Han

Tag: Poem

Under Sirius

On dying moments like these, I wish I was never sensitive to language. Now, I have to convince myself wholly that the subtleties in your voice and intended purposes are a projection—and a shaping—of my own’s from yours.

Under the silver moon, our skins touched but you shy away most genteelly as if this consequence—from what had accumulated before—was unwonted. Your confession began heated, intense, powerful, unequivocal, but crashed like a dandelion’s strength. I saw through hidden figures, of metonymies that came alive, hooking the insides of my pupils, taut.

I wish I was never sensitive to language so that I wouldn’t write pages to you every night: noting my growth, or a lack thereof, sans a full satisfaction. An incompetence would cloud me from proclivities to poetry, and I will be mellow not.

I always draw parallels

I think I now know how it feels—to be painfully misguided by another’s equivocal actions: of concern that stemmed from passion not but with a heart only pure and intimate. I parallel everything in films to the grim impossibilities; I listen to lyrics more closely, of which my understanding has risen to a patient and doleful comprehension.

Everyone seems highly content with company! excessive mentions! great smiles! what joy! there’s bliss undefined in the restoration of a dilapidated house together and then making it home; meaning in soulful company notwithstanding sharing individual interests—like an engineer and artist speaking about their métiers. (how selfish, but welcoming at the same time)

I think I want to speculate no further, I want to speculate no further. Oh, so let biology work its way: flourish or fetter, regenerate or reduce, batter or better—laissez-faire.

Litanies of plague

some days the sky
is a little
bluer than most

deadens feelings
brings light foretold

clouds are prancing
delightfully
and so we share

maudlin moments

on days when this
sky is but blue

we seem to let
internecine
tear both our
  ligaments

o I observe
more than I should

litany in
a time of plague

whence does morality
get its power—
from religion—
is it natural?
are we guided
or are we pluming mindlessly?

so long as eyes can see and we can breathe
so long lives this, we’re nothing but carefree

I saw, I am not

green towel dances in the wind
the windows are slated with dust—
 abhorrently!

iron & wine is my company tonight
my love for indie folk grows again
 out of the sick contemporary
a love for meaning, not for rhythms in disarray

I write like I bleed
keeping thoughts private
but end up keeping them one after another
who are they for anyway;
who gives a damn for bloody literature!

I see it in the mirror and in contemplations
seeking from those who observe
more than I do
a womb of cynicism
I see growth: a different man

a different man I, I
perhaps
so desperately wish
to be

Here lies a scar

of a decree unswervingly slit
as thin as grandma’s white hair

pain is literally the
only thing that grounds my whimsicality

had a talk with my Dad in the car the other night
listening to Carpenters had him smile most reminiscently
asked for a memory
and he said nothing, absolutely

he is powerful that way I guess
for memories affect him only briefly

I need to learn
techniques of dissociation and not look back

years later
where Quiet Inside is redolent
of those moments that are decadent

The night wind coos

the night wind coos so very flirtatiously
I like it
my parents are watching a Hong Kong drama downstairs
I was reading
the words of Dostoyevsky painted human nature greatly unflattering
I feared him

then again
everything seemed to fall so seamlessly in place
like feeling warmth from newly ironed clothes
like watching blobs of water slide cheerfully off feathers of a duck
like listening to Jay Wadley’s pieces

  My heart falls quietly on my bed
I watch it beat silently
feeding it with fresh words each day, a newly learnt social skill

I hope it is happy
I hope it is content
I hope I’ve quelled the mayhem

People and gaits

I adore watching people move. A proclivity to register their particular gait; eyes that could be both with spirit and oblivion; the seemingly uncultured hairstyles of both men and women; how people in love are most pristine and beautiful.

Oh you can decipher someone’s history from his gait, you can derive the disposition of someone due to his style and mien.

I want to watch people, but I don’t want them to realise. I want to write stories about them, link the people of my society together by this great circumlocution of words.

I love writing for people, and about them.

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