questions about your face

how long ago did the crow land and step beside you,
when was the moon from underneath your cheeks due,
how are the wings of Peter Pan when the wind blew,
and where are the crooked lower walls i hardly ever knew?

paces

should our

faces meet

again,

should our

paces still

remain?

do tell me

do tell me
when you
realize that
you are
walking along
and
alone again:
i might just
walk with
you.

thread

it is a fine and mighty
thread that is either
borne out of unison
or spun out of
hope in masturbation;
still, a thread so fine,
one can only be tugged
by it and strive to
be blind

(been) moved

even as the bark peels, i peel it. as if

it needed the help. even as i sit perched,

i am shedding and exchanging breaths. even as

i look and stare, i dilate

with the changing lights. as if

i could fool myself into being exempt.

even as the locomotives encouraged each other, i could

only hope to cast a retrospective eye. as if

i had not (been) moved at all.

almost there

you said it felt like
we were almost there
and i asked
where is there?
you said it was
more of
what was there
so i asked
what?
and you finally said
to feel.
i stopped asking
and i found
there near:
it was already
here.

faye wong

-androgynously and
almost narf-like-
your gills
collect my breath while
only a brusque trail
is left even
without frills
(nor tail)

hunter(s)

when your heart hunts it injures more than its prey when my heart hunts it tends to itself not they when our hearts hunt they seldom recognize the fray when my heart hunts out yours there is bound to be blood either way

unravel

while you are away,
my heart comes undone,
slowly unravels,
like a ball of yarn,
the devil collects it,
with a grin,
our love, our love,
in a ball of yarn,
he’ll never return it
(so when you come back)
we’ll have to make new love

- bjork, homogenic (1997)

with or without you

sometimes, i’d turn to check
for your prints, your smell,
but whether it means a lack
it seems too early to tell

(with you, i managed access
to gardens of my city;
only to bury what was being blessed
at a hyper-velocity;
with you, i ate my greens
and wore extra vests;
framed everyday life on screen;
without feeling any less)

sometimes, i will still turn to check
for your prints, your smell,
but whether you have since turned your back
it’s all too late to dwell

7-9

for two hours, i was
the troll atop a hill,
basking under lunar-cy,
armed with sleeping pills;
for two hours, i sang
melodies to my fill,
at times straddling shadows
of my moat so still;
for two hours, i sought
my kick to the thrill,
only to shiver cowardly
in the wake of overkill

varicose alarm

when one ever gets
awoken by the
varicose alarm,
rescue is quite on its
way in the form
of a rhythmic charm:

of routine lip-
moving trances,
programmed within
sanity-inducing pulses

if wind could

if wind could displace
the moon-light cast upon your face,
then it must have been a tenderbreeze case,
since it remains a crease-less portrait
of all the contours i navigate,
cease-lessly, of late

once

once seed colonies, once parched,
suddenly crack open to spill forth
life!

once larvae colonies, once still,
burst into frivolous mobilities of
locust-death!

once just pods in her cradle,
once gestating, and
sharing the same milk; (same lives)

yet she continues to insist on
blinking her eyes

明.扬 (walking2)

“...does it matter whether it is the moon
that follows the sun, or night
that comes after day,
so long as there is light (明)
shone through each and every sway;

does it matter then, if this light is kept safe
or placed intentionally at bay, or
if its shadows are worthy only
of a heavens-high puppet’s play,
so long as this light has been scattered (扬)
and paved along this month-old
milky-way...”

walking1

love-making should be like walking
where the scenery keeps changing

i see that
your back’s dripping
and i just can’t quit thrusting.

the pace’s hastening
the distance’s inviting

i see your palm
out-reaching
and yes, i'm coming!

canopies3

filtered, and across
an ocean cavity, tones and
articulations (of the diaphragm)
arrive as murmurs
in the head,
that are heard
only through a silent heart.

canopies2

it can be utterly plastic

or glass-like, the way these shy sheets

of ceramic stars peek through

urban’s meso-layer

skirt;

it can also be completely wooded

canopies1

how long can these luscious canopies wade us over
before
the tide of time announces that felling season has come
and
start stroking grey beards out of these promised longevity
silver barks?

i miss you

i miss you
but i haven't met you yet
so special
but it hasn't happened yet
you are gorgeous
but i haven't met you yet
i remember
but it hasn't happened yet

and if you believe in dreams
or what is more important
that a dream can come true
i will meet you

i was peaking
but it hasn't happened yet
i haven't been given
my best souvenir
i miss you
but i haven't met you yet
i know your habits
but wouldn't recognize you yet

i'm so impatient
i can't stand the wait
when will i get my cuddle?
who are you?

i know by now that you'll arrive
by the time i stop waiting

i miss you

-bjork, "i miss you", in "Post"

Kerouac1

"The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die? In the rush of events I kept thinking about this in the back of my mind. I told it to Dean and he instantly recognized it as the mere simple longing for pure death; and because we're all of us never in life again, he, rightly, would have nothing to do with it. I agreed with him then."

