Gua sama sekali gak maksudbuat ngejelekin, ngejatuhin cowo gua yang sekarang 

gua punya cerita yang mungkin lu semua pernah ngadapin dengan kejadia yang sama

gua punya cowo, asli gua sayang banget sama dia, gua pengen ngebahagia in dia kayak gua pengen ngebahagian keluarga gua. Tapi, ada banyak hal yang selalu buat gua ragu sama dia.
1. dia gak pernah sms ato nelponin gua duluan alesan tidur.
2. gak pernah bilang sayang sama gua, kecuali waktu nembak
3. kalo di ajakin alesan nya segudang, mungkin penuh kali tu gudang 
pasti lu semua punya pikiran kalo dia Cuma mainin gua, ato pun gak sayang sama gua?

tapi biarpun dia kayak gitu, gak tau kenapa gua tetep aja sayang. Gua ikut aturan dia, gua ikut apa maunuya dia. Pokoknya semua maunya dia gua jabanin deh 
karena ada satu hal di diri dia yang sulit banget gua lupain selama ini adalah KENYAMANAN kalo dideket dia.
Padahal yah, gua punya seseorang yang jelas.jelas sayang sa,ma gua, bias ngasih apa aja yang gua mau, yang bias ngebahagia in gua dengan semua hal yang dia punya, dia adalah mantan gua yang pacaran sama gua 2 tahun lebih.
gua udah banyak ngelewatin hari sama dia, susah maupun senang, dia mungkin satu.satu cowo yang paling ngerti siapa gua.
cowo yang paling care sama gua, pokok nya cowo yang paling sempurna deh dia 
meskipun kayak gitu tetep aja gua gak bisa boongin ati mgua sendiri, pacaran sama dia tapi inget orang lain buat apa coba?
lagian gua harus nurut apa kata orang tua gua gak boleh pacaran sama dia, toh gua gak bias ngelawan.

buat kamu cowo yang jadi pacar aku : please donk sayang, jangan cuek sama aku.
jangan suka banyak alesan, aku tuh sayang banget sama kamu.
coba deh kamu yang ngertiin aku sekali.kali jangan akunya terus donk 

buat kamu cowo yang aku sakitin : maapin aku udah nyakitin kaamu, semoga diluar sana kamu bakal ketemu cewe yang syang banget sama kamu.
maapin aku 

#sekarang gua Cuma pengen satu hal yaitu lepas dari kedua.duanya.
gua mau orang baaru, tapi gua takut tuk memulai itu semua 
sangat.sangat btakut

yes I do have insurance.
actually, it lapsed last Tuesday

She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific  intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while  from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a  creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of  her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
          Shanti,   Shanti,   shanti

sext : *let me write a poem
on the insides of your thighs..
with my tongue

It will be by TXT
That you will impart your worst,
At a safe distance,
Not from fear of violence -
Guilt is lighter without eyes

O rain,
That falls
On the green
That I love most
Let me kiss
Your tender chest

Nobody to come, or go
Alone, alone, alone,
Have to bear the heat and odors of earth

Was the world built by someone?
In it, the marks of a kiss
By me or you
Is graffiti

In Ethihad’s cabin
Your name is Mariyamma,
Mine is..

The sound of someone singing on earth
Mother might be crying
You might be singing
Or else I might be muttering about myself

There is only one place to say
Peace, peace
Your mother’s ******
Only one way to come out

To go inside, at least a thousand ways, but
All blocked
With what Ammu, Ammini and you have earned

Not as beasts,
Not as humans,
It was not father
Or mother
Who gave birth
To us as us
Someone else..

Will name a dream after you
Will name another one after you
If you miss at one, you will get it right at three
I will give my name to the third dream

A mouthful of grain is a word
There is a mouth
There is rice
When these two combine
You
Like myself,
So unbearable,
Love.

Children,
Was it the food you ate
Or the tall and hefty  myself
You or me
You or me

Please take with you
The care and protection
Of this SMS
In the morning
When
Anxieties leave

As I fight like a butcher,
No,
No,
Preethi, from Maha Iranikkulam
Calls me to take a bath in the temple pond

Was it you
Or me
Or our children?

