Sunday, December 11, 2011

I Miss You



I miss you.
And all I am breathing are thoughts.
I gasp and splutter and there is no
air. Only dense clouds of
memories.

The little droplets of anguish run
like blood - rolling and tumbling onto each other
they clot into masses of black and they
choke me
to the point of delirium.

In my lugubrious dose of morbidity
I cried with a thousand eyes.
I wander alone
in the reverberating hollow concourse
of your absence:
missing you and hating you
to the point of death.

Friday, November 25, 2011

The Fall




I'm plummeting. Through a depth that only nightmare can fathom. An emptiness so perfect we can't conceive of. And I'm falling fast.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Insomnia



The nights would not let me sleep;
the daylight blinded me.
I am left to stagnate, vegetate
and to regress.

Purge my mind from skin to bones,
disrobe me from it:
for such thoughts I have;
of the grotesque and the deplorable
that would consume me whole and alive.

Would that I could be empty breasted again -
breathe freely as though the particles
of air would not choke me to death.
And my heart of flesh and blood
does not weigh like gold.

Yet the hellish din would abide, issuing
from lips burned black of thirst
to murmur the most egregious words
from which rang the ugly truth.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Deepest and Darkest



If I could be cradled in sea shells
And float through the millennium of nights;
Alone and forgotten, but infinitely
free - free as I had never been,
from the alien hurt
and from you.

I've loved you too long -
my soul is bloated and
swollen for feasting on you:
My dark prince,
you hold too much darkness and I
inhaled too much of you.

Of black I know too well.
Viscous and tenacious it clings
so possessively to me, to my
body and my bones: like
tendons and ligaments
and tongue and toes.

If I could be lulled by the whisperings
and sleep through an eternity;
uncomprehending and dispassionate, but
still, living and breathing
as I had never been.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

This Is How It Is

Note: Written for Jemmy to be given to Y.

I love you the way
Waves love the shore. 

There were times
when I was filled 
to the brim with tender love. I 
Loved you gently and I wanted
You
In my arms.

There were times 
when my love seemed like a 
hurricane: urgent and unrestrainable
Thought of you
All night. 

But if you asked me
Why I loved you,
I would've had no idea
Other than I love you
And I do, I do. 

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

The Death of Beksinski



There were days when he could not get out of bed; when he wallowed in his week-old pyjamas, slept in grease and sweat. But who was there to witness his disgrace? He was alone in the studio, surrounded by paintings, sculptures, all by his own hands. They were never judgemental in their gaze - perhaps they were too lost in their own grief, in their own torment that they did not notice. Perhaps they adored him the way children adores their parents.

He wanted to hold a congregation to prove that the old cliché, that every cloud has a silver lining was total bullshit. His son had committed suicide a year after his wife's death. Could people have misinterpreted the message of this cliché? Could it be that the silver lining was originally meant as a strike of lightning that does further damage rather than the equivalent of a rainbow? He had so many questions, so many God damned questions that even God himself could not have answered.

When he painted he created life. He painted skeletons and death and gore but it pulsated with life. He felt the pain in his deformed figures, throbbing in sync with his heart and he wanted to tell the man in his painting, I hear you, I know how you feel.

Often he lost himself in his painting, in the furious stroke of brush, as if he was uncovering rather than painting. He was an archaeologist, removing centuries of dust and sand to reveal pulchritude. He was an anatomist, detailing each human bone with care. He was a murderer, tearing skin off his shrieking victims, watching the blood gush vibrantly red from the wounds.

Life is ironic this way. He was suicidal, manically depressed for most of the time in the duration of six years after his son's death. In the year 2005, he was found dead in his apartment. He was not a victim of suicide, rather, he was stabbed to death with 17 stab wounds.

If he had committed suicide before the incident, would he have died a far more pleasant death? Would he have died peacefully in his sleep after swallowing some pills? Did the thought perhaps flash across his mind as the murderer stabbed him, continuously for seventeen times? Or was he afraid that his blood would splatter across his paintings and ruin them?

It's funny how we sometimes reach our desired destination but with an alternate, less preferred mean of getting there. If he had known that, would he have wished to live instead? Or would he have complied with what fate has in store for him, seeing the pain only as a collateral cost in order to achieve the eternal peace? Was he certain that he would've rejoined his family after his death? Did he have any doubt that he could've been stranded in a void, utterly alone, bodiless, cold, cold to the very core? Or was he just tired of the world, tired of being lonely?

I have so many God damned questions, so many that God himself co
uld not have answered.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

The Toska


As keenly as I felt the toska
I know that you have gone. 
The world has upturned 
In the mingling of our arms
And you are long gone.

I wake to see the embroidered
Veil over my eyes. And feel -
Feel the placatory warmth of my own body.
My skin itches, swells in layers and I
Want to peel it all away.

I want to lie naked and skinless
Skinless and naked;
And weep and strike my fists upon my breasts:
In all the crudities of blood and flesh - 
For isn't that what our love was?

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Obsidian Lullaby


Voicelessness, for
The rain is mute.
It sifts from the pregnant sky;
Heaves and heaves.

The imminent blackness,
Naked and unabashed
Swallows me whole - into
More black, where I cannot breathe.

Here, the cold does not touch me;
Here, in this black abyss, I
Build my nest on lullabies sung
By the blessed darkness.

Lungs blossom into vacuum
And yet I sleep;
Sleep, sleep.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

It's A Fucking Revelation


I've been waiting for this moment, for God knows how many months. This, this great deluge of foudroyant rain. I've been squirming in discomfort for months on end like a worm on heat - cacing kepanasan? Anyway, now, it's been pouring like crazy and I'm in heaven.

There's this tradition of mine - whenever it rains this heavily, I put on Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" and I drown in my personal elation. Seriously, it's addictive. Depending on how long it rains, I loop it again and again and again as I sit on the sofa in my room, lights dimmed so that I can barely see anything and I listen to the song. It's so good I get all goosebump-y. 

I dunno why though. The whole song is like a rumbling thunder, right from the very beginning. It starts with a deafening crash of chords on the piano and then it rolls into softer, more crystalline notes and then Celine Dion sings the first sentence: there were nights when the wind was so cold... And right then and there I melt into a puddle of... of... of whatever it is I melt into. By the time she completes the first stanza (?) - that my body froze in bed if I just listen to it right outside the window - I'm beyond melting; I'm evaporating. 

It is a fucking orgasm, to put it bluntly.  The song sort of blends in with the pattering of rain and oh God, it makes your heart constrict in pleasure and you just wanna scratch something just to release the ecstasy in you. Funny thing is, though, the song's just an ordinary, plain song when you listen to it when it's not raining.