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?

2 a.m. condolence center
The most helpful place for confounded heart
You may ask for suggestion or place an order
Good evengloom,
How can I help you?

Informations about this stack of hair,
Please, I have sent it to your office
It has lots of broken dreams
And is covered with sharp glasses
It’s amassed by wailing light

Would you like anything else?

When you are done,
Just pack them up for long-haul
Morning departure
In the same flight as the divorced ribbons
On the issue last week

Thank you.

Good evengloom,
2 a.m. condolence center
How can I help you?

I’d like a work of art, please
With streaks of blue blood
In the red paint that was made of dirt
You know, the one dipped into a glass of arsenic
Before the loom gloom september sleep

Just that, nothing else.

Good evengloom,
2 a.m. condolence center
How can I help you?

Show me your face, destroyer
Your half-witted face
Your scavenger scars
Do not hide behind the cords
Putting the mask of a saint

You are a sinner like we are
Grief your godforsaken
Condolence center

Anything else?

Just your half-tilted face,
Destroyer.
And I shall ask no more.

Good evergloom.
2 ante meridiem condolence center
How can I help you?

Shut the stars
And light up middays
We are fed up
Of your condolence center
Thank you

Thank you for your calls
We wish you a very goodnight.
From  your beloved two a.m. condolence center
Good evengloom,
good evergloom.

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.

Feel the red curtain,
The night opens a discreet picture
That still chirps about the burned-down marching band
We can no longer forget.

Your eyes still speak of
    The boys in the black attire
    Girls in wedding dresses
    Abandoned mother in the perfume of war
    Wearing masks of serendipity
That were consumed by the flimsy fire

And talk of the devil,
Talk of the leader,

His dark eyes were set ablaze
And his heart on his sleeve
Half eaten out
The parade, though, kept marching along
With its beautiful brides and paper snow
In the dark and discreet night

I could not wake
The romance they inflincted
Between us who knew none of each other
But the ode I will be sending to your most loved parade no longer
Will never reach anyone neither carcasses nor night masses

So what will we get from our early midnight memory
We confronted before the sun went down?
   The songs chanted with death’s drum rolls
   The steps taken with dwarfed soles and melted eyes
   Or the love you could not relish for the boys in the black attire
                                                          ­           Girls in wedding dresses
                                       Abandoned mother in ******* serendipity
                                      Or for the marching band
                               That will never pass us again?

And here I lie,
But they bring memories like a festival
Under the moonlit night
Presenting the illness of romance between life and death

And here I love you,
My visions of the discreet night
The parade of the wrong and right
My carcass of the burning life
We try to live upon a single stroke
Of two-faced departure

And here you love me,
As only
A parade of paradox
Unforsaken

Leaning on the step-brother of an open window
The young marble vase gleamed with sadness:

The drops of the rain filled its heart
With sprinkles of its holy water.

“Do not help me
I was supposed to be filled
With blood.”

Really:

Blood,
   or Flood?
Is it Good?
        Goodbye,
                        then.

And to the thunderstorm outside
The hanging lamps sways

          And laugh:

A tragic suicide of cupped glass and weary light
In their own personal smoky sunset.

        And that is alright.
        At least for them.

What is expected then, from a bottled hope:
If what is taken has leaped in loyalty?

And what is expected from saviors and their teacups
If the one who took away demands harmony?

The three-legged chair hummed quietly
Of the joy it gets when it gets nowhere;

the old table insisted
For it to stay by the open door.

The open door wondered
And the windowed step-brother cursed;

About the vase and the light bulb
Also about the wrinkling crooked chair.

The reasoning behind their dedication:
The light to the lamp
The vase to the blood
And the seat to weary hearts.

Why, do you a—

Ah,
I forgot to get you
The soaked rope
That bonds us together.

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

Bercak
           da
                rah
                      asi
                             a

Se
    du
          nia
                akhir
                          aha
                                 sia
                                       sia

Kasih
           an
                saya
                         ng

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

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

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

The cheap dagger I saved for you
Were conjured of prayers
We invoked to live in agony
In the shelter of a golden cage
Unromantic

Unpack it, beloved
Strive your sin, and pure your soul
The verses in your wail
Will save us from the wire
Chained to our feet

Yes,
Let go of
These
Hellbound handcuffs
Weaved out of flame
Locked out of paradise—

I want to go home.

We
Shall repent for romance.

Before that,
Do not look in the mirror,
You will find yourself a beast
In the heart, death by starvation
Without caress, in abomination

We
Shall repent for romance.
Love
Has no power
To bring us back home.

Lavish the dagger
With our tears.
Hurry,
This will be the key
To our home
In the heart.

