When the days get darker,
let them dim our thoughts

With contemplation of loathe,
dancing macabre

Skeletons pour down wax and slowly cackle
at the sight of human’s craving,
their salvation
Towards untangled
self-torture-bound heartache.

Just like the dripping pain in the stomach that would
Gradually rip and bleed forever more.
Or the stinging needles in the eyes
To prevent us from believing.

We are composed of guilt and shame
Melted by the gluttonous fire of our own
That we ignored,
pretending as if it was crumbs
From our demented lunch as we
Step on our pride,
refusing to acknowledge
Our satisfaction and sweat reflected there.

If life is a candle still, crowned with black flare
Inject me with the stranded white wax
So I could form myself back to my righteous shape.

And I would then burn bright
A swaying blaze of agony.

On my gleaming way home
Amidst the fading waves of visions
I got stranded in so many rooms
Of corridors I stepped on purpose
For once I was welcomed by
A handless artist
Who gave me a treat of flowers and desire
Faded by his fire
His windows were pages old
And he lived with a light he incinerated
And after I asked for a way
I was addressed to another door
A windowless room dwelt by
A verseless poet, who walks upon a string
Adorned as a necklace to turn his fate
He told me directions completed
With a tea-time set of apocalyptic nursery rhymes
Where he adored, lived, and longed to cradle
Before I went off he sent me to a philosopher next door
Who came just an age ago
She, as he said, feeds on human thoughts and sophisticated flesh
Crave unfathomable waves of loves she can control
Her ceilings as I saw was soaring up
To unlimited depth of nonexistent heaven
And humorous hell
Her demon was whole yet none
And her providence resides in her
She dwells for a short course in the clock
To find a way home as I am
Then sent me off to
A boy from the burnt-down marching band
Who talked of God, ancient lords, and prayers old
But never thought nor heed the tales
But his melodic fingers were of life and death
The serenade and the sonnets, to the worldly joy of torment and sachars
He was the friend of a wax statue overgrown by candles
Who would burn down a thousand more to lit the hearts
Of the lost and the blind
He contradicted the black-ash boy’s tales
Yet preach some of it to ease his flames
Truth be told or truth be sought
His candles and the dim little flickers
Did much to illuminate my half-consumed soul
And thus he took me to the exit door
And guided me home through the fragile night
But as I stepped further, none would heed my farewell so
In this life of considerable tears
I shall bid no farewell and I shall write my tales
Of truth be told of truth be sought

The postman boy
Has gotten weary of the stories told
Wrongly by dear Oblivia on the yards
Every morning.
The postman boy comes for
The warm-hearted letters of distance sons
But on his hands are letters of slander and
coalition he did not fathom.

To the wound playing the piano
Before the sunset of mid April
        I hereby declare my gratitude
For all the raindrops that fall
According to the tune of your solitude.

Your medley was raising flowers,
                                catching time,
                               trying to make sound
Of grandfather’s old clock
                                which still tells the tale
Of the lady in green
                                While casting off,
                                painting shadows
For the distance braided by endless waltz

To the freezing lake of the looking glass,
Where I carved the codes and messages,
        I hereby declare my gratitude,
                                     and vows,
for the blue vinyl which sings out
The equinox’s most favored scarlet eyes.

To the afternoon tomb where we wandered
To the vines tangling on your dancing fingers
               For all the tears in a song I do not fathom
               And the abyss where we fell but never land
                                               Here I send you a poem of gracious longing

I

Waiting for my clock to break an arm
I wonder why there are two moons
In the sky on the mirror above the ground
I stroll upon in the dark dark night
But who would listen to my footsteps
That contradict their own resonation
For I always walk
In sanity

II

How do we talk
And how do we walk?
Like innocence drowned in chalk
Or just abhorrence painted black?
Why does the mirror shatter?
It is because of beauty,
or a heart blackdusted, like this—
like   this
like   this
like   this
like   this
like   this
like
         this
like
         this
like
         this
like
         this
like  this
        dislike

III

Following your eyes and their dauntless form
I beat the tears out of the moon
In the bog where we used to mourn
For deceased children whose hearts shone bright
But who would weep along to us
Whose sirens live alone in contradiction
For we always talk
In sanity

I talked to the fire and the ashes
I brought last night upon the marshes;
they were burning and dusting
Passions and longing—
For they could not be as one
No matter how much they wanted to;

the fire kills,
The ashes bleed
All for themselves
Because they could not do it
On their own.

My fire hated wound and hated pain
Only if it is for the ashes and ashes alone
And also the grasses in the garden of the marshes.

Yes, fire is warming and calming to the core,
but is it for the ashes dropped to blown?

