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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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,
A student struggling to be sane in Bangkok.