Past-midnight

                             Coffee                  

Mortuary delight

                             ****** scene

Hanging men cite
      
                             Poetry

I light

                             Sin

Beside

                             Dignity

The pre-insomniacs
know nothing of the stars
And none of their amorous prayers
Or any way
The highest noon confessed
At the pulpit of the raging sea
When nothing came half romantic
But the oceanic lone wolves
Dying on cold tears
And prone to scenic anarchism
To answer the dying songs never to last
Sunlighted
Seahunted,
With their bare legs
Penning down your name
Upon asked
What would they grant
For the tombstone in the noon
And the star post-romantic
They muttered:
“None but your moon—”
In exchange, for those wolves
Are only
Your lone loves

Water does not taste like milk





Leaf does not smell like silk




Trash is not equal to artsh




Writing is not tiring




Crying is of lying




Potato kills tomato




Love hurts laugh




Life does not lift




The answer to when




Is not forever

asking death about loving
the young man who shouted
while selling jarred lights    
put his brimmed hat on in vain;        
death is brighter than all his goods
and the answer to his question
was the sweet voice of a bird  
broken by falling stars        
                          
asking death about loving
the librarian of idle care
who slept on marigolds
wept for his preloved nightmare;
death is sweeter than all his hope
and the answer to his question    
was the embrace of an ancient queen
he longed since his pilgrimage    

asking death about loving
a downpour stood by an open door
mumbling songs we used to sing
to delude its love;
but death is promiscuous
and sweeter than the pain we inflicted
he took each of us by the hand
and kept singing towards the light

I now know that death
carries love in his sleeves
and that our ghosts
would be save in his hands;
let's run on your getaway
while you're falling in serenity
and when the star falls upon our soul
loving is no longer a question

A condescending question
And love letter
From the eyes between the lenses:

You do not live forever
Have you ever lived once?

My sweet revenge,
I can see you.

You are a ghost
From the beginning,
With a broken heart,
Painted eyes on ***** sheet
Feeding sad songs.

Immortality
Washed your whole
Body black
In order to
Make a pact
With the night.

You do not live forever,
You haunt for eternity:
In memories,
In each passing second
When a rasping voice
Is heard
Chanting mercy.

You are a ghost,
Slave of destiny.

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.

Pride is of consenting age
Desperation stands on a edge
Love looks at an empty mattress
Solitude drinks from a broken glass

Not for long,

This party behind a bleeding door
Will tell us that someone
Is no longer beating
His blackened heart

As the clock turns its counter romance
We will slip away from a single utterance
Of arsenic threads and deranged dreams
Say goodbye now, everyone waits

But,

Departure has not arrived
Yet
And I will wait no longer
Dismantle your lorn, wait here

Don't let us go—

We will
Weep even harder
In this room that decays
To the beat of your heart

The last time we saw each other
Was when we caught a star
Under the tears
Unfolded from your bedtime
Horrors

And now I've lost you
To my tempest that
Passed soon after
In your sleep

All that was left for me
Were
The sound of giggling children
At the far end of the tapestry
Grandfathers crying
At a bowl of lukewarm gospels
Who laughed while praying
For my loss

I am
The murderer
Who caught a star
In August
With you
By the time you came
To your senses
Faster
Than I
Who turned down your bullets
That sung lullabies about heartbreak

It was the only thing we had
You were the blossom I cherished
Rotting down
Resonant

The fire now no longer speaks to me
The star we caught distinguished its flame

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

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

Wait,

When the weary men in the skeletal park
Play their old downpour,
we shall look for the sun to bid our sins
                 A sincere hello we’d forgotten.

Wash your hand before you wave it,
                                 and now look up.

I remember how the fingers of the tree there
                                Used to drown along
                                In the lake above the park
                                For you alone.

They were catching dreams,
              don't worry.

And you remember how those fingers
                            Used to draw red line
                            In the lake beneath the park
                            Do you not?

They were waiting for dreams,
              don't worry.

But yesterday,
       You cheered for their departure;

And today,
       You weep for their absence.

And finally the next,
       You seek for their replacement;

       drifting all the way
       To the lake beneath the park.

Let me just tell you a thing loud and clear:
       If you ever want to dig alone to the bottom of the lake;
       Just remember,

      that whenever I slumber in this puddle that lacks of blood
      The moon on the lake above followed me always to bed
      And as I lie, looking up for the sun
      It simply slandered my confounded elegy.

That is why in this skeletal park of streams and wires
I keep trying to tip my hat and bid farewell
         Till the sun eventually goes down and sleep next to me
         So that along with my smile, it would lastly grin my sins

But what if my fingers drowned all along in tipping my sins?
                                                 What would the lake have for me,
           and what would the men play above the grinning sun?

                                I wonder if all the sea was all a scene
                               They played during my silent ******.
                                I wonder if all the scene was all a sin
                                The sun conjured between my fingers.

But what if my fingers drowned all along in bidding farewell?
                   Just forget what I said, and don't take it to the heart.
                   They were not looking for light, anyway.
                   They were looking for you.

That is why I want you to speak of hands
                              And count fingers instead of hope;
                              so that you would
                              Come and get mine
                              Along the red lines
                              of sinful ****** scene
                              In the lake beneath this skeletal park.

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