only a small death*

you shiver
like the clouds
powder
from your
gasps
weather down
over fists
clenched white
a body curled
into bones
a frenetic corpse
catching its breath

to be
to be
to be

virgin once more.

* Audrey Hepburn (#1) painted by Dawn Mellor.

war hall*

andy andy
pop like candy
bits and tits
biting fighting
fits






andy andy
charming dandy
spring and sprinkles
rainbow lines in white-out
wrinkles






andy andy
sex on sandy
flames and games
licking spit out of dirty
names






andy andy
it's death and me
and you were right
finally a finale
delight





an extinction night





* The four images is from my crude cropping efforts (and insertion of text) of a painting by AARON, a computer program created in the 1970's by Harold Cohen. AARON is quite an incredible "entity", as it is able to autonomously "learn" from its past painting efforts. As such, over the past 30 or so years of its existence, its paintings have evolved "from something resembling late Paleolithic cave painting to figurative painting: portraits, as it were of 'imagine' people" (source here). Each one of its paintings are original and require no input from anyone. It simply "paints". I know all this because I recently wrote a small paper on AARON for my "Internet and Media Law" course, arguing that it is conceivable that such programs can legally be considered the "author" of these works, and thus "own" the copyright in the paintings. The obvious issue, and ultimate irony underlying this poem, is the inability of such a computer program to sue anyone (like me) for copyright infringement. Anyhoo, you should google image some of AARON's works. Some are quite amazing.

wereld*

the.future.is.paper.mache. pepper.in.the.sky.sprinkles. of.salt.buy.in.to.sell.out.skip. the.rorschach.no.chance.to. change.your.mind.a.silent. bell.a.secret.to.share.a.lie.to. spread.a.detail.only.the.devil. could.find.a.dance.to.an. unbiblical.tune.a.spin.to.an. umbilical.chord.a.sin.from. the.start.until.the.moon.falls. you.are.in.complete.control. you.are.incomplete.control.




* 4096 Colors painted by Gerhard Richter.

winter kiss

winter winter.

sleep is all you want.
in your arms
a wish
as heavy as
the moon.

you're looking up.
she's the only thing
you can see in the dark.
there she is
calling to you.
a siren
perched up on the sky.
you close your eyes
but she pricks at you.
she peeks through
those pinholes
before your eyes.

you lay there
as she penetrates you.
you don't dare move.
you're as still as a hope.
a wish to hide away
and hibernate.

winter winter.
is it time?
is it time to leave
this world?
have you come
to take me away?
to claim me
as one of your
own?

cos if i fall asleep now
i will never wake.

one kiss
from you
would be all
it would take
for my world
to turn
white.

vanilla

cupcakes and
sugar shakes
i lick my lips
until they crack
pink

Pay attention, now.
Cos this will cost you.

candles and
baby balloons
i swallow the sea
until i split and
sink

Did you catch that?
You can't miss it.

icing and
finger curls
i close my eyes
until my teeth
wink

Look at that.
You found me.


























(wink)




* These things freak the hell outta me. My first (and I suppose only) encounter with the anglerfish was at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, where one of their exhibits was showing models of deep sea fish. I remember standing in a room that was coloured in an orangey-red, with ambient water sounds cascading all over me, and a narrator's voice, describing in detail how the anglerfish caught its prey. I think that experience scarred me for life, which has now lead me to write this piece. Pay back time! (I'm not sure what I meant by that.)

tinnitus song*

bad dreams
of blind men

in black milk
they do not drown

but grin forth
the abyss














* Photo from the exhibit, It's always six o' clock, by Eva and Franco Mattes.

esque*

it's black tie
when i realize
he hadn't spoken in years
it takes a funeral thirteen
for me to remember
i had forgotten
his voice

monday is always a shock

He shuffles his sight line. A deck of cards. Bored. Eyes darting off to the left. Jerking back to the right. A reckless driver. Eyes off the road. Tempting happenstance. "You're a one trick pony, you know that?" he says.

i can hardly believe
he is gone
when it is so hard
to believe he was
with me all along

you try to deny tuesday

"No, scratch that. You're more like a one track playlist." He pauses in thought. He presses a finger to his lips - to keep the smile from coming out. "Yeah, I like that. Much more contemporary," he quips.

i need help
cos
i'm not sure
how to move on now
when i feel
i already moved on
long before

wednesday, everything is on the table

His fingers drum against the surface. Turbo mode. The sounds of a flat tire slapping the road. His stare is on high beam. "How long we doing this for?"

it's not like i didn't try
it's not like i didn't try
to cry

the guilt hits you on thursday

"God, you're just fuckin all 'doom and drumsticks', aren't you?" Hands in the air. Conductor-mode. When words fail. "I dunno whether to call you pretentious or postentious, hah!" Pause. Victory? No, retreat. His hands go back into his pockets like embarrassed beasts.

