Hey little girl, is your daddy home?

You

2011-10-14T13:31:00.002+08:00

You’re like a mobile Dejavu

Ambling in and out of my dreams the manner I window-shop

Drifting through my apartment,

Like a wandering ghost-

With its feet neither in this world nor the next

But as sedentary as my paintings on the wall.

Your angels are just as migratory.

Rootless, transitory and fickle as the men in my life,

Promising when they laid their itinerant hands in mine,

Nurturing as they led me down that yellow brick road

And quick to follow the tail of an unclaimed kite

I stood unswerving to a barrage

That lowers itself then ascends as it pleases

I mounted my heart on my sleeve,

Lay quivering as seasons shook me

And the changing tides quavered my home.

Everyone has something to say these days

Their truth is my farce, their convictions biased

Every man Jack should defend their duplicity

And every whore would secure their plunders

As close to their scissoring thighs

Weren’t your prophets the ones who claimed

That you will stand with the righteous?

Upright has been mistaken for black and white

And you should know that my greys are the best I can muster.

Kindness shall not bondage me

Especially when it changes its mind

2011-09-23T11:11:00.003+08:00

Forgive me Hera I cannot stay
He cut out my tongue, there is nothing to save
Love me oh Lord, he threw me away
He laughed at my sins, in his arms I must stay

There are only 2 green bottles standing on the wall

2011-07-26T07:02:00.005+08:00

A girl toddles into a candy store and selected the wrong lolly

As she sucked and took pleasure in her new-found folly

It wasn’t reserved for this little dear

She finally interpreted the label and found its ingredients

Like a Pandora’s box, the revelation grew within her

And little did she know

That it doesn't concern her but it wouldn't show

She should leave the adults to settle the matter of the day

And run to the playground to play

Words are meaningless - Revisited

2011-06-27T23:36:00.002+08:00

“As empty vessels make the loudest sound”,

“So they that have the least wit are the greatest blabbers”

Words are meaningless – Like a temporary tattoo;
They wash off when overlooked
Like cigarette smoke tailing the drift of the wind;
They linger long enough to diffuse into insignificance
Just like the mints one takes after a glass of beer.
So when you say you love me, I forget you did
Because the reek of rubbish loiters longer, as lies and deceit.

We should have left it alone: guiltless, unscathed, and unadulterated
And I won’t scrub it all down, as words taint
It leaves marks where it upsets; it leaves tears where it bites
Whitewashing it’s dissimilar to an untouched canvas
As what lies beneath surfaces through its peeling corners
Let it age and weather
Let it heal on its own and manifest as experience.

So when I need to tell you I love you, I won’t.
Because I’ll do so as you sleep,
In the still of the night as you inhale and exhale – to drown it out.
I do so by not doing much, until you don’t do much;
Just to remind you, that I do.
I don’t do as I’m told – not because you don’t matter
But because you do, and I’m self-destructive.

Words are meaningless – They shouldn’t communicate
We’re so used to talk; it matures into an entity of its own.

The Lady With the Fringe

2011-06-25T01:42:00.004+08:00

I own this page and I possess its turf,
So I shall divulge that:
I corresponded on our inconsequential flirtations,
And his sporadic reappearances when his pond was parched.
I painfully narrated his transgressive merry-making,
A crossroad and its long progression to end its intersection.
I wrote of bad weather – endured by us both – sodden and worn.
I trusted our fondness had seasoned;
It weathered upon your arrival,
Though you were oblivious and then you weren’t.

Then I genuinely spoke of release:
He would do without family given you were his escape.
He wouldn’t have it any other way,
Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d been sad when another verbalized your defaming,
And you had me profess through another (Have they been misplaced?),
That you were the crucible all along,
But you’d stand firm by his guile.
I have no reason anymore, to reason with you.

You never learned to contemplate both pages.
You never realized to probe his justifications.
You never understood you were the barrage,
And the autocrat to his torpor spine.
This rivalry - you should never have partaken - (The trophy really is you, not him)
You never ascertained the bad karma you’ve generated.
No… you never learned to see.

But I whisper in my prayers: may the end of this be just,
Because the world performs without order,
Though I’d not understand its concept of fair.
I’d always known I would suffer, but mine will conclude,
As yours will be set in motion.
You’d always desired to go to places, and perhaps you will
He’d always dreamt of going to places – he won’t.
And it won’t transpire any other way my dear.

