Alive without breath,
As cold as death;
Never thirsty, ever drinking,
All in mail never clinking.

~ Julien Juju Temp, my hippie stranger



some little grace on me. row rickety raggy bones down in the spheric of bright eyes. that dude who goes aggro, come on soapbox all that’s left is a pot of hearty gold. back and forth, back and forth, murder your worth. like half of exotic locale and demonic morale we seep in the kinked of royales. groucho groucho were you really macho.


as i post this, out comes “The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” Gustave Flaubert – on the sidebar. downright funny, cause it cannot be any more wrong. i do nonsense. some i don’t comprehend let alone believe in. discovery. what discovery? writing is creation, a play. it’s after-thoughts, a clay.


People say moderation is overrated, I say yes moderation is overrated but only when it’s excessive, they get vexed over it like it’s total horse shit, I really think they should moderate their surplus capability of being mad and easily infuriated. they go hey Maldives is nice, is it moderate? I say no. is it excessive? I say no. I say exactly! I say it’s 3/4 of its way being excessive but that’s why it’s moderate, they squint, I say no it’s not overrated, I say it’s nice and empyrean and silent and it’s drowning…

On Navels

“The city is fine. But I don’t know what’s happening under the sea….”
~ Almost-victim, March 2011

We take it all, spit by the front door claiming what’s felt right and what’s not to oblige. Five seconds in, retaliations abound, giving off the evanescent glare. Right where the desk fits, I kneel down and cache. This Stallion is presumed Spanish but I’m no fool he’s a true Scot. “Thought ova dates?” C’mere darling, you’re a fire in a pool of animals with raunchiness out of control. Wednesday night it was surreal, the room was full of multilingual love, people talk in cultures, in diversity, I see honesty and big love, I didn’t wanna leave. A Singaporean brought up in my language, mother tongue of English, Cantonese and Mandarin to converse, French to get him through his universal youth and rest his cool feet down. I was mesmerized, the Burmese-speaking Hungarian said I was funny buzzed. Thursday was no specialty, Friday filling-up-the-fridge day, two caesars and five clementines, new jeans, blue dress, camel cardigan, they turn up a long story in the end. By night some jealous bitches stare, I couldn’t care at least I have my thighs covered.

Scandalous colour-blocking bonanza. Watermarks. Kiddies work I take pride in. Women on twin motives, I get them chicks overdosed in winged words. The business of frailty, delicacy and girl power; they make it, break it, down it, be lost within it, by the minute they’re here, but not really now, just here, just in this square, completely uninvited, by my nature they’re outboxed, by your law they’re the fucking fresh air. Totally poised, these young ones, I spot a bunch in sync, exchanging gaiety, drinking saliva, hashing out on what’s so Pavlovian about it. Our whole goddamn life is Pavlovian! You do what I do. Crediting meritocracy in the mirrors of ideals.

I’m tired.
I’m so tired of this ish.
“Barely political”
Women will never submit to infidelity. I disagree.

Dedicating: Dream

Tulisan ke-65 ini untuk mimpi.

Tadi malam, ruang televisi berubah. Dulu sofa panjang depan dinding, mata lurus layar hitam. Ruang kotak langit-langit rendah pintu geser transparan menuju hutan. Tadi malam, delapan kursi dan meja kecil berpasangan. Acak. Tersebar. Seperti kafe, duduk berdua-dua, tapi dalam rumah. Ingin ada wangi kopi tapi cuma saus tiram yang tercium. Ada pria membaca koran. Menghadap hutan. Ke mana matanya tertuju aku tak tahu. Huruf padat, atau pohon belantara. Tangannya terbentang.

Aku seperti kamera CCTV. Sorot atas, statis.

Tadi malam, dapur tak berubah. Hanya, ada dua pasang kursi dan meja di antara kulkas dan mesin cucipiring. Tatanya canggung sekali. Karton coklat bersender di samping sekat. Tapi tadi malam, aku hanya lensa biasa.

Mana kehidupanmu. Ruang ini ramai dengan debu. Partikel perhentian. Kaki-kaki dingin. Bantal sofa hilang. Teater berlensa. Hingga pagi, hutan dan layar hitam terdiam.

Lalu aku menjadi lampu taman. Sorot bawah, hidup.