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