A more sophisticated way of roasting your enemies: Pablo Neruda "Here I Am", 1938- Translated by my dearest Chilean friend; Natalie on Tuesday, June 21, 2011 at 4:28pm

2011-06-21T18:40:00.002+08:00

(Dedicated to Vicente Huidobro and Pablo De Rokha)---> Two other Chilean poets Neruda hated

Here I am with my lips of steel
And an eye on each hand,
And with my complete heart.
And the dawn comes and comes
The dawn, and comes the dawn
And I am here despite
The dogs, despite
The wolves, despite
The nightmares,
Despite the sorrows.
I’m full of tears and severed poppies
And pale doves of energy.
And with all my teeth and fingers I write
And with all the materials of the sea,
With all the materials of the heart I write:
Bastards!
Motherfuckers!
Not today, not tomorrow
Nor ever will you finish me!
My testicles are full of petals,
My hair is full of birds.
I have poetry and vapours,
Cemeteries and houses,
People who drown, fires
In my “Twenty Poems”,
In my weeks, in my cavalries.
And I shit on the whore who ill-bore you.
Derokas, gallows. Vidobras,
And although you write in French
With a portrait of Picasso near your balls.
And although you often steal mirrors and
Put up for sale the portraits of your sisters,
You can’t get to me with anonymous (poems)
Or saliva.
I exist among metal and the flours of wings,
Between the world and the sky, with a heart full of blood and dew.

(...............)

Here I am
Pouring out poems through my teeth until I die,
Until you kill me from poison and from shadow.
But never, I would rather die killing your fifty year old corpses.
And from today on you will plunge your sword into your intestines of envy and failure
So that you can shout: “Neruda does not exist”
And you can burden yourselves with melancholy.
Dead; dead in Spanish, in French and pus.
Dead in a horrifying cascade of bitterness.

(................)

I have known rebels, artisans.
Poets with clean foreheads and clean hands.
Human beings.
But never plague, pus and calluses such as you.
Know me.
I am the one who knows and the one who sings
And you cannot kill me,
Even if you split your veins
And are REBORN IN SHIT.
GOODBYE TO DEATH
GOODBYE TO LIFE LOSERS.
HERE I AM WITH FLOURS AND SEEDS
HERE I AM MAKING BIRDS.
COME TO ME, HORRIBLE DEAD BEINGS,
TO PIERCE MY SOUL WITH CORPSES
SO THAT IN YOUR DEATHS, IN THE HORRIBLE SMELL OF DEATH OF YOUR DEATHS
I SHALL HELP YOU RISE FROM YOUR BITTER GRAVES,
ON WHICH YOU WILL BE FULL OF PUTRID SALIVA,
WITH OBLIVION ON FOUR LIPS
AND A BLACK VIPER ON YOUR THROAT

The man with a gun for a head

2011-06-16T23:46:00.007+08:00

He’s the assassin with the gun pointed in all directions;
A prince charming to his mirror-mirror on the wall,
“Who’s the fairest of them all?”
Never pausing for a sincere reply -
(Your complexion resembles the surface of the moon)
(You'd never stand out in a crowd my beloved narcissus)

Jack fell down without breaking his crown
As Jill came tumbling after, his revolver was loaded
And when I was shot, I never felt its wound
“Bye, baby bunting, Father's gone a-hunting”
He bypassed Snow White awaiting her consciousness,
Because he deliberated another
It slipped through his fingers, right under her dress.

I whisper to the twenty horses upon a red hill that I love him
But I was complete to let him go,
They tramped, champed and stood still instead
They went halfway up,
And the curtains refused to close

This crooked prince, went on a crooked mile:
He did nothing but observe me deteriorate and rise again.
His transitory words and fondness sure are of merit.
His Mistress Mary – too contrary
How does her garden mature in their warped house?
With mendacity veiled in pretext,
Clandestinely buried in the backyard of course

But the girls and boys will come out to play
With their skeletons shining as bright as day
Leave your fallacies,
And come to speak to your soon-to-be play fellows
but arrive with a good will or not at all.

To the Man Deemed 'Perfect'

2011-06-09T02:49:00.007+08:00

It’s midnight: 9th of June.
I am dreaming of a holiday,
Lacking your baggage clutched to my left waist.
Lying on a single bed,
Listening to my favourite tunes.
Painting my youth on an untainted canvas,
Without a brush out of a lock of a child’s hair
I was beautiful, and I could swim in the turmoil oceans alone.

When I saw you last, you seemed aged
The face from 6 years ago has saddened.
You arrived for another’s agenda:
To clean your slate for her;
But you left with your own scheme;
You reported of a different woman.

You’ve travelled under a woman’s dress to another
And departed without a conscience.
You had stood there with a rose in your promising lips
And concealed two more behind your back;
For others waiting in the wings.

I mistakenly thought a gypsy ignorant of a mother’s destitution
Acquired that rose and walked with your arms over her shoulder,
One that was shared with mine.
I was asleep beside you as you sauntered out through the night
I overlooked your misplaced boots for almost 3 months.

You regarded my love like a fictional novel
And I returned home nobody’s wife;
He returned home nobody’s son.
Now I hear you’re erecting your love lodge
And swept me under your rug;
The one with the bed you make love to her on.