Amma,
Amma,
Amma,

Amen.

There once was a far away Miss,
Who wished she could give her man bliss.
She knew what to do,
And immediately blew
Him a sweet little SMS kiss.

<3

Sexism, Feminism, ******, Racism, Athiesm...
There's only one we all need

It was fun while we texted,
I enjoyed every tapping bit,
Shame we got to call it quit,
Now I'm gonna find who's nexted.

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I need a therapist for this poetry block !

little bits of paper

shredded

&

kept

until useful

sms

dine ord visner hurtigere end mine planter,
men jeg glemmer også at vande dem,
ligesom jeg glemmer at svare på dine sms'er
jeg har så mange ting, jeg skal nå
alligevel bladrer jeg mine fingre til blods i skarpt papir
deres stemmer bevæger  sig ud i ikke-eksisterende stilhed,
de råber så højt, at
jeg ikke kan høre dem
så jeg hvisker digte op, jeg så
længe har skjult yderst i mine fingerspidser,
men jeg hvisker så højt, at
du ikke kan høre dem
og nu er jeg endelig begyndt at
vande mine planter,
men de smager stadig tørt

Hej. Jeg er egentlig skuffet over dig. Du spørger ikke hvordan jeg har det eller hvad jeg laver eller hvordan jeg er nu. Du ser mig slet ikke i øjnene. Men du ser på mig. Jeg tror du prøver at gætte. Gætte hvordan jeg har det, gætte hvad jeg går og laver og gætte hvordan jeg er nu. Jeg synes det er mærkeligt ikke at kende dig, når jeg kender dig så godt.

Too thrilled by the case,
Sherlock just disappears,
To begin with a chase,
John is let alone,
To get a cab, and go to Baker St. .
But wait- wherever he goes,
The telephone booth starts ringing!
He waits for somebody to pick up,
And continues to walk;
The third booth starts ringing,
The caller must be desperate to talk.
A black, shiny car,
Pulls over for John to ride,
The destination seemed far,
In this conversation-less hour.
"Anthea", answered the accompanying secretary,
When asked her name,
Fake it was,
Absolutely.

The anxiety was over,
John was confronted by a well-dressed man,
Who offered him money, to spy,
The guy, who deduced Watson's army background,
By his tan.
The "arch-enemy" of Sherlock,
As he introduced himself,
Told John about his psychosomatic disorder,
"You are back in the game,
You don't fear danger,
You've missed this lifestyle."
True it was,
Pretty much,
"Could be dangerous", wrote Sherlock,
And there he was dashing into 221B.


Sherlock was quite disappointed,
When he got to know about the declination,
Of that tempting offer,
"Pity, we could've split the fee",
He suggested John for the next time.
Isn't Mr. Holmes quite irksome,
Calling John from the other end of London,
Just to send a text?
No, this was not an ordinary text,
An SMS was just sent,
By Mr. Watson's phone,
To the murderer.

The murderer?
But why?!
Elementary for SH.
Found the case within an hour,
Which was now in front him.
His mind, is truly above par!
One thing missing from the suitcase:
Her organizer, her phone.
"Nah, she's is a clever woman,
A serial adulterer,
Would never leave her phone at hotel",
This Holmes said, backed by balance of probability.

They waited at a restaurant,
And the wait was long,
But worth it.
Had to chase a taxi,
which was done successfully,
Thanks to Sherlock's excellent memory.
Hence proved it was,
The psychosomatic limb of Doctor.

A drugs bust had occurred at their place,
Seriously, this man, a deduction ******, would have drugs?
"I'm not a psychopath Anderson,
I'm a high functioning sociopath,
Do your research!"
Snapped Mr. Punchline.
Just a couple of minutes later,
This brilliant sleuth realized-
"Rachel! Yes, Rachel!
This woman in pink, Jennifer,
Is clever,
And she's dead!",
much to Mr. Holmes's displeasure.

A cell mate lives at the end of a text .
Signed with LOL.
(C) Livvi

I miss the 'waiting' you used to make me do.
It used to be my favorite thing to do.
Yes, especially when you were late, or so late I can even forget I did nothing but just wait for you.