- J. Kerouac, On the Road, p.112

Pretty Faces

Faces were never meant to be heavy
Even in this puzzle of who-knows-who-chronologically
Or situations that were meant to be funny
Why do you always all of a sudden turn elderly?
Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be, or
Perhaps it has always been about the bird and the bee
But that doesn’t mean that every other scenery
Would have to be subject to your cruellest sympathy
For it is most unwise to neglect to stop and see
Even in your little game of endless far-car-dee

corridor2

when neon tubes line the

distributed drains of your corridor

love’s calendar has stopped

squarely on the 48th day

banishing my moistures

from the drought of your pores

i am the loiterer, blinded by the

signposts, and wetting your floor

with all our sands, now grey

corridor1

down the corridor, you realize that parking footwear effectively needs not just sketched-out lots or almost-sacred spaces to perform the ritual of flinging divine invitations to deities, but like in temples, it also requires the calibrated histories of detaching soles from slipper, or shoe, before entering to offer worn-off cells or hardened skin as sincere smoke and ashes to many of its heavenly fathers remaining firmly on earth

corridor1.2

sweeping flightpaths and corridors, footwear is effectively parked not just with shapely sketched lots or gesticulated sacred spaces to perform the ritual of flinging divine invitations to deities, but like in grand temples of jetsetting, it also requires the calibrated histories of detaching soles from slipper, or shoe, before entering to offer worn-off cells or hardened skin as sincere smoke and ashes to the heavenly fathers who remain firmly in the checked-in rooms on earth

hiatus

1.

the butt sorely misses
its posse cushion-flesh,
almost vice-versally,
postponing this rimming affair
results in an almost-
cardinal, withdrawal rash.
Then,
what does it mean
to take a break
and not want to be around
them humans anymore,
since
to distance from, for
its own god-damned sake
sanitizing is make-pretending
once it similarly becomes
a familiar chore


2.

perfect right angles
bookended soles of feet
the previous night’s shingles
on trunks to be bleached
explode, implode, contort, wrangle
like a vacuum-packed whale, beached
rays that cast upon us entangle
waves that erode, we hitch

3.

etched within my flock, or
school, the split-second
instinct of cartilage
delivers on one hand, an
overcast, a blockade; but
more so, a prized draft that
lifts the seamlessness of skies
and waters into the loft of
blue heavens. this is thus,
where keen horizons thrive on my flights of flying fishes
for their unbroken lines

to love

what i would give
for a pulse is what
i will acquire with being
able to just love

a bittersweet moment in a foodcourt

hunched but endearing
the tiny couple, tucked quietly
into a corner of their twilight
years, sat across one another
with plastic bowls of mee pok in
between them, concentrating
intently on the food and its taste,
nevermind even the food trays,
they can stay where they are
this is a bittersweet moment that I see:
overlapping years of straw-
laced mats, now oversized plates,
quietly seized just as memories
of yesteryears, of backlane smokes and
yoddling peddlers, the gentle changing of
scenes spell out not just a duration of
having survived, but a survival into a foodcourt

loose organs

backpaddle (asap) and the spine will dislodge with the entire cavity in toll leaving the flesh in residual gestation of vomit that was once a heart, a lung, an appendix or something, but has now, decidedly remained within its flimsy wrapping only to be later regurgitated and then ushered to cannibals waiting peripherally in-line to grasp every wonderful bit of anatomy
backpaddle at once!

hyperactivity

ike rain
trik le fr m ghett es,
h avens ab ve,
a d sandw ched i olations
o to my tiny
isla d and i to
t is whispe ed
co fessi n tht is
tha kf lly, too war m
t stay p t

spectrum

this is
but the
coming
of age
of its
ancestry

my greenery

entice red lanterns
to play in black
colour-clad wasps
eating into the air
push night's hurry
into forever's gold
engage my greenery
supplant and stare

15 by 20

resting tips
tapping, sending,
retrieving pixels
that occur,
attract, consume
and delay
real reactions
beyond this
15 by 20
that is
not just
flat, but
also sad

p s alm

Rain, where
curtains fail,
delighting
ponds into
dam-building.
This gift
that destroys
is totally human,
and almost
religious.

betwixt and between

a little to the right
(your shoulder's showing)

to the left now,
(keep your arms in)

to the right again,
(shuffle shuffle quickly)

O!......................
and
you
just
tip
so easily
over

i, attended

i
sit
alone
tending to me
tending to you
tending to meaningful social actions
alone
sat
i, attended

size and measure

when evil is pronounced, aspirations
that launch kamikaze moles
of ki off its epicentre,
race them against flows,
only to land as balancing weights on eyelids,
ceasing to be only after someone
somewhere has been
made atomically
lesser.

so,
how big do you feel today?

smallest peaks

morsecodebeatspepperingdwindling
soaringstringstugginglifting
dirtytexturesscratchingrubbing
smallestpeaksscalingreaching
alasejaculating

imagerie

死 B
u
i
l
d
i
n
g

every 3 days or so,

feel eyes moving
off your body

(relentlessly

coveting
)

off your back, your trunks, your subterranean skins
ahoy ahoy ahoy!
casting synthetic ropes tipped with
homing
hooks, then
at around every third day, start
grappling; reeling
in the saline solutions and amoebic matter

that provide the blueprint for the next 2 days of endless
mimicry

first thought best thought

i wish to jump

crowded at the extremities

lately i have been crowdedattheextremities there seems to be toomuch to unload that maybe i should
just stand still and
stop collecting

"Break open skin!
let loosethem over-excited toxins
as they perform
their
long-o
v e rdue
arc!"
If
only
I'd
stop
bouncing and for once,
just jump. .

DNA

w H a t' syou rexac t scaf ol ding?