What else can I say to you now?
My ex-lover, my assassin, my karmic debtor:
I guess I miss you, but I forgive you,
Though I’m relieved she stood in the way.
Your elapsed past sends its regards.

If you ever came back here again too late,
You’d be dust under our feet - you and her
And we will not recognize you.
You have compartmentalized us at the frontier of your memories:
We will burn it down for you.

And then you will be free again;
To travel under a woman’s dress to another,
To depart without a conscience.
To stand there with as many roses in your promising lips
Till it chokes you as their thorns slit through your tongue
And you’ll never be able to lie again.

Truth is a double-edged sword

2011-06-02T01:13:00.000+08:00

Two sides of a page never co-exist, and won’t convene
Though the front’s all you’ve seen.
Its intentional ink blots and lipstick stains are obscured,
Its integrity smeared and blemished.
It left blanks with my name printed over
With an abrupt “And they lived happily ever after”.

Two sides of a page tell the same tale, unflawed in semblance
They articulate reciprocated misdeed,
Though each claims its innocence
Flip it over: It’s the side you haven’t seized;
The one you don’t comprehend.
It’s the part with the abrupt “The End”.

The horse’s mouth is shared by two partitive voices
But only three, not two will forge its bridges
They are attended by a pair of ears – Yours alone.

A Memorably Good Year

2011-04-01T17:01:00.002+08:00

A journey shouldn’t be taken alone, though the ride is yours only
Sometimes you lose sight and slip away
Sometimes you seek help, then steer your own
When you jump to the next car, you can’t wrestle both wheels.
Because at times, a lending hand is a must,
To your passenger when she needs you.

Sometimes someone joins in; but you can’t
Guide two cars with two travelers and one in another
You may switch, but it better be superior – and not just superficially
Leaving the other without a driver
When we take a wrong turn, we can turn back
Sticking through will lead you back to where you left
Without those you missed;
They have persisted on after a long rest
You may accelerate but you’ve lost sight of them
If they have departed somewhere down, and you won’t know where

A drink shouldn’t be wasted, though your cup is yours alone
Sometimes you sip too quickly, but be careful when it’s full.
Sometimes it overflows, but let it be
When you pour it back in, it’ll adulterate.
Because at times, you’ll lose sight of what’s important,
As the ice melts indefinitely.

A door should never be left ajar, though it’s yours alone
Sometimes you open it, and it slams shut in your face
Sometimes you’re careless, and someone slips in.
When 2’s a company and 3’s a crowd, 4’s a party
Because at times, 2 leaves for a company
And it doesn’t last.

Her hands are full, but her fingers point in the right direction
Her heart is heavy, though there’s room for some light
It still was, a memorably good year.

2011-03-16T12:29:00.002+08:00

I do not love you - except because I love you,
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you.
My heart moves from the cold into the fire.
I love you only because it's you I love.
I hate you no end,
and hating you bend to you,
and the measure of my changing love for you
is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe the January light will consume my heart
with its cruel ray,
stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who dies,
The only one.
And I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
-Neruda-

Your Favourite Novel

2011-03-02T18:21:00.001+08:00

You should know, I’ve only loved with my head
Even though my heart has ached with yearning
My heart: It was never an open book
I wrote what only looked good for reading.

It has labeled bookmarks, and dividers on the right
They’re names: and they only see what I’ve selected inside
Left a coffemark and lipstick stain
A doodle on the margins, an inkblot, watermarks,
Smeared drawings, and a greasy blemish,
Highlighting only the paragraphs they’d cherish
And remember me by.

But with you; you were the hand that flipped the pages
You: you were the ink that completed my sentences
You: you filled in the empty spaces
You illustrated my thoughts at the beginning of every chapter
And stamped “The End” before “And they lived happily ever after”

When you run your fingers through its pages
Don’t you know it feels like they’re running through my hair?
You have left it worn and dog-eared
But that somehow gave its character and flair
It is the most honest fiction
Without the blatantness of a diary

Take it along with you like your favorite novel,
Hold it close to your chest like a bible.
Keep it right next to your heart in your front pocket
And refer to it like a manual.

Words are meaningless

2011-01-23T04:18:00.001+08:00

“As empty vessels make the loudest sound”,
“So they that have the least wit are the greatest blabbers”

Words are meaningless – Like a temporary tattoo;
They wash off when overlooked
Like cigarette smoke tailing the drift of the wind;
They linger long enough to diffuse into insignificance
Just like the mints one takes after a glass of beer.
So when you say you love me, I forget you did
Because the reek of rubbish loiters longer, as lies and deceit.

