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