Down with Love

The cliff is high
I thought as I were to jump

Where’s my mum’s
umbilical chord that has left me swinging like pendulum (?)

The past ten hours
have been humming like a sad cold sea

Where to go?
Where to go?

Fickle minded, dry
and blinded

I see you go, I see you go

Transfiguration like
a sin to myself

Is perfection not
the way to salvation?

So let me in, so let me in

‘Cause I’m scared and
Falling like a
bad, bad star

To your mattress, show
me your spine

‘Cause I’m trying and
it’s a fuck

To your mattress, show me your love

Wooo

I remember the day we were nearly kicked out of school. I was scared as hell and you were just cool about it. All you did the whole time was to hush me to keep quite. I was sobbing, my fists covering my tears to fall. Everyone in first grade was scared of Bro. Elmor. His stark office, adorned only by dark statues of saints, was a sly chamber where
kids who caught playing during classes were strangled by his robe’s sling and never get to come home. If you were scared of him, there was no single hint about it.

I said I didn’t want to play but you still threw your stupid paper airplane next to my bag. All I want to do that afternoon was to make you eat that stupid paper and you still have the guts to take the blame on me.  

It was already past five quarter when Bro. Elmor dismissed us. We were the last to come home that afternoon. The vast campus, made even bigger by darkness slowly swallowing it, was nothing but dreadful. The murky lobby reminded me of the movie where an ugly doll shows from nowhere and stabs practically anyone, even kids like us. But I was no way talking to you. As we went back to our room to fetch our bags, I had to scurry next to your back. I had to show you I wasn’t scared. But you ran quickly and made a wooo sound and I had to scream and ran quickly behind you. You stopped and laughed as you raced your breathing.

Until now, I wonder why you never punched me back when I gave you left and right blows of what little strength I summoned. You were still laughing when my mom forced me to call you and say sorry that night.
 

Every single day, we lose versions of ourselves. When we try to remember those versions, we miss nothing but the old emotions which once swept us. The moment we remember those emotions, we realize we get older.

Wooo

I remember the day we were nearly kicked out of school. I was scared as hell and you were just cool about it. All you did the whole time was to hush me to keep quite. I was sobbing, my fists covering my tears to fall. Everyone in first grade was scared of Bro. Elmor. His stark office, adorned only by dark statues of saints, was a sly chamber where
kids who caught playing during classes were strangled by his robe’s sling and never get to come home. If you were scared of him, there was no single hint about it.

I said I didn’t want to play but you still threw your stupid paper airplane next to my bag. All I want to do that afternoon was to make you eat that stupid paper and you still have the guts to take the blame on me.  

It was already past five quarter when Bro. Elmor dismissed us. We were the last to come home that afternoon. The vast campus, made even bigger by darkness slowly swallowing it, was nothing but dreadful. The murky lobby reminded me of the movie where an ugly doll shows from nowhere and stabs practically anyone, even kids like us. But I was no way talking to you. As we went back to our room to fetch our bags, I had to scurry next to your back. I had to show you I wasn’t scared. But you ran quickly and made a wooo sound and I had to scream and ran quickly behind you. You stopped and laughed as you raced your breathing.

Until now, I wonder why you never punched me back when I gave you left and right blows of what little strength I summoned. You were still laughing when my mom forced me to call you and say sorry that night.
 

Every single day, we lose versions of ourselves. When we try to
remember those versions, we miss nothing but the old emotions which once swept
us. The moment we remember those emotions, we realize we get older.

Brighter than I am

I change. I get older. I get wiser.

I am not absolute. I play dead. I am alive. I make a fool of you. I am angst. I am joy. I am brighter than yellow. I am fun.

I am love. I am the needle in a stack. I am the photo of your eyes. I am the sound of your mind. I am hatred. I am bad.

I am the sand beneath your toes. I am a meteor. I am the cigarette. I am what’s left of your loss. I am the prize you lost.

I am the sunset. I am the blue skies. I am the bicycle. I am the rush of blood in the head.

I am the tears. I am the dark corner. I am the white fluffy clouds. I am the strings. I am a song.

I am numbers. I am the calm waters. I am sin. I am the ice cream ontop of the cone. I am the silent fan.