10 11 10 11 00 Program ming



laug hAlon g withth isparti cular spring



weepen dlessly atthe aw fullypla inKing

plastic

whenevers
emit loose chains
of opiate smoke - in
reverence of brittle
whatevers.
(sending
second-hand ascensions
into its mechanical
suction
)
- withdrawal is the new
ohm; and He: who moves through
delicately,
conducts a rain dance
through his ears. and (soon
it starts to sprinkle.
then a king wave.) that finally lifts
this prayer to the next
highest visible octave.

inhale!

the placebo effect

clad in postmodernity's
camouflage half-
attire, the image that forms
is
ironically archetypical

- of
fellow comrades in arms
strapped onto a collective trigger
which detonate bodies like homing shells, yet
sprouting feet that remain
firmly planted on bloodless, placebo ground -

this happens to be your martyrdom
(amid urban Singapore, 2007), unleashing
warrior images that run amok
in the MRT,
as long as the cloth upon your head shuts out
imaginary detractors like myself

then soon, the skies will open
and together we shall behold the flames that will enrapture
like astronomy's fireworks
celebrating the ashes of the history of seas

on the back of one of modernity's Cyclopses

we were both waiting
in traffic, along
this one-way piece of shit
i glanced sideways, hands
firmly on the steering wheel
and we met, on a plane
amid, exhaust and
noise, you
watching over your
shoulder as if you have been beaten
into that mould, i
find
your humanity your decency
hardsolid
brillantlycast
almostangelicandsuddenly
tearful
you kept your ground your
stare, demolishing your charcoal
your labour, and blinding that singular blinking
eye of your man-eater. i
was the first to waver,
to hurridly escape this heat and cower
in the comfort of coolness
the lights changed, and i seemed to still be
in waiting even though i had proceeded some way
straight ahead while you,
slightly-hunched and god-like, continued on
to the right, turning, on the back of
one of modernity's Cyclopses.
i sit trembling still
to this day, thinking of the seconds
(we met
in a place without frills): it was where there was just the
right amount of condensation - on glass!
that could perhaps
never be reached by all that physics
or politics is

only the gentle are ever really strong

tender was the night
and so
can

you

the Fallen idol

driving home from work one evening his heart refused to skip a beat
it was as if he could foresee himself maintaining
skillfully,
his centre of gravity for days to come.
at ease with
the uncharacteristic dry June air, he wetted his lips
almost triumphantly
for he knew that by doing so he could
quench history
and irrigate his future yet,
somewhere in this ajar city, a pocket of desire, momentarily unmanned,
in unwitting stupor fashion
unleashes violent shrieks, tasting
the long-awaited freedom with their
voices. now
a deadly calm threatens his co-existing
serenity and
just like that, he was chipped;
felled. all these -
while he made his way home whistling a
tune,
behind the armour of
his 4-
wheel drive.

-SQ806, bound for Shanghai, 200707

Rouge

within

an unescapable red
of
transfused destinies: harrowing

a
red that seems
bent on commiting
these sophistications into some
1-
dimensional Russian roulette
shoot-out (bang! bang!)
transfixing our accummulated agencies
into effortless structures-in

perpetual
vulnerable transit-

O, glorious Red! how you have always
fed,
upon chance and risk
O, foolish Rouge! how you have always
led: continuously
instinctive,

even if it means rendering
you
eventually blue

-SQ806, bound for Shanghai, 200707

shutter

cautious placements positionings
guided by accurate placards
once cannibalized were at least
devoured commensally,
prey-predator alike: includes
eachother, even in the blink
of an ey
e
now
a
snap
has
been take
n
on
ly in bite
s where the par
tial fle
sh that re
mains in the jaw
s, caught bet
ween the tee
th
ac
count
fo
r the linger
ing
sten
ch of the
ul
timate
ly dis
tan
t, in
ept,
ever
yzomb
ie

listening to, @ 94kmph

travelling cable lines on
a backdrop
of skyblue
signal that music
is airbound; all around
we just have
to fill in the notes,
tilt the marbles, and
create
asymmetry!
thus conducting scenic
tunes in our
heads

the 1st song

We love our machines for they go the distance for us
We hope they love us back
With all the work that they are tasked
We only have ourselves to thank

Tis not a sad sad world, so make merry and idle
The machines have freed us from labor
And we can just go forth unbridled
Unabashedly, for we can never falter

Or is it? Or is it? Or might we have just erred?
For ‘balance’ is a term I’m sure we’ve heard
Yet with the chants near and impending
Are we still the almighty techno kings?

Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of balance
This, this speed we’re in (Koyaanisqatsi)
Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of fashion
Can it be a sin? (Koyaanisqatsi)

Cast through the windows, our deepest, darkest desires,
As warm waiting kindred gesture for massive hire
The rays that touch us barricade us sometimes
Don’t be the only passenger who hears these sonic chimes

Going (…)

What a lark, what a swoop!
I have found myself a space to coop
Paste that face onto the screen,
Wallpaper it, and watch it preen

Treat yourself to yet another extension
Kiss the wave with a surgeon’s precision
Ride a lover’s kiss with two keys
Be with someone whom thou never sees

Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of balance
Carry, carry on this postmodern conversation (Koyaanisqatsi)
Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of fashion
Introduce to the world your next reincarnation!

The places that you have visited
The rooms that you have stained
The relationships that were requited
All traces, traces left in vain

Dive in, dive in, but leave an anchor
As a precaution just to be sure
Let your senses fly,
fly by,
faster,
faster than the blink of an eye
In this digital heaven way up high,
just pray you don’t shiver yourself dry

Question: can we ever go slow again?
As if it was part of the programmer’s long-forsaken plan
In time, can we return the author his pen
Before the pages get turned over and over again?

Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of balance
Towards dimness, towards disappearance (Koyaanisqatsi)
Koyaanisqatsi, life, life out of fashion
Towards thinness – the next best penance (Koyaanisqatsi)

:)

these days, a smile becomes easier when there is nothing to it, really, except the double pressing of thumb; and you do not even really need to smile though the essential consolation for me remains that there isn't a frown saved on as automatic instead on this hurried interface

the good gynecologist

sentences and structures performing pedagogical
pregnancies are let down by instant scrupulous
surgeries, blistering beams and a
dry numbness of anesthesia
an autistic delivery
receive instead these
smaller replications as if
mother and child have been denied of petty form,
since these laws of birth only thrive on being written

the future in history

i can't help but wonder,

how does one rid an echo, a stain
or a history of timepiece inclinations
without purging the blood out of your own
stillborn conceivement raised under
youthful indiscretions?
and/or
how does one confront these
slipshod confessions or static
impressions without diminishing the ease
to swallow and digest the equally-current
life course transitions?

i can only keep wandering

water cycle

liquid water now cooled that has already once been boiled can again turn gaseous and reach boiling point but this time through mere dutiful evaporation so long as we are talking about the same water that remains in its original rectangular flask, for these tranquil transparent surfaces contain more volatile energies than any artificial flame can ever hope to offer;

more amazingly, these aroused atmospheric vapours will eventually condense above a different flask and in due time learn to take up its shape

(of course, some will inadvertantly fall back onto the site of its non-stop epic flight but they will find that the solid flask now assumes the more rounded structure of a bowl where there is now more room for congregation nearer the increasingly permeable surfaces)

the genius of rufus wainwright

his eclecticism his blueprint my saviour
from the daily grind
i stand enraptured by my chanced-upon epic
find of wails that weave between
his jungle of ingenious bass
staring out of glass nourished
i hear him bravely make his political
case while the other zombies remain
heavily under the spell previously cast
he has helped me break my mechanical
fast am i inside or outside?
i think of all these as the lights teleport the listening one
to join the only essential tribe
that seems to be missing its only son

many have said that you have become

many have said that you have become much too abundant and perhaps also too steeped but as i walk through your fronts and backs and shoulders there is much life in your charming lanes life that is no doubt changed but life regardless that has grown from the generous donated layers of the lives of others and as i say it to your modern face you have shown to be more than anything that the architects could have planned for as from time to time you reveal your grace to a few who cared enough to sweat and i thank you for this afternoon of pure embrace when i find myself perpetually head up high, feet slipping again and again losing myself exchanging breaths and juices with your children until i realize finally that you are your pearl, and as i leave you be, quietly my prints have already been etched onto your skin and i am weighted down yet alarmingly lighter as if trying to delicately slip into the other pearls that lay either beached or just in the way

skinny legs

my skinny legs to match my jeans
my hide-behinds that help gather my beans
my palpitations that render me lean
my page that is torn up by the dean
my scrubs to keep the insides clean
my flights insisting that i have been
my larva that i pour onto my kin
my lows very much in their teens
my words are as direct as is seen
my search for purposeful amnesia and requiem
my legs will outgrow my tight-fitting jeans

10 metres of tar, 1 little red man

2 metres of pavement, so i called out your name
was by here by is by there
i could only notice the colour of your hair
but you no longer smelled the same
and you could only ask why i was dragging this
(metremetremetremetremetre+month) between us, and to where
i hear the dice crack as you fist-fully reshuffle our constellation
cruelly revealing a brand new configuration that no longer
sparkled the same as our sands have all been emptied
just before you came ~ almost too cordially ~
this dusk has managed to coyly stuff these
(years months days) just beneath the (minutes and seconds) above my skin
starting from the (metres and yards) your glow that i see
where unsurprisingly as neither our fingers nor pallor
kept up with our increasingly redundant game
since (neither of us are to be blamed
and i myself) no longer smelled the same

controlfreak v.2

blood lips synched and thick gloves bleached
the cues on the floor are out of reach
stage sanitized to your fancy whim
X-shaped wooden stars dance above potpourri's prim
of amber varnish and shading vertical lines
we are now in a puppeteer's dream
your team (who's team?)
too anxious to satisfy your insatiable brim
or fill that awfully loose shoulder seam
question: how do you touch if you insist on keeping those fingers meek?
so i'd stop this streak my dearest and sweetest controlfreak

giantlerette

fee-fi-fho-fhump-Delilah's-triumphant-heart-this-way-comes
see-sigh-so-sorrow-who-would-have-known-it-to-be-this-narrow
scree-scri-scro-scurry-the-lesser-gods-flee-hurry!-hurry!
thee-thy-tho-thud-she-is-all-out-for-fresh-deity-blood
go-golia-goliath!-scorn-seeking-its-destructive-right-to-turf
slurp-slurp-burp-burp-lands-either-move-or-are-usurped
bim-bam-slim-slam-she-tightens-the-collars-of-them-lambs
sis-sash-cris-crash-Zeus'-gall-is-bathmilk-to-her-flesh
zig-zag-zig-zag-waywardly-waves-her-lonesome-flag
squish-squash-mish-mash-ironing-weeds-and-trees-lightning-flash
cree-cry-crow-crack-ruined-are-the-earthy-beans-of-Jack
flee-fly-flow-flar-afterwards-hers-(repostitories)-eternal-scars
zaa-zee-zam-zoom-watch-her-set-her-clock-to-the-howling-moon
tick-tock-tick-tock-hostile-is-such-love-borne-out-of-wedlock

controlfreak

minimal as the cues on the floors may seem
(with bleeding lips synched & thick gloves bleached)
the stage is fully sanitized to your fancy whim
X-shaped wooden stars dance above potpourri's prim
this is a puppeteer's designer dream
(of amber varnish and cascading vertical lines)
your team, your team
too anxious to satisfy your insatiable brim
or fill that awfully loose shoulder seam
question: how do you actually touch if you insist on keeping those fingers meek?
so i'd stop this streak quick my dearest and sweetest controlfreak

i probably shouldn't be but i am

i probably shouldn't be but i am my very own lionheart solar system self-sufficient please) ( polite as a tease that engages in this series of star wars for loot gravity is anchor to my defenses planets are glorious caves i cannot shed centripetal is my care
otherwise this system can always orbit somewhere else where yet another column of air is displaced yet another continuum of mixing cocktail atmospheres start all over

and
all over
again

(curiously&quietly ~ you&i

(curiously&quietly~you&i have repetitively refused he&she as if we have been dancing off each other tragically mirroring within a disciplined binary even though you&i are profusely he&she domestically & that these awkward steps can all be improvised upon eversoadjustedly - trust me&reach over with a present palmful of reticent rescues oh-so-appropriately ~&quickly)

