In the bottomless sea of spilled ink,

the stars are drowning,

some lost beneath damp blots.

Below, in the coldness of crumpled sheets

– between the creases of folded blank pages

buried the burned out hands.

Candles wasted in the witching hour

The world goes by, no eyes watch the lost spirit

crawling underneath this skin – stargazing on a pale Wednesday.

The flame flickers countless times,

when, at last, smoke swirls into the sky

and nothing is left behind but a suffocating scent

and this endless night.

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

In the swamp of my mind I wander,

wouldn’t it be nice to feast on the red flowers

— to be drunk on the stream of oblivion —

when it is fire that flows through my veins?

Wouldn’t it be nice to go on a ferry ride,

to float on such a faceless tide?

(…so this is me, my whole life, all in a rusty coin between my teeth…)

Well, wouldn’t it be nice to roam the endless meadow

when all my nights are spent in sorrow?

What a useless pillow.

Photo by Matt Hardy on Unsplash

At the break of dawn, we soaked our wobbling ankles

in the shallow water where it all began.

Then we built castles with shells of cockles,

some crumbled as the waves swallow the sand.

We watch the sun rises and fall, some of us witnessed

the dark days, the days it was hidden behind

chemical clouds, or when we blamed it for self-made aridness.

Lies filled our throats and turned us blind.

And so, with our arrogance, we march deeper into the open sea

until our feet hit nothing but the tides and each others’ shanks

choking in the ocean of humans but no humanity

drowning under billows of poisons and planks.

Up above our empty heads rainbow left the sky.

Photo by Antônia Felipe on Unsplash

There was not a land where the tales of the heavenly beauty named Helen was not told. Her name rained on every inch of the earth, and every man craved to once in their lifetime experience the radiance that was her beauty, even if it would turn them blind afterward. The many lores of her sculpted presence were played over and over on lyres, lutes, or fiddles, in a dark corner of a dim bar, around a blazing campfire, or when the sound of the machines died down. But no man, not a single soul, had ever tell the true…

Photo by Charlie on Unsplash

A leaf fell

In silence, on the path of others

Feet walked all over the bruised limbs

Then the rain came and it started again.

A leaf I am

Soaked by my own blood and tears

Falling slowly on the ground

Discarded by the green branches.

A leaf flew

In the summer wind so cold and dry

Empty was the pit it fell into

Hollow was the heart that wrote.

A leaf I am

Dead and crispy in the field of blooming flowers

But the box was opened and hope escaped

So I suffocate myself with a mask.

Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash

It is suffocating,

The acrid smoke of the never-ending burning incense in this temple of locked windows,

Where we kneel down with our heads bow to the ground,

Blinded from the tears of passed-down beliefs.

From the sacred house are the cries of despair

For the devils clad in holy yellow to stop,

But they won’t, with their multi-colour bloodstream,

And so we chant,

Let karma take care of it.

Clean-shaven heads swing from left to right,

With not-so-clean words falling from the mouths that used to pray.

Countless bottles of prohibited juice fall on the floor.

Still we chant,

With ravenous gaze I undressed her

– and my fervent hands did so.

Fervid fingers caressed the fullest flesh,

eager to rid her of the unwanted shell.

So insatiable I was for her to be in my mouth, and I carried

this burning desire for her – her meat, her juice,

but she laid dead on my tongue.

I nibbled, I sucked, I licked,

but to quenched me she was hard and still.

I could feed myself on half the sea,

but none would leave such ravishing taste as hers in my cavern.

I love you, dear shrimps:

garlic-marinated, grilled, boiled, I love you all. Please don’t go extinct.

Photo by the author

The Tub

Alone in the white tub I see

A vision of a woman waiting for me at the closed door

Lights peeked from under it but my eyes hurt

I cried out for my mother, but it wasn’t her who was there

It wasn’t her, just me, the tub, and the voices in my head.

They are whispering from behind the door

For me to listen to them and give up on everything

Wouldn’t it be easier? You will no longer feel the pain

The pain that is eating you alive

The flapping of the moth’s wings inside your chest,


We dragged them down into the alley, the words,

then beat them up with fists and beaks,

scrape the remains to the darker corner,

drown them in the pool of urine and spilled beers,

and call that poetry.

Just a passing thought.

Photo by the author.

L. M. Kang

A student struggling to be sane in Bangkok.

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