I am the laughters. I am the raindrops. I am words. I am the tree-tops. I am alone.

I am what you think you thought but not entirely. I am late nights. I am wee hours. I am stupid.

I am standing next to you. I am lost. I am trying hard on simple things. I am bloated. I am high and low.

I am the beer. I am the feeling. I am the raindrops.

I am everything.

Now, you know me, tomorrow you don’t.  

Koolaid Drinkers

Being here again is wonderful. Seeing you again is nostalgia wrapped in joy. For all the fancy dreams we once told each other, I guess some of them were’nt much of a good thing.

But seeing you here, right now and speaking to you in the same old way is worth all the wait. Although you look like slacked and all, that’s the last thing I’m supposed to care about you.

I don’t care if you mess up with your life since we parted ways, I’m a mess on my own.And now that I’m here, what two messes we are!

I’d like to drink beer with you and smoke your cigarettes. So that we can have some single time on our own, just you and me. They are priceless times for no one can tell what dark places you go and bloody fights you brawl. I’d like to have that time so that finally I can tell you what I’ve been dying to tell you all these years:

That I miss you and miss the young Henry. The same old Henry who shared with me immeasurable amount of childhood frolick and build castles on the sand.

I have dreams for you Henry. I just pray that you also have dreams for yourself.

Epiphany

This is the moment I have been waiting for for thousand of hours:

A warm cup of tea, this key board, and a stack of cigarrette. And no exams tomorrow, no papers, no everything.

At last, this internet’s connected. Finally I could stop thinking about the motley of emotions that have been bugging me since you came. Now at least, that nothing seems to be plugging my brain waves.

I promised myself to deal with you when I’m out of the scene. That I could think better, feel better then discern way lot better when I’m alone. But here I am, alone, and yet so ambivalent.

When tomorrow’s plane gonna take off, I think things would turn pretty different. I can’t wait because I’m tired of this.

I hope this short break would be an epiphany of some sort. That somehow, I could serve my badly beaten self the much needed muse. That somehow I could finally define your purpose (and my purpose) in my life.

I think that I should muse at life again. Because it has always my same old story: to see and hear the world because she has a lot to tell.

Dear Life,

I miss you.

I was wrong to treat you unkind. It was wrong that I scared you away.

Now, I don’t recognize how you look like. Or how your laughter tastes and how sweet it is to appreciate the littlest things you show. Maybe I’m not but you’re all I got left to believe in. Don’t give up on me, I’m about to come alive.

I miss your quick stories. I miss the reason that has played enough treason on my conscience. I miss holding up to the hands of timeless time. I miss believing that this day shall pass with nothing on it but I still end up calling it the best day of my life. I miss forgetting about the roles I have to play and just by being my usual aimlessness. I miss things falling at the right places with me nothing to do with it. I miss playing dice with you. I miss drawing cities on the sand. I miss drinking from the rain, running with a naked soul on the pin pouring from the skies. I miss spending time alone with you counting airplanes and those sorts of things.

I’m lost, no doubt about it. What I have now is barely. When I decided for you to leave, I thought it was fine. But things harden up. I realized I can’t live without a life.

I need a sign to know you are here. I need to know that things are gonna look up because I feel us drowning in a sea spilled from a cup. Times are hard for dreamers like us.

Drive me to deliverance. Life, just what you ought to be.

Spin

Lately, I’m getting the hell out of college life. It seems I am loosing control of things. Everything’s spinning. I am getting stupider each sunset. How can I overcome this? I’m so confuse, this feeling’s not helping me neither. The chemicals controlling my brain (in)activity unleashes vehemently. I think I should go away for a moment.

The Teaser

The accent of your heavy breathing speaks to me a commotion of feelings: one that is accentuated with spiteful lust and the other with the expectant readiness of long waiting.

I could not move a single strand of muscle now. The cool darkness of this room is rather unlikely damp like a warm heavy palm resting all over my body. Any minute now, the world will spin an indefinite motion dictated by the restive incessant power of pure carnal motivation, overpowering our capacity of reason.

Waiting. Wanting.

