Poem of the day

2011-04-24T14:51:00.001-07:00

The lie they tell us

You cannot be happy

if you can't be sad

cause nothing is good

if nothing is bad.

Pineapple

2011-04-19T07:41:00.001-07:00

A man smiles,

lights a joint,

sits back to wait

and watch the tides change.

No dry humour.

A boy eyeballs me

till I break down

and offer him a piece

he will eat with his face.

Not a dry spot.

A sun burns my retina mercilessly

while the earth turns away

in red anger

from the shameless display of colour.

Not one dry eye in sight.

Not one dry cheek within reach.

Not one dry moment.

A fruit melts on my tongue

runs down my throat

to settle my stomachs' impatient roars

with a wet kiss.

Not a dry fuck.

An ocean offers me sand

with a soft touch,

a gentle whisper

and in generous measures.

Not one fucking dry moment.

Unbearably Unbreakable

2011-04-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

A cockroach

never killed

or cured

anybody.

A cockroach

is made to be stepped at

with a hard heel

and a black booth

lustingly,

disgustingly crunching

on the tiles of your bathroom-floor.

There is no pity

in a cockroach,

or in me for it,

and I totally fail to see the beauty

in its persistent stubbornness

and its stubborn persistence

even if it is rather pretty

as insects go.

A cockroach

begs to be loathed.

One could almost admire

its ongoing refusal of suicide.

But no.

They have to go.

Good morning, Viet Nam

2011-04-16T00:40:00.001-07:00

The year is growing close to Tet,

the night is cool and calm,

and under my mosquito-net

in Hanoi, Viet Nam,

the buzz of electricity

is colouring all sound.

I'm hoping she will visit me,

but there's no one around.

These walls are chalked in fading white

and cracking up cement.

I'm going on my second night

here in this room for rent.

To me the world outside is dead.

The fever clouds my eyes.

The pressure built up in my head

is like a tightened vice.

When will she come? Oh, will she come?

No, never it may seem.

But call me dumb. Yes, I am dumb

cause still I hold this dream

that she will leave her room before

she steals away to be

the one who knocks upon my door

and whispers: "It is me."

She is no love that thus can ease

the fire in my veins.

She lacks the beauty to release

the hold upon my brains,

but there is passion in this scene

which only fits this night

which must be savoured while it's keen,

which dies with morning light.

This sickness grabs my naked spine.

I shiver in its grip.

This body is no longer mine

and stringy as a whip,

but then she's there. She's in my room

although this cannot be.

She whispers softly: "I'm your doom.

Yes, darling. It is me."

It strikes me numb. I'll die of fright

if she shows me her face.

I shut my eyes. It's not tonight,

and this is not the place.

I hear her scream: "I am your dream.

I am your lust come true.

How can I give myself? It seems

there is no trust in you."

But I can feel the passion go

along with all the pain.

The cynic grabs a hold to show

me irony again,

and when I meet her face by day,

it will be like before.

"No love, no beauty." I would say:

"A girl and nothing more."

I gather up the strength it takes

to lift the pen and write

before the morning comes with aches

that will erase this night.

The morning comes to Viet Nam.

My sheets are cold and wet,

and I am lying here embalmed

in my mosquito-net.

The effects of loneliness in terms of isolation

2011-04-15T10:14:00.001-07:00

Silence

There it is,

hanging over me again

like a hippie vulture

pretending to be unconcerned

with my impending demise.

Quiet

Quiet

I didn't know

that it could accumulate

in such a mind-numbing fashion

that when you have nobody

you can get more of this nothing.

No sound

No sound

It is like

the world could be doing

flip-overs outside my mind

and I wouldn't notice

to busy listening for my name.

Darkness

Darkness

There is a

total lack of sensory input.

All I can feel is myself

trying to get out.

All I know is me.

Periphery

2011-04-07T12:33:00.001-07:00

The party is over. They've all said goodbye.

They left me alone now to tidy and cry.

This should have been my night, my moment, but still

I am the result of a good social kill.

The hundreds of names that I know that I know

are people all claiming that they have to go.

Of course they remember my loss here tonight,

and they'll all be laughing when coming of sight.

As tragedy common it starts with a girl

developing into the end of the world.

She gave me a moment to melt on the floor,

a brief taste of romance and then nothing more.

I wanted to charm her, to move and amuse.

More likely I harmed her with vocal abuse.

This brick wall of language just caught me alone

in towering anguish I started to moan:

"Oh, if you just kissed me caressing my face

and said that you'd miss me, I would have your grace.

They'd talk to me more then and call me their friend,

and I would be someone, and this not the end."

But now, as you know I am thrown to the lot,

and she clearly showed that she cared for me not.