We should have left it alone: guiltless, unscathed, and unadulterated
And I won’t scrub it all down, as words taint
It leaves marks where it upsets; it leaves tears where it bites
Whitewashing it’s dissimilar to an untouched canvas
As what lies beneath surfaces through its peeling corners
Let it age and weather
Let it heal on its own and manifest as experience.

So when I need to tell you I love you, I won’t.
Because I’ll do so as you sleep,
In the still of the night as you inhale and exhale – to drown it out.
I do so by not doing much, until you don’t do much;
Just to remind you, that I do.
I don’t do as I’m told – not because you don’t matter
But because you do, and I’m self-destructive.

Words are meaningless – They shouldn’t communicate
We’re so used to talk; it matures into an entity of its own.

A little bird told me

2011-01-16T02:11:00.001+08:00

A little bird enlightened me that a bigger buzzing bee’s been busy
Buzzing from colony to colony, settlements to protectorate
With grand fictions to share
And assumptions to narrate
Though aware
They were passed off as fact

But like a fleeting fly passing from dinner to dessert
Breakfast to supper
Like any bothersome insect, with filth to extend
It was content
To win me over
With performed lack of knowledge

Be kind to your kind but be kinder to your neighbour
In the end, this is how you lose a friend.

That woman

2010-11-25T04:16:00.003+08:00

When she was 16 she’d dream of all she’d be
Then ask herself: “how did I get here so soon?”
Complaining about being old at 30
And not yet tied the knot.
Whoever told her life’s over at 28 should get shot
But she’d believe him anyway.

So she stands in the middle of wanting to be and play-rebel
Boasts independence, parties, less rights – most wrongs
Social networking posts depict the life she longs
But poverty’s perceptible: she falls for random strays quickly labelled “fiancé”
Whoever told her man defines her should get swat
But she’d believe him anyway.

It’s sad and it’s true but she’ll still go down that road
I wish I could tell her otherwise
But how do you sway one convinced by society?
And while she assumes they’re converted,
No one notices the “the harder you try, the more apparent your desperation” rule

For she can try to put her best enemies down with hearsay
But they’ve got stronger wildcards that outweigh
They aren’t the ones believing all that surface from the passing wind
And they possess intelligence that don’t gray
So she’ll tell herself that all those are important
And believe herself into destitute any day.

When the sun hits

2010-03-09T00:31:00.005+08:00

When the sun hits
It feels like walking into a brick wall
Sometimes being led out of darkness is not a good thing.
I still don’t see any better now than before;
What is and what was ahead of me: It glares.
Only the path before was more familiar.
This restorationist sentiment
I took a step back: I hit a brick wall.
I take a step forward: I hit another brick wall.
The pre-existing permeating perfume that jolted me gently from slumber,dissipating from a distance, now a tinge, just a whiff:
A brick wall
A certain voice, it muffled. It softened. A certain feedback buzzed in my ear. It got inaudible. I couldn’t make out what it said:
A brick wall
A touch; velvety, soft, sweet. Serenading the edge of my skirt. Running through my hair. Then it scratched. It lifted away. Just a faint ripple in the air where that touch hovered:
A brick wall
A phrase, a song, a tune:
A brick wall

When the sun hits
It feels like falling onto a hard pit
Because I fell, and I know I fell. Hard.
Only I thought I wasn’t alone.
I got up, felt around. There was a door: It was shut.
Only I had expected it ajar
Because I had left mine wide open.

I have a map. It rests next to my cell.

2010-03-09T00:30:00.000+08:00

I have a map/ it rests next to my cell.
A large map/ a dormant cell
With continents I’ve visited, tasted, touched.
Vast seas aplenty I’ve sailed away on
Those who sailed away and never returned
I extract my fingertip:
I draw a line across two nations
Cocoon them as a supra-national entity
-Because they said there’re many fishes in the sea-
I expel those within,
Into the next international boundary

I fashion:
A climate, Cool and humid; to not parch his affection
A weather, Sunny; to personify the warmth in our hearts
A season, Summer; because he’s summer in the southern hemisphere

I paint a cloud:
I left a space at its core; my yearning heart rests within.
-Because they say home is where the heart is-

I sketch a home:
Right beneath. It has a bare garden with a single rose.
Resting in the comfort of its petals: his heart

Like a cottony blanket with trinkets at its rim
I shower it. I shelter it. I nurture it. –From afar-

Both hearts thumping to the rhythm of its withering thorns, to the pattering of my raindrops
Both hearts breathing to the momentum of its swaying to the passing wind
Both hearts dreaming to the canopy of stars flickering from my trinkets

I have a map. It rests next to my cell.
It has two islands.