And for me, to make it clear:
The ashes were not ******* you get
After you allegedly burn a precious wood,
or a precious bone, of course.

The ashes were conjured  
Of memories you could not recall—
Every single shards of wood
Every singe string of gloom
Incinerated only to light your way
To light your world.

Who said that ashes worth nothing in this colored world?
Who dare say that ashes could only humiliate?

Because for us
It is the most sincere form
Of memories sacrificed.

And if the stars are too far away
We might as well burn
And be the ashes down the ground—
Because for us
The ashes are the most sincere form
Of stars deep dark below.

Why would you grab a star too far
When i’m not
So far away from you?

Like the night and the shadow within
When the fire burns
Upon the old marshes of memories.

And so, the fire and the ashes that I brought upon
Simply whispered;

Don’t let the dream of the moon upstairs
Blind you to your heart
For the flickering stars above,
when you can simply burn rocks
Burn anything
to create your own stars.

My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend

My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled

This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane

The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above

The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well

Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt

To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones

Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?

Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart

Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?

But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away

Away
Away
Away
From you

From:

Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay

Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?

Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars

Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.

Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond

And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more

Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.

And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.

My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.

The well I dive in is shallow and dark
And I seem to get nowhere after I embarked
So I drink the ink and fill in the blank
Pouring up from the bottom of the well
The bricks they made were corroding bells
And a tale of prejudice they always tell
Oh, how they depict the pain and gain
We get after being silently ******
And while diving in well I do then reign
Your kingdom of loathe of poem and darts
Causing chaos upon writing the lost hearts out
Corrupt the walls by eating your heart out
Drown, drown, deep down in my black romance
Of the kingdom within never laid to rest
Where I can write as I please and tell as I please
And set fire to the war you flickered in peace

Would you like to talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?

Yes,

The one you can see at night
From the soup parlor by the river
That serves memories, carved inside
A polished mirrored platter
Which made the boys all bright
And washed them saner
Along its tide of deluded truth

Come,
Would you like to talk about
The winding water?

The home for a thousand soul
All wrapped up, though foul
In a confounded streaming wire
And there, strayed the traveler
For a good four-hundred-year old
With his face down, and stories untold

Would you like to talk about
The sprouting light?
From the lanterns hung
To adorn the tide long
From the flowers of the head
Wilted and and still drowned
By the name of the lil moon’s
All dead hopes

Talking about the winding water
And its sprouting light
The old traveller
And the years has passed,
our little moon killed itself
Just to know that light
Eventually looked beautiful
Shrouded in darkness

Say now,
All my darling—

Why would you talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?
Why romanticize a world
Dull and weary?

Because beauty is made up,
and we live for beauty?
Or because we live in beauty,
and life is made up?

Impersonating the withering time spent in vacant prisons
None would heed the grief of the comatose televisions,
Seething silence, and things crack to pollute proceeding eyes
Of fishnet and waves conjured in the restful realms

My love for daydream is as much as nightmare
Neither it is in the day nor after horrid nightfalls
It is better to dream of horror than to dream of none
And to lavish the physique in mental salvation

In our daydream we still wander around
Chasing apostles and romance of ancient times
As for the dark dream in our mundane rest
Never get us to the eluding tide of winfer fire
Not even the embalmed hail of summer’s sweet liver

Of course, we know the pleasure of staying the night and burning shadows
Temperate, just like those faithful moments before we drown
Some might enjoy its darkness as it falls out of grace
Like after halos are dimmed, those are the reason the stars descend

Even the giddy stars would at some point come to a rest
Even if you have the power to shine as bright ever after
Please save ourselves from impersonating immortals

I say;

The drifting rain dissolves sea salt
Turning tears into dangled monsoon
Under the bleak ballad of dying dawn
Where I long for heat unbroken

You say;

The drifting rain drenches my tiptoe
Witching smiles into deranged equinox
Upon the downpour of ancient daybreak
Where I pray for old snow long sunk

All was as if the days faded
And morphed into younger sunset
It was as if mercy was drained
And no one preach as desired

The downpour stench though remains constant
Of rotting perfume of the rouge graphite
You drowsily drip from dowsing fingers, they lit
Into pages of burning, dancing melodious lads

As will, you may keep those imageries for you
And give up old stories as my slumber lyre
Whether it is about the burnt down marching boy
Or the bloodstained pianist from our ancient joy

For the bleak heart aesthetic
has affected a new kind of love
And the bleak heart aesthetic
would never let you feel so certain

So please keep your drifting rain of strings
During the downpour of the deranged equinox
When the snow goes black and slowly sunk
Into pages of firespit melodious lads

