hi. nothing’s so pure as this feeling, my dear
the one where you’re staring at the bottom,
bottom. groomed by the bottle.
you weak as shit. drink more. drink till your lungs
give out— to breath, to life. to the concrete pavement
plan of tomorrow’s Latter Day Saints’ morale.
this will be a toast to the reckless,
the young, the free, the wild.
there’s a gaping hole in the horizon.
don’t wake up to see it.
For MaPoWriMo 2016. https://db.tt/LbzBucKQ
1. You and I. We were always sinners. Together with the banished son. The son Kinoingan left at the foothills, for he was a sinner. The heavens folded. As man, he sinned again. The earth wept for our misgivings as Kinoingan grew angrier by the day.
Kinoingan’s wrath no longer incontestable by the seventh disaster, his only daughter sacrificed herself. For the sake of mankind, she plunged into the deep waters. Huminodun’s spirit merged with the earth. Bambarayon shaken to an awakening and made whole again. The paddy fields bloomed, golden and beautiful, swaying with the wind on this land that lies just beneath the typhoon belt.
2. Bambarayon is broken. We learnt our lesson once and forgot about it. We divorced the lands. Drink to forget. Fill our tajau some more. Drunk and aching, believing we are gods. Huminodun replaced with wearing crosses on our necks and heeding calls to Allah. Excavating dirt, we found only empty chests that leave us yearning. We quit looking towards the sleeping giant. Forever banished at the foothills.
Written for MaPoWriMo 2015
“The poems in this collection were taken – unedited – from the entries for May 2015’s Malaysian Poetry Writing Month (or MaPoWriMo for short). Participants wrote a poem for each day of May. This anthology is the result of that effort.
To join future editions of MaPoWriMo, be part of our group at facebook.com/groups/mapowrimo.”
Download here – https://mega.co.nz/…
We are ahead even before sunrise.
trying to exist, here and now.
in the big city living means a constant
drone of sound, from dawn till dusk.
Each pedal warrants a longing for
home. as in the Coastal Highway.
as in watching waves crash in only
a right turn of the head.
I had dreamt of wasps chasing me.
in this city. When i woke, i breathed
in ocean salty air. My heart left by the
coast. i am a ghost hovering,
by the sidelines.
I got used to you, too much
the ancient hours graze an all-too
digital face as the seconds
dissipate, in between the dark
of this dingy hotel room
locked inside out, i don’t mind if you
swallowed the key
we are apart
my head rests on a pillow where i
cannot feel your weight, and i
imagine silence that can stretch to a
forever that i do not want to be a part of.
i don’t ever want to listen to just my own
breathing. so i want to take you on my astral
travels, and then some.
never apart, again
i quit being a singular organism
that is merely a part of this throbbing
universe because you are here.
i question a force that is beyond you and i,
when the first cell emerged from solid rock
3.5 billion years ago. if we are all speckles,
you are still slight larger.
i am younger, a mystery to myself while
you know where to land
i got used to you. of course
you are faultless in this endeavour.
i have only myself to blame for trying
to hitchhike onto your orbit
i’m trying to catch up with the miles
you have travelled and when i finally lodge
myself next to you, then maybe we can start
counting the next ten-thousand, or a hundred more.
there are no maps to follow
no ‘x’ marks the spot. i am blind on this
journey, so i have only my hands to hold you
until fuel burns out. (oh god, no)
i’ll find a way to survive if dislodged
maybe another lonely planet to venture
and all that’s left would be your form grazing
a half-past midnight shadow of myself,
trying to be alright
In the silence
Quiet can be
when all through
our lives we are
your hand never strayed but
love, you are only ten tonne
real. the rest nuclear
Once you told me that we were both cats, in another life. With your head resting on my shoulder, I believe you. One day, you told me that I could have been a queen, which is something you have repeated many times since. You said that I have a look. “What ‘look’?” “Just a vibe.” You called yourself a king, and then a commoner, you also said that you were enlightened. I believe you. Once, I said, “no, I am not a queen.” I am a sage, or a wizard, a hermit, an aesthete, ascetic and then you insist that I must have been bourgeois. I don’t believe in the universe putting two together because it’s complete bullshit because ‘the one’ isn’t made, it is a choice but then you tell me that I am you and you are me and that we are one and I believe you.
Butterflies or moths, powdered wings atop
fluorescent lamps, or tungsten
either way, it always meant a visitation
from the after life
the elders would say,
“that is your grandfather”
“this is your grandmother”
i am staring at the moth
wide-eyed and scared
I remember asking my mother why
and she shrugged, with shoulders slumped
towards the boiling pot of water
I was a kid at 8, 9, or 7
and the moth had wings broad
like the neighbour’s shoulders
shielding the setting sun through
the wire-wrapped fence, speaking to
i remember the old wives tale
and it never struck me odd
maybe because if ghosts came back as moths
or butterflies, i didn’t mind that much
it meant that grandfather had wings
whispering his memories, into the house
fluttering unspoken words,
maybe my parents were quietly
recollecting, from dusts
that fell off the wings
the fan whirs in the smouldering heat
of an equatorial, ancient summer
night. now the moth spreads its wings
guarding the tungsten lamp, wrapping
light. i blink