I miss the times we were sending SMS's
when I waited, sending tens of messages before you can reply a one-liner.
I also miss those feelings I had when you don't answer your phone,
when I try to call you numerous times...and all i hear is the annoying ring
to let me know you are reachable but just not bothering..
the ones I ended up waiting until the entire day ended,
And had to wait again to hear your sweetest apology that have always worked.

It's crazy, but I loved that waiting until you come home.
When you used to tell me to wait for a few minutes, but ended up waiting for an hour more.
Weren't this the very thing I used to do too, when you were still asking me out?
I guess you turned the table, and how I didn't mind about that because I was already there,
Revolving around you.

Time wasn't precious spending them to wait for you for lunch, wait for you for dinner, even wait for you to know I was waiting.
But seeing you finally come, I remember the feeling of gladness waiting brings!
It's like the feeling you have when you experience a miracle when you don't even deserve it.

Yes, I miss being the one waiting for you,
and the times I felt that I was just the only one waiting for you.
Thought all those waiting I did, weren't a waste, but rather,
A training ground for my upcoming occupation..
So optimistic of me..
I've always thought they'd prepare me to face the biggest wait in the history of loving you.
The wait that you'd finally choose me.

But you Didn't.
The funny thing is, there's Still a strong drive inside of me now that pushes me to wait even more...
Wait to prove my doubt right or wrong.
How long would that be then? I don't know.
This whole 'loving you' thing is so powerful it could steal my time.
It doesn't seem to see that time flies.
It doesn't seem to feel the overtime and no alarm sound would seem to wake it up.
so it moves on...

salle de concert,
salle des corps transpirants & glissants
salle de semi à poil
comment tu t’appelles ?

champ de Mars,
champ des conneries & des concessions
champ de refus
tu m’avais manqué

coin de la rue,
coin de sms à la con
coin d’attente
ne m’appelle plus jamais


taxi de Paris
taxi de vulgarité
taxi de fatigue
je vous vire à cause de ces mots


taxi de St. Germain
taxi de Charonne
vous êtes lesbiennes?
taxi du vieux pervert
embrasse-moi juste une fois

nuit de jeudi
nuit de j’ai trop bu
nuit quotidienne
*j’attends demain

The working day is blue shirts and lies,
twelve last cigarettes, the balancing
of SMS from the powerful women who
know me. What are your plans later?

What are my plans? In the evening,
a globe I constructed from puzzle
pieces sits in my beggar's hands.
One day, they will be large enough
to cage it, but not yet. It's not time.
There is a cave-in exactly where I
next want to go. It's okay.

What are my plans? The rest of it.



Charles ate a Rocky Mountain
oyster shell from the spleuchen
of a bee resting on a bed plate,
but then fell asleep.


Glandular curvulas search for
the meaning of life;
to **** and be ****** by the nerve centre.


Clooties of the Yellowstone national park
make regretful decisions, that lead to excessive
crying, and dry/wet heaving for
MTV'S SPRING BREAK BLAST:
The ending is on pp.22 featuring beam rays
telltale sign of stirless beaches and nights irritating
my irritatory sun causing me
to
fumble




from the letter shape of my family tree.
Quintessentially, but not really, reptilians smiled
to eat sour investment of  telltale
signs of testicular cancer,
while sending SMS messages to
acquaintances blabbering
"Come over and watch a movie ;)"
and gloating of recently acquired masseuse skills.

K, so here’s the deal,
English will change,
Goi!
Gr8 eh?
Lol.
B4u know it, all changed.
Fyi some call it Textese or SMS Language.
But through will become thru
And though of course tho
Anyway.
Goi.
K so this poem might not trend,
But I’m way ahead of my time,
That’s my Msg.
N2u tho that may b.
That things must change,
That is.
8 it don’t u?
Such g9.
Scary Tbh.
4 me and 4u.
(Bm&y;).
(I prefer you as yu it's tru).
Just Gfi is wot I say.
Even when Prw!
Somy?
Sotmg.
Soz
Laters – Sbtsbc.
Ttfn and bfn.
Say.
Sit my friend.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\8\2015.