The crooked tooth was just a tooth
Which sat like a worn-down moth
It dreamed for a free-hug booth
Though it never managed to go on forth

The crooked tooth was just a tooth
Which waited like a crippled witch
And always wished for its tiptoe path
While it knew that was just myth

The crooked tooth was just a tooth
Yet it kept a daydream to breathe
And to have a sparkle bath
Drenched between life and death

The crooked tooth was just a tooth, though
Which cared only about its growth
And shall only be a single tooth
Which then stood still at the end of birth

The crooked tooth was just a tooth
And it stood alone among the row
Of skull preserved by merciful death
Unaware of the dreams it had dreamed

But,
Ah,
Yes,
Never mind that.

For the crooked tooth
Was just a tooth
A worn-down moth
A selfish tooth.

How does it feel,
when you polish silvers
On your abominable veins?
Can you see the stars,
or broken paradise?

How does it feel,
to feel joy upon pain
That you inflicted?
I can make you cry
As much as you hurt you

Come,
If you run out of pins
Or run out of fingers
I’ll break the metal wood
And sculpt the night endlessly
To fix smiles upon sorrows

Then comes hell,
When you nod over
The marching fire
Cracking little demons
That lavish inner devotion
For the broken and unhealed

High water,
Rises to drown you
Drenching you in exchange
For stakes to the heart
Built of gloom and your drowsy hair

Come hell or high water,
I’ll pursue you away
From your battles of fables
And vacant splendors
Perfumed by corruption,

Abandon abundance,
Abandon crooked vows
Abandon lusted graveyards
Abandon all hopes
Abandon promises you plead yourself

But come hell,
Or high water
Who am I?
Just a labeled hero
With broken limbs and faded eyes

As long as I still
Can walk with,
Or without you,
Then come hell
Or high water

They said that the breeze
Told them nothing but miseries
They said that the grass
Inhaled nothing but nurseries
They said, “We seek you for tragedies,
And we want our tears to pick your lyers;
we made you dreams of catastrophic allegories,
and we want our grief to mourn over your prejudice
of undesired futures.”
They claimed that they were conjured of
Passion and mysteries
Of knowledge other than blasphemies
They said, “We chant you for the last morning tea
We desire you for your ever-after evening satires,
Stay, and keep us for the crystal wires
Of your undying lyres.”
They said so as desired and as deprived,
Yet if they are so afraid to lose
Why do they seek in the first place?

The drooping sun stood across the wooden bow,
showering it with drowsy thoughts for the wooden boy
In the abandoned graveyards where pavements were abolished
Plaid plague nourished the jingling broken eyes

The graveyards of dreams and graveyards of clocks
Will deliver the nails of sorority locks
To cradle the soft heat of the drenched sun
To bring on temptation of demolition’s sons

Let’s say that the pavements of hopes were of pain and vain
The vines were vanity and the roots were dignity
If agony keeps us close to our core,
then drench pins on my head to keep me human

I am bored to death
Of this desire to play with
The heart of human child
For it has never given me  
Much amusement.

I am bored to death
And my soul, empty;
My soil vessel broken
When I wished to mend the splits
Lingering, lingering in your heart
Yet you stood up
Without my embrace.

I am bored to death
In this small town owned
By Mother Solitude where
Only angels speak to me,
Where I am hurt by my fault
My fear
My grace I have disdained;

I am bored to death
Of death; for the question repeated
For the blames I have done
For regrets, come at last
Redemption, sinned like ballad

I am bored to death
Of death
Whether it be hell;
Or heaven of days—
One I shall go
by the end of the day.

For tragic is just a trapped magic
Let's try harder to break the cage
Where it dwells in
Just like the hopes packed
In a coffin

So come all jolly lads
and whimsical princesses

take out your torches under the streetlights
for the lamps have withered out
and nothing can save you
except what you believe in the unseen

so come all jolly ladies
and whimsical princes

dance with the revenant before they vanish
for nothing can be done unless
you succumb to the delusion
and the foul mess you created
for the purpose of self-destruction

So join in morticians and
Men of desolated sorority

Grab out your shovels to dig up the magic
Stolen by the faeries of the day that reside
In the caverns of gloom and doom
Where trickery binds our wrists
And lead us to the dead-end

Painted with magic

And will be painted again for ever more
With our tragic fate of trapped magic

So I say,
“Come, come, jolly lads
And whimsical princesses
Join in, morticians and
Men of desolated sorority
For nothing can be done unless
You have something to hold on in life
In darkness or in light
Visions of hell or heaven
Deluded or disillusioned”