z-e-i-t-g-e-i-s-t

polite wires sacroscant flashlights governing traffic instant messages customized auxiliaries disposed winks cryptic penultimate defenses withering font sizes crowded folders equally neurotic viruses blacker than black boxes accessible glitches conveniently relinquishes silent offices timid neuroses highly charged beneath the surfaces gothic publishers rubbery trenches devastatingly chic insulators polite wires sacroscant flashlights governing traffic instant messages customized auxiliaries disposed winks cryptic penultimate defenses withering font sizes crowded folders equally neurotic viruses blacker than black boxes accessible glitches conveniently relinquishes silent offices timid neuroses highly charged beneath the surfaces gothic publishers rubbery trenches devastatingly chic insulators polite wires sacroscant flashlights governing traffic instant messages customized auxiliaries disposed winks cryptic penultimate defenses withering font sizes crowded folders equally neurotic viruses blacker than black boxes accessible glitches conveniently relinquishes beautifulest tortures cruelest teases persistently sticky pulls and pushes wide-eyed closures narrow laned passes one way ticket to vain juxtaposes committed fixtures nonchalances restless pressures for mileages silent offices timid neuroses highly charged beneath the surfaces gothic publishers rubbery trenches devastatingly chic insulators

mr weatherman

bring it on mr weatherman
for your shoulders are still intact
i'll take you on mr weatherman
quid-pro-quo fact for fact
oblige (I) mr weatherman
ratify our clandestine pact
comfort (he) mr weatherman
make him stand tall and erect
discipline (she) mr weatherman
rein in her self-destructive sect
pardon (we) mr weatherman
delay our eventual wreck

(this debt, this debt)

now, now, mr weatherman
patiently remind us again why
we are kept to be so wet

my headphones

wonderfully, i slip into this mood of
being on the verge
beat-by-beat

swarmed

this life has suddenly revealed itself
to be starkly rhythmic
and gorgeously

young

let's celebrate now

let's celebrate now
these shelters from the glare
let's celebrate now
holding the branches that they spare
let's celebrate now
by carving our names on the bark
let's celebrate now
lifting roots into the air, what a lark!
let's celebrate now
them transcendent concentric rings
let's celebrate now
with a yellow ribbon or sacred string
let's celebrate now
these pockets of lush, intermittent green
let's celebrate now
their sways through ancient to present winds
let's celebrate now
their abundance of generous fruit pickings
let's celebrate now
their subtle reminder of our forgotten glad tidings

times like these

there are simply just times like these

when the lungs shut down when blurred images seem clearer
when light enters eyes wide shut when the ants start crawling again
these pockets of sanity allow for

withdraw and release

there simply must be time for
these

the eco that dwells further below

stationed dutifully beneath warm currents, these
pebbles gather tribal steam at dawn
vibrating at a frequency that is widely despised
the sands polish their weathered surfaces; these tragic pawns
are unwavering in attention to a consciousness made
of dreams that are as wide as the narrowest river banks - here:
where rescuing hooks seem too much like beckoning bait; Oh!
such deplorable cautiouness, since pebbles are neither amphibious
nor are they sustained on the bombarding fluids from the flanks -
they nestle ceaselessly into the turbulence, more sands
brush off them while they are left to prop their kindred ashore
- homogenically - the workings of an economy that promises bliss
to those in proximity, keeping those downstream evergreen – they
are wholeheartedly still, erect in a stoic
commitment to prolong the eco
that dwells (further)
below

-PS. thanks jada, for piecing together this first version

beanbag

whenever i slouch into you / i cannot seem to occupy more
than half / even while you support my full shape / as i
push recklessly into your soft cavity / you'd always seem to
be more comfortable than i can ever be / beats me / even if
we are both just simply sitting down here /
separate entirely / in stark-
naked spineless glory

the entire -eco- that dwells further below

stationed dutifully underneath warm, elbowing rapids
these pebbles gather tribal steam each dawn as they start to
vibrate with a frequency that has till now been widely despised
while the atmospheric sands soothe their weathered surfaces;
these wasted pawns - in aero-dynamic tow by a trecherous flow - are
each unwavering in passionate attention to a consciousness that is
constructed out of dreams that have grown to be as wide
as the narrowest of river banks - look here: where rescuing
hooks are maligned to be uncanny beckoning bait. Oh!
such deplorable cautiousness i say, since pebbles are
not necessarily amphibious; nor do they naturally sustain
on the persistence of fluid bombardment from the flanks -
still, as they nestle foetus-style into the turbulence, you'd notice
more unwitting sands bristling off them and these particular
particles will eventually be set off to polish homogenically,
fellow kindred ashore. by now, you'd realize the workings
of such an overall economy that keeps those downstream
evergreen so that they can each concentrate on firmly
erecting (while remaining wholeheartedly still) a stoic
commitment to prolong the entire -eco- that dwells
further below

1:11:11

(I have been)

at times a little ahead,
occasionally, sinfully,
a few moments
late,

but now,
(I am)

most precisely spot on
- for
this recurrent time of mine
has been born

Dull Flame of Desire

I love your eyes, my dear their splendid, sparkling fire when suddenly you raise them so to cast a swift embracing glance like lightning flashing in the sky but there's a charm that is greater still: when my love's eyes are lowered when all is fired by passions kiss and through the downcast lashes I see the dull flame of desire

