I can see it beforehand
three months three wounds
and the Death is dragging me
hail the eternal chain
hail the Danse Macabre
the allegory is dead,
the hegemony is trapped
in the continuous fashion,
insurmountable passion
Oh Lord, you must've
loved me.

Love me
if you love me.

If you love me
why don't you
come here
and say
"I love you"

and we
can start anew.

If I let myself be myself,
then this world will never
have a case of ****** theft
if I let myself be myself,
then I will never be myself.

As the water runs off the tap,
let it flows, let it glows,
tornado, tornado.

If I ever be myself,
then the book would never
have met its owner off the shelf
if I ever be myself,
then what else would have left?

As the mother falls off the map,
let it shows, let it grows,
innuendo, innuendo.

The cut is temporary,
unlike woes.

But arrows
reside deep in the bow.

Nothing has
taken place
in this empty
cold and dark
remote room
it has been
and always will be
empty.

I can hear the
punching
on the table
the hard slamming
of the door
the shouting
of an ecstasy rage
from the outside
but still in here
in my little, cramped
secluded room
it is just silence.

There is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space
a wise, old
drunk man
once said
'don't try'
and somehow
it turns out
to be true
that everything
is here
not to be tried
and for all the
emptiness in it
there is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space.

There is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this empty space
there is no
road, street
or alley
for me to go
back and forth
but there is
always this
static presence
of feeling
of nature
of instinct
that has been
squashing me
sitting on me
telling me
to run and jump
frantically, wildly
just to see that
it bores nothing
and there is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this
empty space.

This empty space
can't be filled
this empty space
can't be replaced
this empty space
can't be changed
for
this empty space
has always been
empty
and it will
always be.

I want you to laugh,
honestly.
There is no better thing
that you can do
with your light voice,
light heart and light mind
even the slightest spark of fire
can burn the whole forest
but then again,
the possibility of having
the pain in seeing a perfectly composed mirror
is unbearable for me.

I know, I know,
that there is nothing
that I can do
the moment your face
turns pale
as if it is being drowned
by the darkest cloud,
falling down from the empty cliff,
I realized that
I am powerless,
and your smile is immortal.

but the sunshine appears again
from the beneath of
your pretty face
I have lost for words,
totally insane,
I am deeply amazed.

I want to see you chuckle
until the last light
comes slashing
through this bare eyes.

4/12/2015

I hate routine
and even though
I hate it,
with all my guts
with all my life
with all my veins
and I have been
saying it
for as long
as I have lived
I am still
doing it
embracing it
enduring it
for almost
two years
I have been
out there
every single
weekdays
from seven to six
without fail
except for
those days
where I cannot move
or think
and sometimes
it stretched until
eight, nine at night
and there were
few times
where it stretched
to ten, eleven
close to midnight
and I have
to go out again
the next day
to do it again
to force
the cycle
and to force
myself
to jump over
the hurdle
just to get
a bowl
full of noodle
and I believe
it is the best
of all routine
that able
to be served
to the human
of all layers
of all levels
of all stratums
that are
desperately
in need of
a life.

So if you
ask me again
why do
I hate routine
please allow me
to ask you back
after all that
I have gone through
How can I not say
that I hate routine?

26/4/14

Behind the veil of truth, there is love
The charcoal sketch of your beautiful face
That no artist could ever paint, but God himself
The warmth of your hands, that no fire can produce,
Makes my heart melt right through my chest
Where my love for you sleeps like a baby
I would savour the taste of your lips
Just the way champagne tickles my tongue
And tea burns my throat on a freezing day
I pray for the sun to never rise, after you are gone
I pray for this earth not to exist
When you step into the heavens above,
I pray for my bones to be broken,
When your touch is no longer there to give them strength,
A simple tender touch, that keeps my bones in their place.
And you, pulled into my embrace,
Where the universe continues to live, while it has died everywhere else.
Your smooth skin under my gentle caress,
Feels like raindrops falling onto the ground
Death may come and take away the flesh,
Life, however, winds on between your soul and mine!
For life never stops between two lovers.

I've confined the greatest hits of Marx
to a playlist
and periodically map over them with dull,
grasping eyes, when desperate for talking points
or anti-capitalism ideation

The works of Bukowski, Poe, Emerson,
tethered to my fingertips where I can stave
them off enough to hold concept
but unearth no meaning

I can pull and manipulate quotes
like nobody's business

I googled Sigmund Freud once
because I forgot how to spell his name

If photos could become life
and give justice to experience and wealth,
I would be Frank Lloyd Wright

If John Muir had an iPhone,
he would be as distracted and rooted
Somehow he died surrounded by angels
at the advent of advertising and public relations;

Emily Dickinson would have been
an Instagram model and romanticized
mental illness

I gasp in admiration and nostalgia
at Rockwell, but that world never existed
beyond his oil, canvas and scope

If the people that wrote the history books
had to read them, they would be
as insatiable as me.

All we are is illusions of aesthetics
to one another
Trapped in the vaguely perfect candor
of rehearsed moments

Tripped up and mired in perspective
because we aren't as lost as they
Only lost to ourselves

The library of my mind relies
on binary communication,
programmed in arbitration

And inside, there's a small child
whose heart still desires to play
But he's overwhelmed and crying for help

In the corner, a yearning spirit
is steadfast and pacified
Forming a benchmark of baseline bullet points
Wrought with cynicism

I am not smart
I am not profound
I am not layered
I am not organic
I am not the next great American anything

When what is new
Stays through night's wading charm
And lasts not for fame's harm
But ignorance left here with thee
There you invite something special, something free.

Where you use what is new
And usurp the old order
You taste what lore old beggars do
And beautify lost tomes once more

When you find what was forgotten
And wrap wedded slogans on yourself
Raise slightest youth from its ignorant ways
There, thine work is well founded,
And your spirit well freed