“As for me, I’m watercolour. I wash off”

2010-02-02T11:39:00.000+08:00

“As for me, I’m watercolour. I wash off”
So remove this canvas, once over, twice over
I am a pretty picture, a four leaf clover
Peripatetic in the wind: you seize it, and then you release it,
You grasp it again, and then you unleash it, bit by bit,
Subsequently you decide not to enclose it again,
But you keep lingering; your footsteps and stench still remain,
Tailing its drift like an annoying fly to dinner

She said, “The anger would come back just as the love did”
So revive this canvas, once over, twice over
I paint a camouflage: It has a spot that I do not honour.
But I put it up anyway; it looks like a crease on my cheek
Implanted by your filthy mouth: that bleak physique
You plant it again, and you fashion a pretty garden
Of four leaf clovers; withering, its splendours weaken
But you keep reaping, and reaping, without sowing

And so the anger indeed returned, as I wash my colours off
Even though your's loiters, like brilliant thread sewn through me
Clumsily stitching your blemish, to this clover, to its withering tree
And to this canvas, over this gap you left behind.
I try so hard to sponge it down, and undo its grime intertwined
But you keep coming, tainting it, coming again, staining me,
Aren’t you an extricated busy bee
Your shoes aren’t by my door, but your grubby tracks remain.

Carcinogen lady

2009-11-03T15:32:00.003+08:00

This Carcinogen Lady:

When God created humans out of soil,

A cigarette-smoking genie blew a balloon and thus she took shape.

While girls are made of sugar, spice and everything nice,

She was a factory produce with added flavour enhancers, preservatives and artificial colouring from dodgy sources.

She does not have a “from non-genetically modified soybeans” label.

Her aura’s murky brown. Sometimes, one can even see it with his naked eyes.

She loves the industrial era. She reads Charles Dickens and imagines herself part of his “Illuminated Fairyland”

She also reads Silvia Plath, only she sticks her head in an unlit oven for pleasure.

She sits at the back of a running exhaust for fresh air.

Her favourite water theme park lies deep underground where the interconnecting sewers slide her through wonderland.

She shampoos with industrial degreasers as it’s cleaner.

She dries herself by standing naked on top of a chimney

She dolls herself up yes she does. But construction paint she loves. And she looks gorgeous.

She uses the bristles of a broom for fake eyelashes.

She stands on her roof anticipating the occasional haze.

She had a boyfriend but his manhood shriveled away after their first night.

She once bought organic vegetables and suffered from an infected lung

She stopped by the park one day and suffocated from the clean air.

For Christmas last year, she was given a water filter – those that you stick to the tap for cleaner drinking water.

She collapsed on the floor then rushed to the hospital to get her stomach pumped.

She puked buckets of nuclear waste. The hospital charged her extra for polluting their equipment.

She was put on drips of untreated factory chemical by-products

As her internal organs failed… one… by… one…

She dreamt of mutagen woman: her childhood hero. She said: “I’ll see you in illuminated fairyland, my noxious little one and I have a gas oven waiting for you in carcinogenic heaven”

At her funeral, her loved ones wore gas masks.

As her corpse rapidly decomposed on the way to the cemetery,

A cleaner was hired to sweep up a Hansel and Gretel trail of dead maggots – Yes even they couldn’t survive on her venomous flesh.

As she was laid down to rest, her remains calmly and innocently decayed into the soil.

One month later, all the trees in the vicinity sadly withered from the contaminated dirt

Three generations later, an entire civilization of odd mutated creatures made the cemetery their home

- have you ever seen a metamorphosed dung beetle with ten heads and six hoofs?

And so Carcinogenic lady kicked the bucket, but she’ll always be remembered. Her legacy remains.

This is how one becomes truly immortal I guess.

I enjoy...

2009-10-01T21:57:00.000+08:00

I enjoy...
Watching toddlers stand on their feet, then attempt to walk then falling over and then trying again
Listening to children laugh so hard and delightfully, they escalate to screams
Having them attempt to use a difficult word but getting it wrong ~ I have this many Transformers toys (arms stretched from side to side) – No I have many more Transformers! – No no no!! I have finity Transformers!
Seeing the look on young children’s faces as they come down a high slide ~ that split second of pure, uncorrupted bliss as their eyes shut tight and smiles so wide and innocent
Running my fingers through the soft hair of babies
Smelling the nostalgic scent of baby powder on a just showered child
Dancing with toddlers who have just learnt how to walk ~ they just bob up and down with arms open to keep their fragile balance

I enjoy...
Sitting alone and hushed, while scrutinizing ants go about their mundane duties ~ then I bother one of them and watch them snap out at me, some even attacking my weapon of choice – a little twig
Watching random strays (cats, dogs, snails, spiders, etc) move along and wonder what their thoughts are on this queer human observing them curiously
Poking into the eyes of dead fishes and squeezing bags of chips before unsealing them
Sinking my fingers into bags of grains and imagining an Oceans 11 conspiracy to free crabs for sale in a supermarket