- Fyodor Tyutchev (1803-1873)

i'd like my pancakes with a little

i'd like my pancakes with a little
bit of honeyed jam
or make that toast with
butter,
sunny-side up and turkey ham
appetite promiscuousity, gastronomic galore
to insist on a flavour a month
such a chore. such a whore.
to have your cake and eat it
don't bite off more than you can spit
masticate through every high and low
as you salivate on the go
just when you thought you have tasted
a little of everything
it becomes not a simple yes or no

my coveted part of day

just
beyond
the windowsill
sprawls my favourite part of

day

dripping streaks
of
tropical aurora
all neon like
virgin blushings for mid-
may

the
splendid
sun
is poured almost-
candidly into
my mouth
goodness awashed
diffusing volatile sky
vagrants
as they race haphazardly
across the basin
radiating all that this
soil is about

and in this moment's
viscosity
all the modern things have become
dwarfed into modest silhouettes
(as) they will now
in unison bow
to this -

my
coveted part
of

day

telephone

we are in search of the perfect dialtone, and
for the first receiving end
we are in chains with the speaking clones
yet still in awe of this networking trend
we are in duty of passing on every curious exaltation
and in need of determined coiled wires for reliable dis-connections
indeed, in payment of every efficient translator
we are let in on an intimate wavelength with the modern operator
which is in lieu of the second receiver's midnight smooches (in bouts
plagued by a gratitude for the overnight trails left without)
just as she lubricates before each looming call
i get whisked to the stars with each syllable's awkward fall
side-by-side, we are in tandem with these insidious, sparkling interfaces
only by virtue of historically-accurate paraphrases
since we are still under seige by a relentless interference
kept under the illusion of this electricity's omniscient indiscrimination
for now, keep still and just be @ home on your throne
in hold of your own loyal telephone
on it, come clean-be pristine-preen! (be
at your best while)
confronting this bestowed mess we are in

(with your scientific index finger, slowly)

(with your scientific index finger, slowly)

inspect these mirages around you

and from time to time
de-stabilize this flurry of images, as you
try to bring them into focus
but also take note to respect
their individual refractions

Wait, wait!
try creating a vertigo of faraway

((( cyclones ) ))

(yes, if you think about it,
the wings of butterflies actually
vibrate in
a circular fashion)

so set yourself
to it and disperse
the older air

and reveal
oh! this :) morse-coded oasis!

(with your investigative littlest finger, curiously)

twirl the hair around you
these overly-safe straight locks

are imprisoning

make them curl around their own edges,
~soften~
bend them at their knees, then
surreptitiously,
bring them closer to your nose as you
identify their every conditioner and odour

(with the tip of your nose, and toes, stretch)

into the ripe air
until you hear the cracking of your bones
for this will teach you
not to be too dependent
on that non-ergonomic armchair as you erect
a posture that condemns that claustrophobic
sinus to a sacred pastime

(get real! snap out of it!)

stretch out,
stretch it all out

the tips of your thorns

those over-ardent facial hairs

the layer of nothingness that seems to be
always ready to jump off the surface
(leap, I'd say!)

these tension-filled calf muscles

and boy, who can forget
those erotic synapses!

as you reach those climaxes
repeatedly! ~ (:)

(get real! and snap out of it!)

THIS IS THE MOMENT!

let's face it: nothing is real
except this bundle of stretches
but only when they
form these relentless contours on us
with these
criessmilesjumpsdropsand
breaths

slowly-but-surely
we are carefully made-up
as if every ‘me’ is a building
as with every 'you'
rooted still
yet
forever stretching, until there is nothing
more to touch

the 2 men in her life are boys in fact.

the 2 men in her life are boys in fact. in her life, 2 unwitting men: one borne to the left, the other relentlessly encircling, endearingly tipping the scales, in true moderator fashion. both worshipping. while carefully threading. as the withdrawn provider silently displaces his apologies into her already stale air, hoping for her to inhale. but she doesn't. she is still. and he constantly re-offends. the one who keeps taking is of pagan origin. he attempts twirls and spins until her flustered heart is mended, and then what? does he mean to tide her over? What? for his ritual of hypnotic dances only sends himself to sleep while she insists on being at her atmosphere. completely beyond reach. these boys will become men. one day. hopefully, before her ashes land. before her bones return to the dirt. before every sanguine sun sets. quietly, this is for her. as it has always been.

usother

us.other
nature: expedient
freak out: cave in
expanding appearances: defending fortresses
outrageous antics: quiet simple beats
layering cosmetics: dry, wrinkled skin
shout out, honk: meek curses, sink
mirrors reflect: nobody sees
sheeth of violence: a dove's intention
ornamental social bribes: quelling unsatisfied gripes
lady in chic: a wobbly tweek
hulk: child-bulk
social nets entangle: catch-hook-strangle
rage abound: for that soothing sound
begger. leper: lovlier under
usother

this tidy package) of me

this tidy package) of me
nor she; or he; but per-
haps we,
:but oh! so
tre-che-rous-ly.)
parades the th-ree
flee through with glee
in-to night's star-studded key
which promi-(ses) seductive-ly
-to (be
right at the mo-ment-ar-y plea
to-see what
lies be
-neath these pretti-ly -(ness) of un-sight-ly
puddles
or f-ree-ly floating harmless trees
that sway ever so slight-ly as the
winds of partial (h-e)
and (s-he)
make drafts at me!
me/me/me
- all prim and tid-y
as (entire-ly)
still as possums can po-ssib-ly be :that to
become be is as be is be-ing-ly be so
try: as the we (in me)
makes these three kinds of
rightful throw-a-ways :pressedly
for never (me-in-we) is the sum of she+he; at lea
st not;
not present-ly
((but we shall see((()
even-t/eventual-ly. possi /
oh possib-ly may(be.

the eternal recurrence

See this moment!" I continued. "From this gateway Moment a long eternal lane stretches backward: behind us lies an eternity.

Must not whatever can already have passed this way before? Must not whatever can happen, already have happened, been done, passed by before?