I can feel my ears burn with scarlet blood coming from the deepest rejoinder of your earlier motives of bringing virginity down to its last shreds. The painful tickle of this thought has fervently supplied me with excessive amount of testosterone engaging my brain with nothing but innuendoes of streaming pornography. 

Any minute now.

But why is it among other emotions, I’m seized with this indefatigable uncertainty, tracking me away from your well-planned script tonight. Not that I didn’t commit onto every word you have said, but how else can I love myself after tonight, after all the love of human need ends and the love of self begins?

You start with the shrub of hairs on my knees.

It is as if my skull is hollowed, yet distended by the unmanageable unexpected panic of the unseen but heavy feeling of being molested, of being shoved slowly to the edge of sanity, close to tipping over the pit of the original sin. But I have been waiting for this fateful night when finally our body and soul will meld and yield to extreme fulfillment of being one shared piece.

I pulled your hand and kissed your big thumb.

I move over and click the overboard lamp. I grab the novel I hardly had read.

Some other night, I said as you turn your back away from me.

What comes in comes out

Something’s not just right.
 
Over the past days, I have been convincing myself to believe that this semester will be a blast (I certainly hope so until this very minute). There is so little indicator to prove that this semester will not go awful or at least, not go beyond my control.
 
As I run through my Form 5 (which lists my current subjects), I can’t help but heave a rather heavy lungful of air, almost exasperated and damn tired. I have classes seven in the morning every day and for the record, since last month, the earliest that I could wake up is eight. Now tell me how I can just pass my 7 o’ clock subjects if I find the comfort of my bed especially during cold mornings just mockingly over irresistible? Oh just smother me to death, would you?
 
Katrina has been bugging me to inspire her to officially kick-off the semester. How can I share inspiration if I, myself, cannot muster any single form of it? Come to think of it,what (or who) can afford to inspire me right at this moment to start thinking how I can make this coming semester a blast (just how supposed it is to be)? 
 
One: I’m joining some research venture with one of the professors. I’m not yet to say anything about it because it is still under negotiation. If ever it happens as planned, the least consolation that I could get is I’ll be having a weird thesis next year. The most that I could benefit is of course the Power of Knowledge. If there is one thing that will keep me going this semester, this one is it, since this experience is entirely new to me and perhaps, just maybe, its newness can proportionally perk me up.
 
Two: The Works at the Org has finally won over my priorities (second to acads of course) and I already decided not to join the Official Publication of the College (for the mean time, though). I thought that perhaps if I focus more on the stuff that revolves around my course and all the things related to it, academically or otherwise, things would pretty much appear close-clear and easily manageable, right? (I just hope so).
 
Three: Of course, You, the one from my memory. I don’t know if I have to say this but damn, You are contagious that every damn minute You trip up the building blocks of my memory and I’m fucking running away from You only to find out that I’m holding on to Your hands while escaping and that damn story is so Eternal Sunshine on a Spotless Mind kind of thing, you know, and its so damn screwy but really, really sweet still. Hehe. Don’t laugh now. 

House of Wax Episode

This is what you see when you are standing at the back of a theatre: silhouettes of small hills in uniform interval, some thick, others thin on top. Then the mighty screen with every consumable light your eyes can see. The rest are kaleidoscope of bleakness running through the corner of your eyes.
 
I am looking for your familiar head. Paris screams from the screen, then her cold breathing succulently dominates the theatre. How lovely it is to die, is not it, Paris?
 
I sit beside you, without looking at your face and fix and my eyes to this mad woman screaming in front of me. So, you bought two boxes of popcorns and two up-size Coke. I did not bother to take the box of popcorn you handed me. You snugly place the up-size Coke on the round holder of my seat. Oh, Paris, stop yelling at me, I came here not to see your tonsils but to see you die.
 
From the periphery of my right sight, I see you taking a quick glance at me. Shiver. My eyes head straight. Yell at me, right now, I want to hear you fury, your shiver, I want to see my self die, that is what you want to see anyway.  You didn’t come here to see her
die but me, right?
 
The mad woman turned into a cold wax, her mouth was screaming but no words came out. Her eyes were scared but nobody was there to save her. The theatre was so cold it solidified my heart at the sight of morbidity staring back at me. Suddenly, I felt her helplessness and her wanting to break out from the cold slab that imprisons her body, her soul.
 
