who paved the road

i once knew a man
who only danced on pavements

we learned how to tango
in this country
even when we could not
stay upright
because our feet
are a patchwork

our heels are a heartbreak
its cracks a phantom continent
a relic home
for us
barefoot dancers
forced to twirl on asphalt
with drills and cranes

a premature eulogy for defunct wordsmiths

last night I dreamt of dead authors

they had no souvenirs for me
save for the smell of cheap tobacco
and the echo of yesteryears from
a splintered gramophone
doomed to be tomorrow's
headlines in bold
because of writers like me
who tried searching for deceased words
from six feet under
instead of carving new letter blocks
out of concrete tombstones
to give birth to something more
than just a recycled obituary

the woman who became a gospel

when i was
a kid
nobody told me
that my body
was mine
it took
bruises
on my thighs
from
unwelcomed hands
and
empty discarded bottles
of
anxiety medications
and
a metamorphosis
into poetry
to learn
that my anatomy
is a
scripture
that
I alone
can worship

Trickster Passion's Noose

You were so naive, love
to think that you could escape
Well you should learn by now
Passion takes no prisoners
there is no room for parole
no jailbreak no alibi no trial no acquittal
In this game of chance where
hearts are bartered for lust and
romance is just a series
of fabricated moans instead of
love letters and midnight strolls, you are
twice the fool to think that your
flight will go unnoticed
You should have known
your vanishing act is just a
rehearsal for an execution when
She signed alea iacta est
on your death warrant

did you hear about the depressive belle de jour?

she tried searching for medications in the cupboard

until she realized they never existed

like the apparitions she sees in the stained mirror on her four walls

all mirages, all hallucinations

like the boogeyman she used to fear as a little girl


well guess what she's all grown up now and

there's a bigger skeleton in her closet

i'll tell you a secret: that's where she keeps her demons

when her fist-sized heart ran out of space for broken bones

to make room for anhedonia and a ménage à trois

with Grief and Apathy


months later she still wakes up with her limbs

almost sticking out of her skin

haphazardly lying on a pile of sweat-stained linens

after a prolonged foreplay with her lovers and the only 

petite mort she achieves is insomnia


but the smell of a third paramour she hasn't met

now clings to her body

she wears his scent like an intoxicating perfume

unaware of its effects on herself because this

new opium has something to offer that 

others don't: the sweet promise of closure


she still doesn't know that his name is Death

inibukanpuisi #1 - ratapan sang kelana

tidak

tiada irama dan alunan suara sang bayu

yang akan menanti

kepulanganmu

wahai anak rantau



hanya kematian


dan


tangisan seorang hamba

yang bakal menghiasi

bumi gersang

unwritten

i traced the faint blue veins
branching out beneath the
films of your pallid wrists,
a lifeline indistinguishable from
my own happiness,
wondering if you somehow
trapped my smile, my laughter
the heaves of my chests
as i exhale life that is so wildly
entangled with yours
within those veins,
in the same way i bottle your
sadness in tightly sealed canisters
and toss them into the ocean
while my lips utter a silent but
fervent litany of prayers for
the currents to chase your
demons away from the shore

instead
i found the answer
in your lifeless eyes
when i could no longer
see myself reflected in them
a denouement
i should have seen
when the scars on your wrists
foreshadowed a premature end
for a love story that
never had a prologue
to begin with

i trample the first fallen snow

Я по первому снегу бреду.
В сердце ландыши вспыхнувших сил.
Вечер синею свечкой звезду
Над дорогой моей засветил.

Я не знаю — то свет или мрак?
В чаще ветер поет иль петух?
Может, вместо зимы на полях,
Это лебеди сели на луг.

Хороша ты, о белая гладь!
Греет кровь мою легкий мороз.
Так и хочется к телу прижать
Обнаженные груди берез.

О лесная, дремучая муть!
О веселье оснеженных нив!
Так и хочется руки сомкнуть
Над древесными бедрами ив.

С. Есенин, 1917

It's the fate of geniuses, I think, to die so young, as if nature regretted squandering
an unreasonable amount of wisdom upon a single mind.

Ah, the perfect season of the year for a cuppa Russianness.  Кто не любит зиму?

Finally experienced my first snowfall of the year today. So light, almost invisible.

The heavens cracked open a little
shedding miniscule, pristine tears 
as the sun releases its last breath from the horizon.

And there I stood
By the dim light of the lamposts
At the curve of the road
Wondering,
If this was a latent surge of prudence
Instead of my youth trickling by
With every languid fall
Of those infinitesimal tears.

Это всё

Демоны в одиночестве

Когда восвышенные чувства,
Свобода, слава и любовь
И вдохновенные искусства
Так сильно волновали кровь, 
Часы надежд и наслаждений
Тоской внезапной осеня,
Тогда какой-то злобный гений
Стал тайно навещать меня.

Ах, Пушкин. Я не могу вас оставлять. Лето так суровое.

 Это всё

Hierographology

What is it with your nature that taunts me so?

Immobile by virtue of your birth and circumstance

Yet so artful, so capable of moving even the most hardened of souls

With a single masterful touch

Some take refuge in your philosophy

And find solace in your infinite wisdom

The prodigal creature that returns

Finds absolution in your breast

A seeker entombed in his own discernments

Is enlightened by your caress

And the disciple who blundered in his youth

Revels in triumph before your truth

Standing before you, at this juncture

Without qualms, without reservations

I am prepared to enter your pyre

In hopes of seizing redemption

From this wayward desire

And so I place my world upon your feet

This paltry life that is so incomplete

Purge me from this mindless obsession

Such is the crux of my confession

Unblank this Slate

Staring through dust stained windows

While the mind works its cogwheels

And trots from one thought to another

As the heart is torn asunder

Oh, how ephemeral these memories seem

So finite, so unreal

Like prancing though shattered glass

As the minuet silently fleets

Gently now,

With no sense of urgency

Retrace each step without hesitancy

Across infinite chapters and quaint vagaries 

A guise in verse

And all the world is for fools and dreamers
But the masquerade shall endure
When the eye deceives, and the mind altered
The spirit shall rot in veritable spectre