And if everything has already been done before, what do you think of this moment, dwarf? Must this gateway too not already - have been here?

And are not all things firmly knotted together in such a way that this moment draws after it all things to come? Therefore - itself as well?

For, whatever can run, even in this long lane outward - must run it once more!

- Nietzsche: Thus Spoke Zarathustra (part3; section2; On the Vision and the Riddle)

precise entrants. precise mouths.

we are all
slot /\ machines
with
precise. tailor-made ~:entrances:
every hand that
picks up a cOin you f(r)eel>
the clat-ter-ring-ing
of in
-ner clogs
Deny! (them) every third
penny. for
petty pound: at your pre-ferred pre-
tenses
ob-
truses.
.sigh.

(the longest and deepest sigh.)

swallow finger-filled
warm.th: reward them with
silly jester spitt and
spin-n-ing
mockery
as it were>>><:
.precise entrants.
for
.precise mouths.
that map our definit-
ions.
these act
ions.
and those familiar conse-
quences: if only,
it were that
simple, then
commit (no?)
to
that dial:
offortuneoffateofdeath-ly
pre-
monit-
ion.
s
-of volumous vomit that
we
get given
- the harmonious and
disconcert-
ing
trem-bble.

bread

When bread is baked some parts are split at the surface, and these parts which thus open, and have a certain fashion contrary to the purpose of the baker's art, are beautiful in a manner, and in a peculiar way excite a desire for eating.
-Marcus Aurelius

mise-en-abyme

cover me no. 3,
this is not a sweet dream
i need to take some risks
with adequate preventive measures
so turn off this program
and
just stay there
with a surgeon's preciseness
i will come get you
this layer of being)
is getting all the attention
and the next layer is all (too becoming
i will just assume it continues
on and on and on and on and on
awake and you shall find another
cover me no. 4,
i have a recurrent dream.

goodwill cast

(dada dada dada da)
this was their goodwill
cast upon us
(sss
platters s
s sss splat
ter splatsss
s)
.Now,
this is our goodwill
filled to their bbbrriiimmmm ooo
ooooooolucky
me!
for
it
shares
our
(verysameO! lucky
she!)
breaths
...hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhh
hhh

wedding bells

cold feet
amidst familial warmth
fidgitting
with you in mind
louder and louder
in my mouth asunder!
bouquets atop
a plunging drop
sweet sweet endearment
i stalk to cast a filament
of shadows so strong
the night is made long
this walk they take
is towards the sunset life
this talk i make
stays embedded like a hidden knife

stranglehold

helpmeforiamwithoutairspaceandapulserate
howlongcanyoutightenthisholdiwillnotresistiwillonlywait
timeismyallybutidontknowhowlongicanlastbeforemysupplyrunsout
stranglemestrangleme ran emestrang e hold ld ldh ol

silly fixed positions

you are my f a r a w a y
iamyournear
she
was my ___ _ (distant)
when-you-were-the-a-d-j-a-c-e-n-t

{i am [anchor] }

the rest shall move ''''*''''
''''*'''''

''''*''''' be there,

not
''''*''''' here

flow, ;;;not fly;;; dear, glide by,,,,,
be ^/over the hill

....yet in the same m....OO.n

this roomisRrOoUuNndD
be lostthen

found!!!

the-s-e ...f,l, u,i ...,d l oc omo ti ve> s

.o.f. .s.i.l.l..y.. .f.i.x.e.d. .p.o.s.i.t.i.o.n.s

koyaanisqatsi

the real intentions are always after the silence
that breath, that air, that introspection
that narrowness, that astute cleanliness, that never-blemished spot
the thing that holds you together are between the eyes
the chaos is always before the violence
of wet-lipped choices, of unforetold gazes, of man-eating dreams
for to be started would mean a towardsness
my trajectory was never taken

(to be out of sync
is to move at a pace away from the rhythmic bar
is to wish them ill
to be out of sync
should always be in fashion
~regrets are for those who do not have plans for otherwise~
to be out of sync
would somehow get you in the guts

and i will awake the fringe classes to bow in awe of it)

silly sanity

ever felt like you just ate but it all seems too empty?
ever felt like you have just lost nothing yet aplenty?
ever felt low - then high - in a split second?
ever tried to cry and then make it all seem as human as you can?

stories of lost friendships, and deeply-embedded pasts
never too much - always too little - and simply too fucking fast
never signs of disappearance
only truths,
years,
and your unchallenged contennances

like a time to heal, or a time to degenerate
liminality seems to be my only fate
whether nice, whether true, whether prim or proper
you'll never be sure till life's last supper

live on for now and make it all matter
throw the spit and glances into the batter
this is a silly poem i must say
but to hell with it, cos it makes my day

moving out (to be unglued)

i am moving
moving out.

to a place that is both hot and cold
where i can be given everything; and be everything

to go, to depart, to leave behind
can be a lifelong journey or a multiple orgasm gone amock

this is the place where i find the glue
and also every possible emotional landmine

this is a place with clearly drawn lines
yet life more than floats here (it's not just the salt)

come along, come along
pack light but feel heavy

you'll need wine, music and to show lots of teeth

i'll be waiting,
(never has leaving been filled with so many impressive instances)

i have moved on...
moved on into love.
(i am going, going, gone...)

the dots that follow

All these accidents that happen
follow the dot
coincidence makes sense
only with you
you don't have to speak - I feel
Emotional landscapes
they puzzle me
then the riddle gets solved
and you push me up to this:

State of emergency : how beautiful to be
state of emergency : is where I want to be

All that no-one sees
you seewhat's inside of me
every nerve that hurts you heal
deep inside of me
you don't have to speak - I feel

Emotional landscapes
they puzzle me
then the riddle gets solved
and you push me up to this:

State of emergency : how beautiful to be
state of emergency : is where I want to be

-Bjork, "Joga"

Incomplete

the heart races...
the feelings linger.
(vibrations, thud, boom, crash, waves, droplets,
sparkles, fireworks, adrenline, caffaine.)

i release a sigh
(can i take it back?)
then i mean to say something
that was already said before

i swallow
i feel ok.

better.


the fingers caress the lips (salty.)
transcendence through these doe-eyes
precious thoughts slip quietly under the skin, cuddling within.

diving in...