I enjoy...
Waking up early to watch the world outside my window brighten up
Listening to alarm clocks go off one after another in the early mornings ~ like a sad symphony, waking others up into our harsh reality of enslaving ourselves for survival
Getting lost - especially during holiday trips. Especially when I’m no rush and‘ve got no appointments ~ sometimes I just board a random bus and let it take me anywhere it pleases
Making little statues and useless jewellery from paper and binder clips ~ I had an awesome-looking pair of earrings I made at work from coloured paperclips

I enjoy...
The smell of fresh flowers ~ especially lilies. Birds of paradise make me sneeze uncontrollably
Going for a long, long run
Making spontaneous trips and visits ~ alone usually
Sending spontaneous random messages, and not awaiting a reply
Rearranging furniture for the sake of it

I do not enjoy...
Explaining myself and others explaining themselves to me
Carrying an expensive bag I saved up for months, then having someone compare mine to hers bought with her mother’s money
Being accused of wanting more than a platonic friendship just from being friendly
Having my decisions questioned and being given advice I didn’t ask for
Being judged ~ because I don’t judge

I do not enjoy...
Being treated like I owe someone, especially when I had not asked for what was given generously to me
Being treated like I have not gone through shit because I have lived shit ~ I sometimes think I still am living waist high in it
Having to sit through somebody else’s constant whining just because I listen
Owning more stuff than I need
Being allocated a bigger space than I need

I enjoy a lot more things than I do not. However, what I enjoy have got nothing to do with what I don’t.

Tuesday

2009-09-22T13:32:00.002+08:00

The one who had swept me off my feet:
He has planted me back into the parched earth again,
and shackled me to his green-less thumb.
He is forcibly nurturing my attachment
Oblivious that like a neglected rose, it’s all departed,
Withered and hung over.
He was my knight in shining armour:
Sauntering my way, with his sword tucked beneath,
with his heart on his sleeve. The one in the yellow shirt. Who is he? He appeared out of nowhere and said hello.
He has since removed that armour
Now exposed, there is nothing there that I wanted before
His strong arms no longer catching my fall.
His forceful voice silenced where my own is drowned out.

He was the one to ride me into the sunset
and start a civilization at its frontiers
but he stopped our journey prematurely
And built a house without a window. I can no longer watch that frontier. I can no longer smell his horse.
Now tell me:
What’s the use of a house, when it’s not my home?
What’s the use of a roof, when my own arms are wide enough to shelter my broken dreams?
Why think of a child running his hands through my hair, when they're your eyes looking up at me?

Pet Infection Revisited

2009-09-19T18:20:00.000+08:00

I think

2009-09-16T02:23:00.001+08:00

I think...
Though I don’t know what to think, I am sure I am thinking of something
Only that something isn’t something I shouldn’t be thinking about
But I think...
I can’t help it because I will have to really think this thing through eventually
And why not think about it now, since I have nothing better to think about.

But I think...
What I’m thinking about is wrong, it is so so wrong.
But I can’t do a single thing about what I’m thinking of
Because I have no control over what has caused me to think in this manner
And it’s wrong. So wrong. I know it but I thought I was never capable of thinking such.
It was a strict principle I thought everything else was wrong.

And now I have gone wrong
I think I deserve to preserve what I am thinking of and dwell in it
But I also think it’s wrong.
And it’s bad. Though I only think it’s bad, because it’s defeated my prior principle.
I don’t know what to think beyond what I’m currently thinking of.

The Table is Dirty

2008-04-13T02:48:00.004+08:00

So you say the table’s dirty
Then I wonder:
Do you know that for a fact or do you assume the table’s dirty?
I wish I could ask you:
Under what circumstance is that table dirty?
Did you notice a gradual degradation of cleanliness over time?
Or did you see a sudden change in absence over an extended duration?

Was your judgment applied to a passing table or one you are acquainted with?
How would the initial appearance of that table pressure your judgment?
Does a white table get dirty easily just because it loses its colour in a more apparent fashion?
Does a white table just get dirty when it’s just not completely white?
What if a white table as opposed to a brown table spots the same stain that according to your opinion constitute as a dirty spot or stain?
Is it dirty then only when the stain is visible?

If you cleaned it up and another insists it is still dirty, will that influence your opinion in any manner?
How would dirty be differently perceived if it was your own mess as compared to another’s?
How would that vary between an ‘other’ who’s your close friend as apposed to an acquaintance and stranger?
Will an arguably attractive person cause a dirtier table to one aesthetically unpleasing?

How do you compare your definition of ‘dirty’ to others and mine?
Would a dusty table be understood as dirty?
But what if it were dusty in an excessively dusty room?
How does a dusty table in a room of decomposing trash weigh against a table with decomposing trash in a dusty room?

