leaves, or the tree barks.
Cease kissing the pavement
or the people's skin.

Cease hoping
for hope sits on the first row to disappointment.

So please,
please, cease.

Just... cease.

Is sitting on the bench
while forever stretches
on the road dividing you
and her.

First, pull the edges
make sure it meets the corner
in a form of triangle
in the shape of the society.

Then on one end,
steal those diamonds
from the chained lives
of women and children in Africa.

You'll have two seperate pillars
Like that of Athens and Sparta
always in fighting, in useless war
disregarding the bind of Greece totally.

Fold it again, and again,
and the head, and the tail,
Yes, the tail, it must be slanted
Pull it, pull it, the wings

Mend it so it would fly.
Because no matter how beautiful your cage is
A bird is meant to taste
only the sky.

You will see cobwebs and spiders
covering round the clavicles,
traversing down the cartilage.

Close your eyes and listen intently
And you will hear the sound of the leaves
being carried around and away
in that valley of questions and shadows.

Sometimes you will see broken twigs.
Everything is broken inside,
so rest assured that you can never break some more.
Someone, before your arrival,
has already did the favour for you.

All you can do now is lean over my chest
and close your eyes
and listen to the distant sound of the wind
and leaves being blown around

inside this rib cage.

Poetry**
(n.) the luxury of having an awesome lover.