Like cadavers are so many lovers.
Drunk on a table for two,
laid out and cut open
examined, weighed and cataloged,
yes,
cupid has your number.

He sharpens his arrows.
"Oh, how cute! He's like a baby!"
Shut it!
He's a monster.

It was nothing serious.
Angela and I were noncommittal,
then,
it just...
Happened!
I kissed her and she lost her footing.
Her legs slackened like climber's loose rope.
Angela fell, hard.
I pulled out the arrow. (I only wish I had disinfectant.)
She was breathing funny. I wasn't sure what bit her,
but when her eyes flickered open,
I felt the shame she would never know.
I looked up in time to see a fluttering of white.
A dove? I was too naive.
Angela started to get clingy. That's when I got stingy.
Soon, I began to ignore messages selectively.
Eventually, she was a fading memory.

Monica. Jessica. Lisa. Monique.
The story kept repeating itself.
"Get a grip, love was chasing you! Some should be so lucky..."
If that grip is cupid's neck, give me two handfuls, please.
I nearly stopped ******* around altogether,
haunted by feather after feather,
but I really just learned to play it safe.
Cut them off after a couple of weeks.
I'll never forgive Cupid, that rotten ****.

Her name was Felicia.

It was day thirteen.
I had my copied and pasted, "Sorry," SMS ready to go.
We were engaged in pillow talk,
it was nothing serious.
Sarcasm turned into playfulness.
We rolled over,
she had me pinned,
she nibbled on my earlobe,
and with artful tongue stroked
years of pain
from my soul.
She reared back.
Our eyes locked in mutual reverence.
We smiled and embraced letting our slick bodies revel in the moist residue of our tender frolicking.
It was then that I felt the itch in my shoulder blade.
Color and warmth fled my chest.
It was with a numbness that I let her go,
and reach back,
and felt the long spine of the arrow,
like the stem of a scythe.

The weeks that followed were a heaven
that I had always hoped not to enjoy
and felt ever more guilty in knowing my unfettered happiness.
Simple pleasures I once knew were then mountains of joy.
My passions magnified were as the flames of the sun.
I even feared I could turn her away with mentions of my love,
but this was not an unrequited venture.
We shared in admissions of our deepest affections.
There was not a moment passed in yearning of our old lives.
Even shedding light on our past imperfections was a delight
incapable of breaking the spell.
Truly, this is the purpose of youth; this love; this roaring of souls entwined.

Is justice blind?

I certainly felt this token of nature cast its judgment upon me.
No sooner than I had finally accepted my new reality, did I watch this sheltering bubble burst.
We weren't as open as I had imagined, of course, I shouldn't be so naive to think so.
She disappeared. I was distraught for what seemed like weeks, but.
I got a phone call.
The phone call led to a hospital. Within the hospital, a room.
Within that room, she lay on a bed, head shaved, smiling weakly.
I sat hesitantly by her side.
She grinned as she pinned me with a pink ribbon.
"You'll fight with me, right?" She said, as her eyes searched my soul,
quivering, yet there was a fierce strength behind the weariness.
"If I don't fight, I'll lose more than losing you."
She lay her head in my chest. A chest that could lend its power.
Looking out of the window into the horizon, I wished for things I never considered to be signs of hope. Yes, I'll fight...

In that moment of my life, it was as if I weren't alive.
Perhaps my body was waiting for me to return: sitting there, breathless.

Are brave words the measure of fate?
Oh, I wish this were so, yet some battles only time can win.

I didn't go to the funeral. I simply asked that I may scatter the ashes.
It was a moment for two. I stood on a cliff by the sea, a place she and I loved. I spoke to her, in ways I knew she deserved. I scattered the ashes, and I knew she had returned to the promise of life, a place beyond time and pain.

And so, time passes for me.

In time, I am ready to love another.
A familiar itch in the shoulder blade.
I know the arrow is there.
I look up and there is cupid, smiling.
No need to hide from a gracious soul.
I gaze and I whisper:

"Please, Cupid. This time, don't leave me breathless."

I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.