And how would you gauge splattered paint to spilled orange juice, considering one might be toxic and another fit for consumption in an alternate setting?
Is orange juice only dirty off a glass? But you won’t die from licking it off the counter.
So is your understanding of dirty one that complies with what has been socialized within you to view socially awkward as inappropriate thus dirty?
If it was indeed socialization of cleanliness standards, should that be argued as cultural brainwash then?
So, dirty is conveniently labeled to one that does not conform?
Does this direct cause and effect make a substantive claim then?

What are the guidelines to which you subscribe in determining such?
Who socialized that benchmark to you then?
How was the benchmark substantiated?
How do you draw the line that stretches clean all the way to nauseating on the other extreme end?
How do you evaluate the line that differentiates ‘not clean enough’ from ‘dirty’?
Are there other external factors that may influence your verdict of such?

If you hated milk as compared to orange juice, does that make spilled milk comparatively revolting to you?
Well guess what: I love milk.

So I’ll ask you again:
Do you know that for a fact or do you just assume the table’s dirty?

Horses

2008-03-09T14:56:00.005+08:00

Someone once told me
That I’m some beauty queen
He couldn’t figure why
But he couldn’t take his eyes off my gaze and smile.
I’m some enemy jet locked on by his missiles
Always locked but never disengaging.

He never heard me sing, nor had he ever heard me cry
But I’m somehow the queen of his castles
Built that second above his heavy head
I was his sunflower, adored by the sun and rain
Womanly and sweet, fit to pollinate his kingdom.

So I’ll get me some horses, some ponies, some unicorns
To ride on, to traverse on, to commute on
Where my demons won’t find me
As long as its militia stays still in your ideals
In their absence,
I’ll hunt down your posies, your flawlessly blooming manhood
And maybe I’ll find me a merchant, a salesman, a capitalist
I’ll build a prospective market,
Till I open my hands when my harvest is empty

So I’ll find me a religious tailor, some spiritual leaders, a saviour
To design me a new faith, a radical movement, a political order
Where your demons won’t touch me
As long as its militia stays still in ignorance
In their absence,
I’ll conceive my clones: To make me a well mother
And maybe I’ll assemble me a society, a civilization, a social order
I’ll over populate your daydream wonderland,
Till you find nothing left of you on your own terrain

So I’ll find me a farmer, some cultivators, a grower
To nurture me a habitat, an environment, a personalized atmosphere
Where no demons can harm me
As long as its militia stays still in trepidation
In their absence,
I’ll bring Nibiru right to your doorstep, your hospitable welcoming
And maybe I’ll plow me a meadow, a grazing land, a novel pasture
I’ll present you some new sunflowers, adored by my sun and rain,
Womanly and sweet, fit to pollinate my kingdom

What will you do then, dear King?

2007-10-16T16:58:00.001+08:00

So you are striving to show some human in you
by leaving a trail of sorrow with every regret.
tears you shed at every door.
You put me on show at every floor.
So I’ll show some human for you.
With your talk of dependence and need for me,
I ought to drown with you;
But below you.

I wish my arms were stronger.
I wish to hide you: effectively
you should recover and mend
without that blanket of pity
with that last trace of sadness at its tail.
It'll clothe you till you’ve fully
lost me in the sorrow you're designed.

So you thought clumsily carrying me
On your toes, in your womb,
would melt me into you: indefinitely
You thought you'd lug me anywhere you'd plan to:
the frontiers of bliss
where your misgivings await dormant.
You knew you’d love me more after I’d drowned.

I should weave you a quilt sewn with my memories
and envelope you; conceal you: infinitely
For nine months I’ll nurture with my trail of sorrow;
My biography
And maybe you’ll melt down below
And I’ll love you more after you've drowned first.

Practicing loss

2007-10-08T01:52:00.000+08:00

The art of losing shouldn’t be hard to master;
With practice it becomes an expertise.
Tangible things mean too much to me
Losing all physical shouldn’t be disaster.

To lose a father too long ago
Shouldn’t matter years on
What’s misplaced will never return
So why not compile experience of loss to talent
My knack of losing should be my forte.

I put it into practice; losing more, losing further
‘Coz nothing overrides losing my father
Lovers’ names, favourite places, familiar faces,
Childhood friends, hometowns,
They come and go as naturally as hours go by,
Nobody cries after a day is lost so it shouldn’t ruin

I once lost my favourite teddy bear
One I held to sleep as a child: one I clung to dearly
I refused to let go
It was stolen and lost a year ago.
I had a lover: One I thought I’d spend eternity with
He too was taken away.
It shouldn’t be as horrific as a stolen teddy bear.

