in the sweltering rain,
i stand defiant;
a tear-bead,
cradled in the curl of an eyelash.
no salt on my lips,
only the traces of
a grazing finger:
brushed so gently
against my cheek.

in the pouring sunlight,
it was the (brackets)
of loneliness,
that kept me from
melting; becoming an
incessant puddle,
that drips from your eye

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Ice

from this pollex of frostbite
nails turn blue along the
rivers running between
pale sin that grows grey
as the hedges of burning
frost bloom;
bouquets of white crystal flowers
sparkling with the vengeance
of a deadened winter rose,
doomed to be forever enclosed
in this frozen case of
glass; that reflects the face
of the woman-child who

stares

back at me

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the angel flakes that
danced past me
gently; snow
like cotton on
fences and fields
coating the pastures
with a sheet of silk,
such a perfectly thin
white icing,
that melts on
the tongue of the breeze,
sweet and silent,
as life should be.

1427
031108

.

I hate everything and myself

Poems

the dreams
fell on me like

angel dust
and i was turning
so fast i

could not stop,
in this world of stars

where lovers orbit
the earth like moons

I was caught,
spinning my own circles,
feet tapping galaxies
and comets filling the sky.

I still do not know why
I had those dreams



(and still)

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i wish to part this crimson curtain
so heavy with the blood drip -
ping from the tapestry
and chords of string
pulling at my limbs so they
s t r e t c h
and i am spread across
the stage like a carpet of veins,
throbbing,
each pulse of life a shred of agony
paper skin so taut,
and finally tearing,
ripping,
giving way,

a (hole)

where a heart used to beat,

like a window

to a river of blue.

2351
091008

did you see past the veils

of mist that i wove

around my face and hands

such delicate traceries

like spiderwebs,

those reveries i spin

everyday

in my head and on my heart

i etch your name

into a corner of the wall

amidst the shadowed shelves,

often forgotten,

but waiting to be read.

i am the midnight rose

that lies black on your breast

pressing close,

against your ragged brea –

ths / til’ i drink you in.

this deadened night,

i am the sweet cloying smell

of jasmine,

in the morning you will not find

me

wrapping my stem around you,

but the burn of rubber on tar.

leaves crackle underfoot,

a door is left ajar –

there is no gentleness in this endeavour,

not mine.

the world always flies by

toofastinablur

and even before the

dawn starts to slur

its way across the sky,

(i am already gone)

1016

121008

Apres un longtemps

Hallo
In KL now for raya
Guilt overrides
No work done
Lazing around

After a long time

When turkeys have sex, they think of swans

Don't be so humble. You're not that great.

He was a wise man who invented God. -Plato

Plato is a bore. -Nietzsche

Cogito ergo spud. I think, therefore I yam. -Graffito