Then you took my cold hand and wrap it with your warm palm. I saw the little wisp of mist at the edge of your eyes. You leaned to me and said that most fitting words I have been waiting for the last days.

B-107

The small room I’m renting has a mysterious character.
 
I can stretch my arms across the walls that separated it from two rooms on the right and left. The old fluorescent has succumb to hepatitis-b, its glow not enough for me to read three feet below. The bed, which springs have given up to the cumulative heaviness of its occupants for the last four decades, has seen so many orgasms from these youths who talked about Marxism and ejaculated the springs of Faulkner ideologies.
 
The landing seems to be beaming every time I would peek to see if the comfort room across my door is empty. The corridor smells of fresh, newly peeled laughter — the former occupants, whoever they were, had sure a lot of fun inside this dormitory. One time, I woke up on the middle of the night and found myself smiling. Perhaps, I was smiling at the traces of jokes they shared. In the middle of this chrome painted time, I am alone and pensive.
 
If I am inside a movie, this one would be that time when the protagonist would take a razor and cut himself and bleed to death. The camera man would be on top of me, the image would swirl ceaselessly.

The next scene would be that of a levitating man (carried by a hot mass of air) who’s struggling to touch his feet on the ground. Then back to the room, the camera now moves slowly as it passes through the door and right through my dead wide eyes. My eyes would dilate, then flicker, then right above my head, a blinding light from the window would fill the room and empty the darkness. Then a small huff would suggest that I am alive. The End.
 
Perhaps nobody would appreciate this small movie clip other than me. For everybody could only guess how this movie begun:
 
The story started in this room: B-107. 

A Play

If it weren’t for the late-afternoon downpour, the moon would have been a pale lemon. But tonight, the dark clouds lie low that it is almost impossible for me to draw a line between the horizons of the heaven and the vast stark hell infront of us.

You and me. Such a beautiful postcard.

Side by side, you didn’t even bother to look at the swell of tears on my face. Here, beside you, I play the saddest part of our show. No lines, no props. Just you and me.

Gliding the thin space between the edges of our shoulders are surreal [unspoken] poetries. If not for the collective memories streaming through my mind, those accumulated by shared years, I am as good as dead right now.

Tell me lies. Tell me right now that the moon is blue. Hold my hand, and tell me I’m cold and trembling. Look at me and ask me why the crystals are falling down from my eyes. Speak to me and tell me where the jagged emotions are and why this gaping void between us.

Cry too if you must. Weep with me at this loss. This is yours too. There is nothing beyond this, right? Don’t just sit there. I am here.

Here. Right now is hell bent. The cold gushing wind of the evening also participates in the unfolding drama. The screening of the grasses as the cold gushing wind combs the earth liquefies the unconditional silence. The black night stretching beyond the end of our sight is an abyss of nothingness. Empty. The night-time cricket wails a crestfallen call for his lover.

There. You left me here. Alone, now, I listened to the quickening rise and fall of my chest. It wouldn’t have hurt much if you regretted even a little.

So I can feel like I am worth someone having in the first place.

Melancholic Stars And Long Lonely Gazes

I can count seven flickering stars above me, and the big pale full moon. That makes eight heavenly bodies surrounding me, and of course, you.

Something in the warm summer breezes that drift lost at my space is missing. You see the smoke coming from the cigarette hisses some danger of the unexpressed, as if it wants to blow itself away, escape from the very lips I have loved to kiss.

Then no one says a single word, not because we want to, but because this world, and this time is not perfect for it. Not all words are beautiful on starry nights.

So of course, like curled, used cigarette buds on burnt grasses, we enjoyed the small flicker until its last glint. Then wonder what happens to the flicker we’ve once had. Not so many last until the last breath, not so much indeed.

Sitting in here, smelling your fancy cologne that welded with perspiration, seemed like another place, and yet another time. So much have been said between the silence, perhaps too tired to understand ambivalence.

I don’t know if those long, uninterrupted gazes meant something, or even meant anything at all. For no one knows and tries to understand the wasted times of melancholy.