I’ve lost almost everything
And yes I do miss them
But I’ll learn they mean nothing more to anyone else
So why should they mean more than normal to me

Even losing the reason to live
Shouldn’t be hard to master
If I do die
Those who’ll miss me will move on and forget
So it shouldn’t be disaster.

The day before

2007-10-08T01:12:00.001+08:00

The day before the day I lost my mind
Was the day I listened to the second hand of a clock
And consented it to it trash around my body and echo in my heart
My arteries thumped
My blood ricochet along
as my veins punched repetitively into my tired skin.
T'was the day I strode to the rhythm of a marching band in disarray
T'was was the day I spoke in swears
The day my brain hammered through my screaming skull and pounded around my head
The day I plugged my eyes and left a reservoir simmering right at its brim

Whiteshoe Boy

2007-08-03T17:13:00.003+08:00

You: Whiteshoe Boy
How are your shoes today?
and those feet that rest in them?
Those feet that draw footsteps in the sand
The ones I wish'll make their way to my heart
The same ones I'd love to follow
all the way to the end of the widest sea
Oh what a sight to find:
Oh what heaven it'll be; your footsteps lined up next to mine.

Yes you: Whiteshoe Boy
How are your shoes today?
and those hands that own them?
Those big friendly hands that shook mine
The ones that'll slide our wedding band through my finger
The ones with strong Herculean arms adjoined
The same ones that'll sweep me through our door;
on our wedding night.
Oh what a sight to find:
Oh what heaven'll see; your hands cradled in mine.

My pet infection

2007-08-03T17:13:00.001+08:00

I have an infection
It does not have a name nor diagnosis
It is contagious but it’s homesick
It scampers off to prey then crawls back to me
It is also a disease because I say it is
And like a parasite: it feeds on me like a leech
It depends on me like a new-born to its mother’s breast
It loves me like a pet to its only surviving master

My beloved pet parasite does not have a face
But it resembles a black blotch sewn to my chest
A tad to the left, over my cleavage
It came down as fast as a rain drop and landed with a modest splat
It first hibernated on its landing strip
Then tore at my blouse as I read Sylvia
It sunk slowly in to the rhythm of Nirvana
Evaded my beating heart
Attacked my lungs and is currently attempting
To chow its way down my flesh till all I’m left
Is that same heart, a toe and a growing strand of my soft brown hair

On certain nights, my darling pet disease inches its way across my floor
Squeezes through the cracks on my wall and disguises itself
As a flower motif on my Persian carpet
It proficiently superimposes itself as a fugly shade of brown
On a background of red
It stands out like a stain on an intricate piece of woven art
A black speckle on a white canvas
A long strand of fur on a porcelain mannequin
It screams out to me through the peeling corners of the rug
As it races itself up my feet as I step on it
As I create a habitat out of my parasite sewn-on pet disease
It watches me make my morning cup of coffee a lighter shade of brown it accomplished on my red Persian carpet
Then aspires to do a better job at blending into my white chest

Once I’m dead, my darling pet infection will suck the ground I’m buried in
Then munches on my remains till I’m nothing
It devours condolence flowers left by my feet
Chomps on my weathered tombstone
Heartily gobbles my casket
And consumes all remaining memories of my existence
What then remains is a conspicuous hole
For any passerby to plunge in and die with a broken neck
So my darling pet parasite will keep leeching till the end of time

2007-08-03T17:12:00.002+08:00

Big bubble
Pop
Die

Bubbles

2007-08-03T17:12:00.001+08:00

I know a bubble boy,
I knew the boy before I got acquainted to his bubble.
He gave me a hug and smile
And then a bubble
And then another.
Now two bubbles rest on my shoulders,
Right above my collarbones-
Like wings of an angel that rest above my weary chest
They carefully balance those bubbles- but no,
There’ll be no space for another one
Because two’s just right and three’s testing my patience

I’d take a circle round one fragile bubble,
Run my fingertips down its slippery surface,
Then I’d take a piece of that bubble
The one with my name floating in it
But I’ll emboss that name to keep me there
To remind him-to remind me (you sent bubbles to my woozy nights)
And as I sleep, those bubbles sing a little tune
One that sounds as familiar as my cell with his name on its screen
When he returns, I’ll put a little song in his heart- with my smile leading its tune
He won’t be given my bubble; I won’t want it bursting in time.

Now those bubbles float around
They clothe me with optimism and what will I do with them?
I’ll poke it slowly, softly,
And thread it meticulously with my fingertips
Let it rest in my palm, gently, like a newborn child,
Like new-felt feelings
I won’t let it drift away
Till I do.

This is new

2007-08-03T17:06:00.000+08:00

This is new, just as newer than new's new.
Don't we all appreciate new at some point.
The old one was difficult to manage
just I had spent an entire year not knowing
the stupid bitch in the bathtub was still in the Xanga
background.
Here's my new to you.