.

Do flowers not sing?
As they wilt and kiss the earth
Their proud petals decomposing
Arched stalk broken
Sweet scent overwhelmed?
In death, they bleed the essence
Of stolen innocence.

I had a flower that sang
but she is silent now.
An immortal blossom
pressed between the yellow
folds of my soul.
— I miss the lilt of your music.

____________________________________________________________________

A dying image. How long can I linger and write of grief? Perhaps if I remain saddened forever.

.

In a crowd,
your leonine eyes met mine
       — we spoke from a distance.
A foreign instant
when faceless strangers
sharpen into focus
and gaze brazenly at each other
as if to say;
                 "What have I to fear?
                  you're the same as I,
                  human and alone."
An intimate moment
strikes desperate unease
into the beholder
and they quickly glance away
as if to say;
                 "That appraisal was accidental
                   what verity gleamed
                   will remain, arcane."                  
Our modest hearts, conscious
of the soul's diffidence,
its ineffability translatable
into the space of a gaze.

____________________________________________________________________

This silence now stretches. I now resort to the unutterable nature of silent things.

Sans amour

Of the river

of words flowing between

them, the depthlessness

of their vicious secrecy,

a liaison I am not part of.

             — I am jealous of an ocean.

Of the petals

of poetry blooming between

them, the sweetness

of their decadent intimacy,

a tenderness I am not part of.

             — I am jealous of a flower.

Of the notes

of music floating between

them, the melodiousness

of their ordained affinity

a rhapsody I am not part of.

             — I am jealous of a starling.

These violent ravings

of a degenerate; it is I!

who claws for meaning;

it is I! who roars for loving;

it is I!

Between these lines, I line

my ever-darkening desire

to live the life of another,

meanwhile, I remain

           — a loveless creature.

Space Bound

Eminem's dope.

I'm a space bound rocket ship and your heart's the moon
And I'm aiming right at you
Right at you
Two hundred fifty thousand miles on a clear night in June
And I'm aiming right at you
Right at you
Right at you

Gemersik

Dari suara, kata-kata
jatuh ke hati, terselak jiwa
tertanam duri.

Jangan dibiar jelmaan
si kelana bertakhta semerta.

Star-lover

My star has long fallen
      into the lap of another
To the night sky
      I no longer gaze
In crowded constellations
      I no longer seek her.

Darling darkling,
I present to you
          — my final bow.

Gugur

Aku gugur di medan matamu
Aku gugur di hujung jemarimu
Aku gugur di telapak hatimu
Aku gugur, aku gugur, aku gugur.

Tumpas di tanganmu yang bisu
      aku tahu kemanisan ini, semuanya palsu.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Nota: Bosan, itu aja.

Put-off

Sometimes, quite suddenly (or not so suddenly) a cloak of bleakness falls from the Sky, settle about your shoulders and stoop your spirits so low you almost feel that with each concurrent footstep you sink into the earth little by little. Occasionally, the world simply drowns me alive. No amount of positive thinking seem to throw off this blanket of gloom but you whisper still under your breath that all this is will pass (in due time). Maybe it's the city, maybe it's that little inconsiderate comment that gnaws at you, maybe it's that annoyance of having to suffer through endless empty talk floating about your ears, maybe it's the damned loud ticking of the wall clock, whatever it is, your soul is cold. 

This segregation alienates you from the (sometimes) mindless flock. It estranges you from their bubble of warmth. Nothing they say penetrate your heart. So you listen listlessly and amble to invisible places in your mind. You leave and they do not notice. 

Dear M.

Maybe I should have started the letter with 'Dear', after all. I regret that a little. You see, it wasn't meant to be offensive in any way, rather it was meant to be affirmative. Maybe it was the frame of mind I was in, it being the first thing I did upon arriving in Melbourne all doe-eyed and pensive. I set my bags, didn't even change, snatched the letter from my table, read it twice, grabbed a pen, notepad and set about writing a reply. 

I was just lonely. And you're in love. And I'm not. And I suppose I'm a tad sad with my loveless-ness. Or maybe I've read too much of kero-jin correspondences and expected too much of you. But all this is normal between us isn't it? 

I misinterpret this world too often perhaps. Alas.

Ton sans amour ami,

P.

___________________________________________________________________________

The red ballad of a dislocated heart

echoes like a tuning fork, rings aloud

its invisible reverberation begets

a trajectory of revelations.

The scarlet throat opens

its arcane bouquet, of roses 

blooming in a flurry of petals 

swallowing all, fades away.

___________________________________________________________________________

Written for M. in a letter today, in which I poured myself away.

(29th July 2012)