There is one
In alone
An almost two
In together
And broken three
In living through
Dying bones

On the dagger above her
Are only dead verses    
From a rabbit in a dress  

Praying down the hole:    

Alice,                                              
Will you forget
Me willingly?
                                                      ­  
Or else
You'll be consumed
By my peril.
                      
Alice
Can't even remember you
Once
Her head went off

Aku berdosa,
Telingaku bunuh diri.

Sudah baru-baru ini
Aku sepenuhnya tuli
Aku tak tahu lagi  

Apa kata dedaunan
Pada tanah yang terantuk lemas dibawah
Atau ceracau yang diteriakkan
Bunga keparat
Untuk mayat dingin si kumbang.

Bahkan di restoran tua
Yang setiap sela kayunya berdarah dingin,
Tempat rintihan musik bisumu selalu dialunayunkan
Semuanya hanya tertawa hening
lalu mati begitu saja.

Dan meskipun duduk menghadapmu
Aku masih tak dapat mendengar
Suara mengaji jam setengah mati
Yang kerap menceritakan
Dongeng gelap kita
Dari lampau sampai me—
La lala la la
      lala la lala
La la la la la lala
           La la la lalala la la
La
—Lampaui
Pemakaman hati yang mati dipancung
Di pekarangan rumah tiap senja gulana

Yah, baru-baru ini aku tuli
Bisu lagi,
Mampunya cuma mengumpat dalam tulis.

Dan dihadapkan denganmu,
Sesekali dalam terkadang
Aku anehnya dapat mendengar
Serintikan isak tangis yang
Sama sekali tidak kita cucurkan

Lalu ini semua salah siapa,
Kalau aku baru tuli
Lalu kamu sudah bisu?
Apa memang ini dosaku?
Di palangnya tertulis;
Nama: Siapapun yang menangis

Di sela-sela pengakuan dosa
Kematian telinga gila
Dan kelumpuhan bibir hambar
Kita tiba-tiba melongo,

Tuhan tertawa
Sabar lagi bahagia,
Mengisyaratkan untuk
Sudah, ya,
Simpul mati saja senyum satu sama lain.

I am not a work of art. I don’t have that much beauty in me to help me create one. I’ve always wanted something that might help me with my works. Whispering trees, mocking buildings, silent pavements, weary soil; everything that used to work simply drives me numb now. Being too absorbed into my works for these past few months, I failed to notice a change so near that pretty much sparked me.

Who needs trees with their leaves of wire under the smoking mid-day sun to inspire your art if your standard of beauty lies near to you?

My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair, it went under his shoulder and always managed to fall graciously like  confounded summer leaves. The temperate air would sometimes brush it away from his face instead of his own two hands. My hair is short, dry, and plump. Hanging like a rope up to my chin only. One of the sole reason his hair is the thing I started to cherished the most, and had started to become my favorite object to paint. I still can see the shine glimmering strand by strand; framing his smile in a grotesque manner.

My sweetheart had a long, beautiful hair. It was a pity he did not like it as much as I did, despite taking care of it in the best way possible. I can still remember the unsettling shadow whenever he looked down and was darkened by the dim complexion of his soft raven hair. Always the peculiar inspiration to my art. He was a work of art, an original beauty.

My sweetheart had a breathtaking long hair, it had been an oblivious month or two since the last time I saw him, before isolating myself with tons of faded colors. His long hair ignited me, but gradually it tortured me, tossing me unimaginable fear for I could not paint it in its natural beauty. All I could think of was:

I might ruin beauty.

What a shame, I was filled with spirit before being frustrated all over again.

My sweetheart had a heartbreaking long hair, which he promised to cut sooner or later. My sweetheart had a melancholic long hair, a beautiful thing that led us to a mouthful argument and rough doublespeak. He shouldn’t have planned to cut it, I practically begged him to not to. I am lost within my mind, how am I supposed to continue working if the only thing that I was trying to paint went away?

I had a sweetheart who had a gorgeous long hair and I was a selfish imbecile and a stray soul.

I wouldn’t bear a single thoughts of seeing him without the dark curtains wrapping his head like the parlor of an old fortune teller.

How am I supposed to work with him?

The only things I have are these empty canvases, paint in the colors of tears, and paintbrush.

Paintbrushes,

Gather your material, prepare for the bristles.
It could be made of various materials,
Animal hair,
Such as:
Horse hair, from the mane and the tail,
Or any other kind of animals with long hair,
Needle trees and grasses,
Synthetic hair,
Human hair.