She mocked me in public while telling it all,

retreating while gleefully watching my fall.

I guess I should hate her for leaving this way,

but sooner or later it'd come out this way.

So now it is over. They've all said goodbye.

They've left me alone now to curl up and die.

Metro

2011-04-05T13:41:00.000-07:00

The ants of Paris are

the people,

their queen, the carriage.

Steadily reborn to die

they pull and push

with their suitcases, half-read books

and non-smiling lips towards the exit.

The empty faces snarl

to no one in particular

and everyone:

"Here is my road. I am walking here.

Get off my road. Pardon-and-excusez-moi

my stringy ass."

So many different faces

joined in one expression.

So many colours

seeing only red.

The ants of Paris

are the people,

the people

are the world

being passed through

a labyrinth-rectum.

Still.

It's better than London,

or Seoul,

or Bangkok,

or not.

Restlessness

2011-04-02T06:35:00.000-07:00

The time is midnight and the tone

of my muscles lets my bones

fall together in a heap

desperately craving sleep.

My mind weary and at ease,

in love with this one moments' peace,

but it knows just all too well

any thought could raise a hell.

Therefore I refuse to think

and my minds' reflections shrink

till my focus is turned off.

Only then is it enough.

But, of course, there is a trail

that insists it will prevail

showing symptoms like disease

when I need a full release.

It's a wound infected which

makes me ache and throb and itch.

There's no mark upon my skin,

but the sea of pus within.

Therefore I will toss and turn

as a picture glows and burns

with a flame that seems in vane

in the darkness of my brain.

Language difficulties I

2011-03-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

-And the many frustrations of desire

The grey-haired gay is shouting

at the bar

in a solo argument

loud and too incoherent to be deciphered.

I feel so sad for his inability

to be desired

that I forget momentarily

the weight of feeling sorry for myself

in a room filled with undesirable men.

As I go out,

I distastefully want to thank him,

but cannot find the right words.

I do not speak Spanish.

Crusoe takes a trip

2011-03-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

Shells.

I'm grinding the exoskeletons

of these sadly destined beings

from depths uncounted for

into obscurity,

and I think to myself

since there's no one here to question

that this

must surely qualify as a Friday afternoon.

I feel like evaporating

cause this Island is not for me.

I've travelled its sandy beaches

till utter boredom

walking in my own footsteps

imagining there is someone ahead of me,

and these coconuts,

these hellish nuts.

I would sacrifice my tongue

if I got to taste water just once

without that wretched aroma,

or if there was even an ounce of meat

which didn't fly away from me.

The sky is such a damned perfect blue

it makes my stomach turn.

So transparent is the sea

that I cannot find comfort in drowning.

There are no shredding cliffs

where I can throw myself into the roaring breaking

of the waves.

It's all so beautiful

that everything I do seems a crime.

I cannot move,

I cannot touch

anything

without disturbing its diabolic tranquillity,

and Friday

is just another day,

or maybe not.

My father

2011-03-22T22:31:00.001-07:00

My father asked me:

What are you doing with your life?

Your studies?

A job?

Ambitions?

Women?

Money?

And I answer him:

I'm fine, dad, but

what are you doing with your life?

to make him go mute and mumble:

None of your business.

Pulau Perhentian Kecil

2011-03-22T09:47:00.000-07:00

Pulau Perhentian Kecil

vanquishes paradise by far.

Closer to this island is still

Pulau Perhentian Besar.

Kota Bahru can be the gate.

Kuala Besut the closing door.

South China Sea can thus create

miracles on the ocean floor.

Listen, cause history will tell,

Pulau Perhentian Kecil,

heaven can quickly change to hell,

beauty is not an act of will.

Humans are beggars in the night

longing for life-long loveliness,

craving your beauty and your light,

cursing the places which they bless.

Pulau Perhentian Kecil,

look at your neighbour from afar

see how our people slowly kill

Pulau Perhentian Besar.

I'm

2011-03-20T23:36:00.001-07:00

Always confusing

my presence

with my essence.

A mutual agreement

2011-03-16T14:18:00.000-07:00

The ocean before me looks dead and dry,

all docile, immobile a mile away.

Still stealing its shades from the coloured sky,

and still navy blue in the light of day.

I just cannot grasp how it slips and slides,

the ease with which it rides on the growling shores

as wave upon wave and with even strides

while being the field for thousand wars.

I run to it wanting to damn its size.

"How dare you come out all so flat and vast?"

I run and I shout till I realize

that out there my curses would never last.

It whispers to me: "Settle down, my boy.

There is no point screaming your throat all sore.

Relax now, dear mortal, and live, enjoy

Do not be so coy till you've heard me roar."

So settlement's made on the growling shores,

and heat and read anger turns blue and cold.

