A serious face glares through the snow,
peering to the depths. The city hums
with the pierce of sirens, the murmur of shouts.

His pulse slows, His body thrumming. He is another part
of a jutting skyline. A heartless moon bathes the scene.
A lost battle. A massacre.

A broken ragdoll below warm the pavement,
beauty set in stone. The flakes track the dark leather,
pooling on the granite, being watched

Yet oblivious, the eyes glow through the screen.
Too much shadow for a plain bedroom, too much normality
For the sordid abyss of Gotham.

Has such insignificance always bred heroism?
Hours on laptops create such brooding scenes
of emotions that you cannot understand.
But who can understand the solitary idol?

[Dedicated to George Raffalovich]


In the Years of the Primal Course, in the dawn of terrestrial
birth,
Man mastered the mammoth and horse, and Man was the
Lord of the Earth.

He made him an hollow skin from the heart of an holy tree,
He compassed the earth therein, and Man was the Lord of
the Sea.

He controlled the vigour of steam, he harnessed the light-
ning for hire;
He drove the celestial team, and man was the Lord of the
Fire.

Deep-mouthed from their thrones deep-seated, the choirs
of the æeons declare
The last of the demons defeated, for Man is the Lord of
the Air.

Arise, O Man, in thy strength! the kingdom is thine to
inherit,
Till the high gods witness at length that Man is the Lord
of his spirit.

I am the only one left.

I am the only one left, at the end of the fight.

Past your drunken Friday night.

That really remembers and feels the insults,

That are later etched into my burning skin,

That moments later will release a near frozen blood stream.

I am the only one left, at the end of the night.

That remembers the yelling of a drunken man.

“****.” “Evil.” “Hate Her.”

These words sting I know, as they hit my mothers face,

And slip under my door.

And yet not a word comes out of her mouth.

Because there is no point in fighting a drunken man.

Because when the sun shines the next morning, and father is sobering,

The fight is forgotten,

Until.

Until there is yet another night,

Like this one.

For each shot thrown back,

And each cigarette put out,

There is a hurtful word,

“****.” “Evil.” “Hate Her.”

“****.” “Evil.” “Hate Her.”

After all of it I say,

And say over,

And over again,

I do not care.

I will be the only one,

Who has left.

I will be the only one,

Who has left.

The simplest things in life
Are most always taken for granted,
Lies and desseat
Mourning and tears
You hate when its
All around you yet
You never notice when
Its all that’s in you.

When the sun dies
And clouds get grey
No one cares until
It rains.
Only then do they notice the pain
The pressure
Inside they hold.

A warm breeze through an open window
Turns the pages of an open book
Just to close it in the end.

So whats next?
In life, no one knows
Perhaps that’s why some choose to live it
While others choose to just
Take a hit.
Because
Heading for the unknown is interesting
Until of course
You realize you really have no clue.

A false pretence
A false knowledge
Isn’t enough when your falling
Farther than you’ve ever known.
Even still, pictures fade with memories
As you realize that the past
Is gone and the future
Is all you have to look forward to.
The disappointment
The uncommitted and overly committed
The dismal and vivid
Exuberant and dejected
But even more,
The unknown.

Our bodies illuminated in a single moment
These lives become one life
Only to fade in times hands
Dissipating in the air
A stale taste in my mouth
By bitter rinds we left
Remember when we burned
Without igniting our flesh
Through spirit alone
We found each other in our souls
As a singular entity beneath the sun
And under pouring stars
We were the doves of winter
The fireflies of summer skies
Now we are the forgotten
Lost ghosts of the world
Stealthily moving about
As the lovers that never met

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to ****.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears


And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being ******, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.


The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches

The dull public ruckus of the afternoon train filled the gaps between us.
We could have been part of it,
Drowned so deep in a conversation we could gladly call our own.
But our past selves have already taken invisible
B
R
O
K
E
N
Steps away from each other.
And tucked ourselves in the tight pockets of this companionable silence
As dangerous as the trigger handled by my emotions,
A gift for your forehead.
I will shove all my pain into your being
And watch my reflection crumble to her knees with a familiar cry of agony.
Mauled into frayed flesh in a crimson rose bush
That we had woven friendship wraths from.
And yet, my rasp throat still delivered smoothly.
“How are you today?”

Your usually anticipative eyes
Watched the scenery outside,
Disappearing just as fast as it came.
Did you think of the first day of school?
When we first approached with awkward greetings?
And from a wave and a smile
You start to attach them with questions
Questions that you should be asking me now
Things like
“Do you think we will end up in the same sec 3 class?”
“Do you want to go to ORA with me?”
“Can you save your game? We already hardly bond in class.”
“Are you even listening?”
I was.
I answered every last one,
From the beginning when we stepped into homeroom.
Even the ones you’ve never even asked me.
But now that I come running to you with my stained envelope
Are you still there at your seat?
To tell me
“You know what you need? A good cup of frozen yogurt.”