Second, prepare the handle of your brush.
bamboos, sticks from one's own yard are recommended,
For a professional look, we suggest doweling.

Next, select a strong adhesive to attach the bristle to the handle. You would have to spread the adhesive glue to the tip of the handle and attach it with the bristle.

After that, wait for the glue to dry before you carry on to the next step.
Find a strong material like metal or rope to bind the handle and the bristle together.

And there you have your home-made personal brush.

Despite making it in a rush and on a drunken heart, I pretty much loved the result.

If only you did not argue to cut your hair.
If only I could think clearly, better than this,
I could still see my sweetheart’s eloquent long hair in its most proper and beautiful form, to ignite my heart even more.
Not in the form of this ******, hellbound paintbrush I made myself in the most abhorrence manner.

I should not have gnashed your head to the tip of my easel after you told me your little desire of having a shorter hair,
I should not have been that ill-tempered, overflowing your head with warm red liquid.

Ah well,
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair and a fresh thick blood.
At least I would still have the chance to work with him though I can see him no longer.
I have his soft hair attached onto my paintbrush, giving me the wildest dream,
And his blood in the color of blooming red Chrysanthemum,
It should not have happened,
But what could be better than this?

All written on the calendar
Crumbling in my pocket
Is only a  forsaken air
Of the Sometimes you scribbled

And all the photographs
Hanging since the execution
Serve as the deathbeds
For our soon-to-be  autumn

There is no red thread
Falling from the sky tonight
Just a stained glass I forgot
To put back in order at last

I have no watch
Slithering around my wrist
For time has escaped your fate
And I shall be in charge

All for myself

I am out here only to remind you
That our eyes are only as rough
As the heart long shredded
You comforted them with knives instead

The eyes we used to pair
Never peer into the lonely couch
That sung old ballade
Together no longer

And in our last supper at this foul home
I have seen nothing of the love
On your half-painted dinner plate
Or the hope you incinerated behind my head

But I have missed you
Too far alone
Under these cold empty tables
Godforsaken

I am out here only to remind you
That our eyes are as big
As the heart you’ve demolished
That is now rising from the dead

And with that
I can only see the world
The way you forgot
Our last prayer before bed

Ah,

I’m leaving home
Watch out for the stars
They are lone wolves
Feasting on others

No one is home,
I have set ablaze
All the forlorn dolls
You have loved

You will never go back
And I shall do the same

No one is home,
The windows are barred
The hearts are locked
And the walls are full of corpse

The hanging tree we planted years ago
Died of poisoning in the years to go
We have not turned in lovebound skulls
Yet the hanging tree had abandoned all of us
Your sunset children, fullmoon demons

The hanging tree we planted hours ago
Died of poisoning one second ago
You never fed it melted gold
Of left me alone in the bloodshot snow
Lover of the long forsaken forlorn

The whining flower we cut on weekends
Has never waited for any kind of end
Only its longing for the hanging tree
And the premature departure
Of its unrequited love leaves

Though the flower and the tree
Are merely my drunken dream
The drowsy midnight hike
In my old somber hill
Never enamored your good-bye

And in our journey under the late hour
Where snakes revolt beneath our feet
The world bends down and speak to me

Saying;

I cannot love under your ballet shoes
You cannot **** in your combat boots
We shall not die beneath the earth
Forget the the hanging tree behind
The blossom cottage that keeps whining

Good night,
my beloved.
But before you go to sleep
Let me unravel this itch in my life.

I bet you’ve known about the marvelous old painter
He was a fine man living up to 300 years
He smoked his broken home every evening
with his broken bone
And put it back in place on Friday morning

Oh,
What a man.

The old painter always called me
Even tonight, when he was dead,
to pray while slitting my throat
And to truth up the lamp
Standing on my wrist

“Be satisfied of what you have”
Said the old painter who was throatless
And then he kept mumbling
With his imaginary head

He had hard times breathing
Because he planted trees on his lungs
It was only for the sake of beauty.
Summon on ancient pain
What a shame.

Where did the old painter live?
You shouldn’t ask.
He lived in my closet,
Only with a canvas, very small
As big as the book of life.

But it was gone,
He wanted me to look for it
Humbly with a grudge
Without a penny or a candy
Or even the tears of an ant

I don’t know why it was so important
It was a masterpiece, he said
A painting of nothing
A blank space
Of poetry only

All I wished for him
Was to stop making up tales
of Degas' unrequited loves
for ballerinas
using his own words
of listless lost lovers