February 2012
14 posts
3 tags
In the Days of Not-Yet-Come
I wonder us in grass-blown fields sitting, looking up into soft skies, and nothing needs ever be said, our silences are better than sighs.
I suppose we would be old then, much too mature to say silly things, but silly enough to laugh at us, the way I snore and your glue-tacked rings.
And I would kiss your grey-haired head, and of white strands promise not to stare, where age has made a permanent...
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Moon Watching
Dear moon you have been hiding so long behind your blanket, never raising your head to greet me. Shall I wait for you to grow weary, and your eyelids closing shut, before you will grace me with a dream to keep me warm? Or perhaps a starring contest, and we shall see who will first put the other to bed.
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Sao Paolo
Allow me a window into your Brazilian nights, where we are defined by our silences and quick feet dancing. What shall flood my ears is the strumming of a lazy dusk, whose orange sun has grown too fat to fall gently beneath the mountaintops.
There, beyond the hacienda where wild poppies make their homes nestled behind the brushed hair of virgin brides too young to know the difference between love...
4 tags
I saw the night sky in my own little way
I saw the night sky in my own little way: Not the way the dust fairies on books nestled by the window sill saw it, nor how a cat too nocturnal, her penetrating stare gazing wistfully at beams of moon saw it;
no, my night sky was rife with the voices of those long deep into their wanderlusts to notice that they too, kept afloat the cold dreams of those of us poets long drunk on writing;
at least...
January 2012
37 posts
3 tags
Slept
Bury me together with letters, flowing from the blood of your tongue, your veins, and (only then) I will taste you.
Shovelling is the familiar song of those who sleep that sleep I look forward to but can never seem to close my eye-lids with.
And at last when my friends are roots and the warmth of earth is a comfort to this feral child, I shall come to know your stone-kissed love.
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Devil Drink
Don’t blame it on the stars, It’s just a little twist of Fate, Sometimes the hands don’t meet In the figures’ drawn on eight.
I asked the devil for a drink He led me to his watering hole, ‘Son, this here’s some holy stuff: A barrel bottom’s also gold.’
So in a swig and in a swig, The earth took the sky for a spin, And the next thing I knew...
“Worry is a waste of emotional reserve.”
– Ayn Rand (via booksactually)
In Marketing 1 Lecture. I’m taking it as a ‘university requirement’ so that I can graduate into the type of person the university wants me to be. It’s been awhile since I sat in such a huge lecture hall. Everyone around me looks really fresh and young; and not in the I-just-bathed way.
I wonder to myself: was I really like that four years ago? Some bright-eyed, possibly...
1 tag
A Club named Aura
Hey lady with your knee-high boots: sweet innocence has met her match and all you had to do was shoot your pistols, oh my what a catch,
it must have been some dizzied day your rocker-chic, came strutting in, she stole the stage with just a sway her hips they surely caused a din.
and garland, garland by the buy, around your neck: new sins were born, only after the drinks were dry did dancing...
1 tag
Experience-Distant
In the incompleteness of our days, where emotions are rain clouds away, what is left to feel amidst the plains, flat and full of barley wheat tears?
No, this is not sadness showing here; that may be so in places beyond, but distance never mattered for you: it was more the dreams in the end.
Ah yes, the dreams we are so used to, shaped, molded, built-up and eroded, like mountains made to move by...
1 tag
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Prison Glass
And it felt like those prison days, when the only thing between is glass, but oh what a glass!
That kept lives from living in and out of sync, connected only by the wires that spoke of carbon tungsten, so that the only voice you hear was the voice of someone who you used to know and love.
It was no different then, nor now, and maybe the faces have moved in step with the days or was it months?...
1 tag
Postage.
I wondered if you could read between lines, the spaces that need no explaining for themselves?
And did you accidentally misplace, Those freckles on your face, Or did the sun catch them in her rays?
Or what of those words that meant, the questions asked and sent, before a letter was ever born?
Still there must be some way through When hands were shaped anew, To not feel anything but the touch
...
2 tags
Sand Songs
Take me to that place, Where earth can meet sky; all else is nothing save water wishing why.
And sand shall find sand nestled between toes; please build me a castle before sea-salt winds blow.
To catch in morning, her majesty’s red; orange in a dawn-song and snow-owls in my bed.
3 tags
The Myths of Speech
This was one of those times, the only thing common between the two of them were the words, those damn words which could not ever speak.
And that was all they had, but (or was it an or) perhaps, that was enough.
2 tags
7 Habits of Effective Honours Thesis Writing
1. Find the works of a recently dead figure in academia. This is to ensure that said figure cannot correct you in the event that you misquote his / her ideas.
2. Ensure that he / she is obscure enough (though not too much) that little has been written about him / her. Congratulations! You are a now a pioneer in the field.
3. Pick one or two words he / she uses repeatedly in his / her writings as...
3 tags
Letters
Two pairs of hands bringing letters to their nearest postal box one by a river the other by rocks. Two boxes swallowing envelopes tiny ones to giant ones carrying moons and stars and suns. Two mailmen delivering with bags on their back like Christmas in a Santa sack. Two post offices with stamps a-flurry hurry hurry hurry hurry. Two planes that flew like birds that never went the ways north south...
Because all experience involves meaning and the interpretation of meaning, anything is, for purposes of being inquired into, constituted by a web of meanings. It follows that there is no significant distinction between matter and mind, nature and consciousness - ‘no interesting difference between tables and texts, between protons and poems’. - Richard Rorty
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Thompson Nights
Slowly but surely, We came to realize that The night was lonely.
Although it did try To entertain the thought of Being wonderful.
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Memories of My Literary Whores
Random Act: I bought me some suspenders today.
Also, I just finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores. It is a short gem of a read - only 115 pages - and each page is a solid 100 words. That amounts to 11500 words: a shy short of an undergraduate thesis. But in those pages Marquez has led me by his lyrical writing into a world I wish I was born into.
I...
3 tags
The Memory Jar
I collected memories in a jar: Memories both living and unliving, Of places, of people and fancy things, That have been around, and some not around. And stare at them through a wall of mirrors, Reflecting the things I want them to be, Until they are no longer memories But me.
Small Pleasures are often Innocent
There is a secret delight in easy listening music, and learning to imitate the words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Simple pleasures are becoming increasingly rare, and I wonder if it is better to let the world leave me behind, or if I’m the one leaving it?