Now every glance that met
Will be snapped apart like a crisp twig.
Every walk down the corridor past each other,
Will be like two freshmen models on their first runway.
Every move, breath, laughter,
I will always be aware.
Perhaps because your voice
Will always make up for your height in the crowd,
Audible from the opposite side of the hall.
And its only until I let the quietness sink in,
When I have decided to treasure listening to the way you delivered my name,
Leaving your loud mouth like some exotic font.
That till today I still cannot decipher.

What was my height in your crowd?
164cm tall with probably less than half an inch, I guess.
You never noticed how my eyes would wander unconsciously.
Just to wonder
If you still remember I existed,
Somewhere in the pages of your scrapbook,
In the crowd,
Still searching, listening attentively.

Do you understand now?
We are standing at the extreme ends of Newton’s pendulum
Spiked from the illness of our broken bonds.
And I would swing an end so hard I would skewer you
And then the pain will come
Flying back
Stabbing me just as gruesomely.
But it’s so much better
Than disobeying the laws of reciprocation.
My friend, its unfair to be the only one.
Why not requite this one heaven of a pain?

People have pet the conflicted pain like dust off me,
And ignore the bruises that I have willingly punched myself upon.
They taught me
That the heart is a 2-room residence.
Happiness
Sadness
And if you are too happy
Don’t celebrate too loudly
Because you’ll wake the neighbor.

But could it really be helped?
This 1-year worth of what you have given me
You have left 2 party animals as clueless tenants.
Did you understand?
The fact that no matter what silly things we’ve done,
You will always be welcomed home.
And we would continue to drink
Till we are tipsy enough
To walk on the edge of the bridge we have built,
And fall into the hungry rivers
Into the places darker than black
Drowning the air out of our lungs.
But what reason should I be scared,
When you have always been the best swimmer I’ve ever known?
Forever a winner to me,
No matter how many competitions you have paddled out of the pool in disappointment.
It has always been you,
Who would slip over a note to my table,
My hair spilling over its surface in defeat.
Telling me that everything’s ok.
It’s you
Who understood that I was more of a listening person.
Your missing piece to fit your outspoken personality.
You,
The one who could even challenge me to a dance-off just to have the loser ask for the ketchup.
You,
Who could go on forever about a guy you obviously like,
But only say you ‘don’t stand a chance’.
I
The diplomatic one who would arrange you,
Like files in an office drawer.
You
The one who tried to hold us together till the end.
I,
Who failed to treasure your efforts, and share this burden.

And now that you’ve turned down the volume,
And walked out of the door without a goodbye
How am I supposed to handle the next morning, when being sober is an absolute nightmare?
Left alone to wonder what I have done
While we’re drunk, carefree and
Crumbling at the seams.

My dearest friend,
Have I ever told you,
How the number 1
Has always been our own funny little number?
Now if you just take ONE step closer…
Yes, I promise this time I’ll keep my earphones away.
I would point at the signboard above the door
And muse over how your stop,
Is ONE stop before mine.
How your birthday,
ONE day after mine.
Yeah… just like how we are ONE world apart in personality.
Isn’t that why we became like this?
SHUT UP I KNOW I’M A TERRIBLE CONVERSATION HOLDER.
I CAN NEVER PUT MY WORDS INTO THE APPROPRIATE CONTEXT.
BUT YOU KNEW THAT.
You knew.
Now go ahead.
Laugh.
Like how you always do, with that wide grin that reflected nothing but forgiveness,
Stripped down to reveal absolutely no grudges.
Because I deserve it, don’t I?
Because it was my fault,
I was the one, who willingly caused this silent war,
Fraying this thread that I mistook for a hiker’s rope.
There can only be ONE survivor in this meaningless game.
Scold me,
Because there was never such a rule.
I have decided who would be standing alone,
Long ago.
The loser,
The flower that will never find its way back from its ashes.
A.
B
R
O
K
E
N.

M
E.


(hi there. Look I tried ;w;)

So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,
      Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
      That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
      And colored coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigor, youth, and spright,
      That are but looked on by his light.

I’d be content to live it all again:
the two of us blind, falling,

hailing on the city, on each other’s avenues.
Both frostbitten with a beautiful rage,

universally connected but worlds away.
Your footprints ring round my thoughts –

paces that chipped my memory:
Divoted ideas, fictions too deep to fill.

On the steps outside your house,
I coughed up cracked earth.

The desert had taken residence in my chest.
Pale, clammy, I danced

an endless waltz through my ribs –
I lost my way.

Survival clung onto cactus-water and lizards,
I scarcely remembered the streets.

In doubt, I imagined asphalt and stop sign mirages,
glints of ghostly hopes till I felt the hail.

I laughed as it pounded,
lashing my back. Cool, frozen, deft.

I fell asleep, exhausted at your door.
The house lights went out, I dreamed

we could see. And that was what it was:
a dream, a slipping second between similar days,

a nightmare fresh with flowers,
two faint throbs on a deathbed.

I am content to live it all again.