There's seawater flowing through open pores

with volatile odours too soft to hold.

There's putrification all sick and sweet

along with a sailors last dying yell.

and seaweeds are rotting beneath my feet,

but somehow I rather enjoy the smell.

Candle wax

2011-03-15T15:36:00.000-07:00

The candlelight

flickering endlessly in the windowsill

is crying candle wax

quite convincingly

while I am in the habit of admiring

the fine curves

of a bottle of red wine,

and all this reminds me of a woman

I once saw

leaving me

'cause her hair had a reddish hue

and I

was deliciously drunk at that time,

too,

and the flickering candlelight

is in a hopeless fight

with the shadows lurching

and jumping

in and out of every corner,

or maybe

it is the other way around,

and maybe it was the other way

around.

I wish.

You, me and the liquor-store

2011-03-14T04:51:00.000-07:00

We met in one of those places where people seem to meet,

and it was like a roof-covered copy of a city-street.

'cause lights were going on and off like a flashlight in the zone,

and music; like the morning-rush; a steady, humming drone.

Along the walls the girls were lined like hookers on display

while the boys were in the bar and thinking what the hell to say,

and everyone was walking, but never getting anywhere.

They never focus with their eyes or turn their heads down there.

So I didn't catch your eye that night. I caught you by the arm,

and we danced to something sounding like a burglar-alarm

until the smoke was rising from its sleep down on the floor

and we were told there was a fire in the liquor-store.

But when we got outside the fire seemed to die and stop,

and someone gave us whiskey just to shove off and shut up.

We drank and got so pissed I can't remember anymore,

but when I woke, you still lay there beside me on the floor

Then marriage was a pregnancy and just six months away.

I never asked, but you said: "Yes, I do," now, anyway,

so we got settled in a suburb in a run-down avenue,

a place where people never stop, but speed up and drive through.

I drank myself to sleep to tell the world I didn't care,

and hoped and prayed that I would wake to see you weren't there,

and time was eating calendars like French fries 'till the day

you packed your bags and got our kids and car and drove away.

So, now I'm bathing ice-cubes at the place where people meet,

and these pretty women seem to hover right on by me on their feet.

I never get to catch them by the arm now anymore,

but soon I'm gonna light a fire in the liquor-store.

The Candle Light Effect

2011-03-13T08:08:00.000-07:00

A word that's made in candle light

is not born false or true

and does not come as black or bright,

but with a softer hue.

Cause even if the air is still

the flame will move and shift

to its own heat, and people's will

must surely likewise drift.

The light takes trips on moving lips

in an eternal chase

for shadows, but it often skips

the details of a face.

And restlessly it flickers

to hide a paper sheet,

a syllable or apostrophe

that eyes will never meet.

Thus words conceived and born to us

at night in candle light

are neither true nor false and thus

a truly fairer sight.

The place where people meet

2011-03-11T03:14:00.000-08:00

The bar is filled those

who share their problems with their drinks

and those who ask the man behind the counter

what he thinks.

Grant, as rumour has it,
is drunkard who once swore

when witchy-bitch had left him

that he'd burn the liquour store.

Grace is dancing rhumba
in a corner on her own

spilling Bloody Mary

on a worn out evening gown.

Phil is killing toothpicks
with a vigour him unknown

slouched beside a two-chair table

branding him alone.

Sally's hitting bourbon
like she's tugging on horse,

and the bottom of the bottle

is her only steady course.

Graham's sipping sherry
feeling heavy with remorse.

His wife just died,

and he has lived
through seven futile wars.

Mary only shows her face
in fading candlelight

thinking she's to hideous

to ever come in sight.

Joan keeps telling everyone
that everything's all right,

though every little movement

seems to startle her tonight.

Barry tries like always
to send out cheery wink

to Eleanor, but like before,

she doesn't even blink.

What Grace, Grant, Phil and Sally,
Mary, Paul and Eleanor

will never see is that they all where here

the night before.

And Barry? Yes, he knows, I guess.
If only all too well,

but he's aware that people here

has nowhere else to dwell.

I think that's all a bartender like me
can hope to tell

about the place where deadbeat souls

live out their living hell.

Primus internates

2011-03-09T21:20:00.000-08:00

The distance between
primus inter pares
and
rima internates
is
surprisingly short
and
frequently traveled.

My reality

2011-03-09T14:35:00.000-08:00

I'm seated on a wooden bench

intoxicated by the stench

that comes with autumn leaves that spoil

with sun and water into soil.

"The smell of spring" they say it is

that promises a time of bliss,

but I can't help but sit and feel

that nothing here is really real.

The sun, to me a blinding lap

that turns the air all moist and damp,

but will not give my skin a tan.