Displacement!

this ascent.
i peruse my laying self, (in wonder, i wonder what happens next)
am i...?
am i halfway to heaven from here?

on this bed, i am not resting,
i am burning! (oh these thoughts...!)
never has it been hotter

as i start to think, (but what is there to think?)
(oh... aplenty!) but never much to say.

Swirling randomly:

there is this life i am living,
then there are the necessary lies, there are the undercurrents,
there are the double-ups, the meetings at dark corners,
there are the busy people, all caught up, all oblivious,
there are the towering graces that hold on to everyone's prints.

then there are the kind sheltered stories and the all-so-real documentaries,
there are the sinful cities of beaten wives, kidnappings and traffickings,
of historic migrations and journeys that we all are.

there is politics, even real relationships; then there are the frauds, lovers and all...

then there is you.

none, not one, ever complete without the other
as i can never be

completeness is a myth

i am incomplete and will stay this way
i will live incomplete lives, feel incomplete feelings,
say incomplete lines, perform incompletely,
travel incompletely, write incomplete histories,

make incomplete love!
and
only then
will life make sense to me

don't feel sad... i am not.
it just is.

free-falling...

and then...
complete.

a collector's life

to T:

the prints we leave behind are usually the things that follow us to the end

in our transcience, every trace counts, every profile is worth every second, every breath is worth taking in, every hug and cuddle is warmth that is to be collected, every goodbye kiss is to be framed in that museum of private collections, every hurt is to be felt, no tear is ever wasted, every bit of anger that is shown must be leashed back in again for later use, every emotion recycled, every thought shared, every honest moment treated with care, every glance is caught, every scar on the chest left intact, every sheet imprint ironed and then the bed is re-made, every guilt is swallowed like cum and then regurgitated as tonic for the soul, this collector's edition of life, this phenemonology approach is bound to meet its match and i am waiting for the next encounter, to thrill me, to excite, to brandish, to consume, to allow me to play another role, to visit another lifestyle, to play lover, brother, guide, friend, family and fellow collector; all the hurt in the world cannot blind me from the very ideal that i set for myself, this is my resolve for i am all but drained in the pursuit of everlasting relationships, cynical and broken, but also brave and adventurous, this is the dialectic of my existence and there is just no why. I am why, i am the reason for this, there is no other alternative, this is the alternative, i am defined by who i am and not what i do so i will leave it at that, never let the walls become impending, never let them cave in on me. i am just a boy surviving, like anyone else. The less space you give me, the more i move around, this is not a paradox, this is how i function, just a boy surviving. I seek to be true in every experience and not cry too much, to just release every bit of affect that forms this lifeworld i am in, i leave my own prints in them and i just ask for periodic penchance and eternal memory, in your world travelling world, i am willing to be a plankton, just allow me to be attached to your biggest, bluest whale and never let go. I will die happy even if i am not living because i did. Even life without coherence is a life worth living. I only have to face myself at the end of it and i intend to prepare a smile for me.

the prints we leave behind are usually the things that follow us to the end

Post

Time to get going
to get a-moving
even if you are meant to flow
no one’s going to tow

don’t you ever tell me
that love is what we take it to be
don’t ever say
that for me, you will pray

this is who i am
writing this piece of scam
this is who you are
playing off everyone else’s guitar

I’d cut off some slack now
Mediate every row
For life is ‘Post’
And everyone’s getting toast

Live and loathing in Post
Is it ever my turn to boast?
Die and depending in Pre-
I was never really free

Simulations sweet simulations
Vegas on multiple projections
In this reality of hyperreality
None is actual kin or property

Organic Me

Dogs and their masters
Changlings and their grown-ups
Rays and their intentions
All converge along St. Kilda’s

Waves and their stories
Weeds and their sways
Foams and their yester-years
All along St. Kilda’s

The horizon and its constancy
The scent of the breeze and its orgins
The laughter of joy and sadness
I take it all in, all on St. Kilda’s

This is the time to weep
This is the time to laugh
This is the time to live
This is an organic time

I am better off without words
Without politics, without agendas
I am better off with just my senses
This is me, the organic me

Hold on to the organic you.

(Boats without their oars are still boats)

My Things and I

I hibernate for greater things

fornicate for smaller things

get stoned by slighter things

exfoliate with warmer things

gravitate from heavier things

smoke healthier things

trade for higher things

break for even things

gamble for odd things

pray for ideal things

love simpler things

pine for everything

risk for crazy things

listen to wavy things

smell lighter things

touch similar things

think silly things

run to pointed things

am made for greater things

have achieved nothing

Us, Retold

Alone, listening
I am listening to you

Feeling
I just want to feel you again

Smoldering, glistening
Making it what it should be

This intimacy via waves
Waves of memories that hold us close

The beauty of this moment
In time

Your hand and pulse will guide
As I make my way through

Come away with me
Every now and then

This is Us
Retold

Periods in this Paper Place

I am seeking consistency for
We can only pretend so much
In this paper place

Periods of play, pleasure, poetry
Just periods
In this paper place

Mourning is a moment’s folly
I will burn with this paper place
The phoenix emerges to take us in
This period will stay, this period will resonate

I will sweep up the remnants
Powder
Plough
and Prepare

Periods of this paper place
I will remember
And keep them close to me

Perfect. Period.