The wind comes from a giant fan

that's hidden somewhere out of sight

and that is moved around at night.

The clouds are copies drifting by

in something looking like a sky

that is a badly painted lie,

and all the people walking by

are stand-ins acting out their part

and stylised lines with half a heart.

The birdsong and the waterfall

behind me is not there at all,

but something that my mind can add

so silence will not sound so bad.

Yes, I am sure there's no such thing

as scenery and budding spring.

There's only me, and I'm alone

when I can't hear you on the phone,

and I can't talk or sing or hear

when your voice is not in my ear,

and I am blind and cannot see

if you're not right in front of me.

My feelings fade to something numb,

and I am deaf and blind and dumb.

What happens to my sense of smell

I do not know and cannot tell.

I'm lonely when I am alone,

and I'm alone when on my own.

Thus on this bench I wait for you

to come and make my dream turn true,

but if you let me down again,

will I be lost forever then?

Hard

2011-03-08T14:52:00.001-08:00

Some people play

hard to get. Others play

hard to want. I play

hard to miss. It's just hard

to notice.

The biker

2011-03-07T00:35:00.000-08:00

I'm a biker. If I say

that it's more to life than flying

just above the road some day,

then you'll know that I am lying.

By and by though I may feel

such a sting for earthly pleasure.

Then I put away my wheels

and I walk the streets in leisure.

Usually I find some girl

that is young enough to charm me,

old enough to know the world,

kind enough to never harm me.

We talk of such and such alike,

but I sense distress about them

when I tell them that my bike

is my life. I'll do without them.

But one day I meet the one

beauty which exceeds all scaling,

and I court her just for fun,

always with the thought of failing.

But she's strangely drawn to me

where I sit all tanned and greasy,

and I think that this could be

not too good if it's too easy.

She's a woman. I'm a man,

but I feel her charm is loosing

'cause my bike is pure titan.

I don't even think of choosing.

We make love although I feel

as I'm in a  work of fiction.

Maybe it is all too real.

Lovemaking is only friction.

Bicycling is all about

sliding with the least resistance

ever forward without doubt

out of reach and of existence.

As our night draws to an end

I admit I truly like her,

but I know that I will spend

my life stomping. I'm a biker.

So I leave her on the bed

moments after she starts crying,

telling her that if I said

that I'd stay, I would be lying.

The thought of stopping

2011-03-06T14:38:00.001-08:00

Tired cars with tired drivers are slowly driving by me under

a mint-coloured sky, and I can just hear the mileage gather

below me on the freeway where all life is our life. Moaning.

It's a jazzy rhythm of clanking machine-parts that grow and

fade, fade and grow, never stopping but to start all over again.

Sometimes. Occasionally a lost soul wanders the bicycle-path

through snow the colour of a smokers lung and the asphalt,

the asphalt seems to grow up from underneath, eating its way

through the white cape of frozen air and water while it is silently

lurching and lunging and biting after every living thing it

cannot get to. The noise. The sound of weakening steps

through sludge and machine-crud is like someone gnawing

lustily on the soles of passers by wearing rubber and dead

animals on their feet for the sake of protection. There is a bus

going by, but there sure ain't nothing else out here. This is the

place where people pass through. There is no point in staying.

They never stop to think so why should I think about stopping

Nicotine, my Heroine

2011-03-04T06:10:00.001-08:00

Hi Nicotine, my Heroine.

Say have we met before,

or are we strangers every time

that you stand at my door?

My Nicotine, my Heroine

my mistress and my queen.

You are the gentlest whore to me,

both subtle and obscene.

Hear, Nicotine, my Heroine.

You linger in my veins.

You pull me down in apathy

as if to ease my pains.

Dear Nicotine, my Heroine,

you never gave me more

than what I asked in loneliness,

or what I begged you for.

Lo! Nicotine, my Heroine.

The fear has left my face.

With you among the audience

I safely leave the race.

Oh, Nicotine, my Heroine.

How you define my world

and never changes the terrain

as would a foolish girl.

But Nicotine, my Heroine

believe me and be gone

the day I tell you it must end

or naught is ever done.

The living room table

2011-03-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

Running my fingers through the fabric

of the carpet

looking at the wooden plate

above me,

I find comfort in thinking that this

could be my world.

In thanking the tablecloth

for its blessed length

and darkness

letting in almost no light,

but red,

I find myself craving

solitude,

and

the sound of distant music

only increases the feeling of

oneness,

harmony,

singularity.

While the stillness of the air

gives me time to count every

speck of dust,

I find comfort

in thinking that this

could be my world,

and

as I pull up my feet

in foetal position

feeling the weight of being

slowly releasing

the pressure on my temples.

Warming up

as my surface decreases,

I find comfort

in thinking that this

could be all.