i'm wearing black
and he's bathed in white
but the clouds
have their own dress code
and they cover us both
in a mortal grey
i look down
while he looks up
and we're the same

friday nights are for fighting

He looks at his watch. It's time to check the time. He lifts his head up, like he's picking up the trash. "Look, I'm sorry, ok?" He turns the volume down. "I'm sorry." The words linger until they become unbearable. The next words come out as fast as a cat-litter burial. "But you must admit. You get repetitive. It's like the same old shit, ALL THE TIME."

even if he's not gone
i'm never going to see him again
they closed the lid
and clicked the locks into place
they lowered him into the ground
and placed him into a concrete container
and as if his death was not enough
for me to say goodbye
they made an arrangement
with the earth
to swallow him whole

there's a sadness to saturday

He nods. "Take it away, Romeo."

i look down
and all i can see
is the green
laid over him
and i swear
i can hear a voice
i stand there
lost in the grass
and i hear the words:
"lest you forget
and for that
you give
for it's best they get
than for you
to forgive
for it's always easier
to give
and forget
than to get
and forgive"

and sunday fades away

"Fuckin finally."



* Dream home taken by Jackie Wong. This poem is dedicated to Wong Fook Lam, my grandfather who passed away this year.

gauss

twinkle twinkle

you look up
and the heat
hits you
the stars
throb
like sores
in the sky
and you breathe it in
the influenza
in the air

pitter patter

the pavement
gives way
to the pearls
and pebbles
at your feet
you sink
into time
a dinosaur
drowning
in laggerstätte
turning pale
as you
turn paleo

ribbit rabbit

yellow eyes
blink
under dark skies
the city lights
watch and
salivate
in hunger
without arms
to reach out
the buildings
lean in
around you
creaking like
concrete timber
and medusa's
men

and smitten smatter

you stand there
in a pool
of paralysis
muscles quivering
like arrows
in wait
desire dripping
off your skin
but
you can't stand it
the white of noise
the taste of your mouth
the sound of the universe
you can't stand it
cos you hear it coming
cos you know it's coming
cos you know when it comes
the beating of your heart
will be as harmless
as a hurricane



* Photo of smallpox infecting a membrane of a developing chick.

operation: threesome*

kiss me
with those
rows of teeth
you're four
stories tall
and five
tons just
right

there are
worse things
than not having
enough sex ...

wrap me up
in number
eights
hang me
upside down
and give me
hickies and
tentacle
tickles

there are
worse things
than not having
enough sex ...

swallow me
whole
keep me
twisting and
yearning
churning
in your belly
with a desire
as deep
as the ocean
floor

there are
worse things
than not having
enough sex

like a threesome ...

... death-match
between
a giant squid
a sperm whale
and a t-rex

* Bad Day on the High Sea by Brandon Bird. This guy is f--ckin awesome (and an equally f-ing genius). More to come from his works soon.

comeback*

yunno, they die all the time. superheroes. they come and go. they get blown up. they get shot. they get thrown into moving traffic. into pits of crocodiles. into the sun.

la fin du monde.

and they come back. turn the page far enough, and there they will be. back. like they've never been gone. like they've missed you. like they've missed being there for you.

but love. love may never come back. there is no plot guarantee. no fanboys to bitch and complain til the writers buckle and find a way to bring back the dead.

love, i'm afraid has no return contract. no sequels. no trilogy plans. no alternate universes or continuity to wade around in.

sometimes it comes. and sometimes it goes. and sometimes when it goes, it's gone.

forever.

[honey, go to bed.
there ain't goin to be
a comeback
tonight.]

alright.


















* Piece inspired by Josh Whedon's run on Astonishing X-men ... which I recommend to all lovers of good story-telling (that's right ... you don't have to be a nerd to enjoy comics).
No sleep by Edward Ruscha.

domestica*

[the summer stars]

i don't know what i am

[the warm dark]

i don't know who i am

[the silent fever]

i don't know where i am

when i'm at home



*I found this drawing on some internet forum. Unfortunately, I can't find the site again. Regardless, whoever is responsible for the drawing, thanks! I quite like its Warhol-ish take combined with the aesthetics of MacPaint circa the early 90's.

the thirty percent*

the waves
knock at your door
the sea crests over
your raft
and invites itself in
you're wet
over every inch
so you squeeze
your hands
and watch the ocean
bead out your pores
and yet
you feel dirty
a fraud
a white lie
that has turned grey
from overuse
you straddle over the abyss
but you lay still
under heaven's weight
a mistress
for the gods
who sometimes forgets
you forget sometimes
who you're trying
to please

you swallow
for the first time
in what seems like
a long time
your throat
contracts like a
highway
cracks emerge
in the turns
broken pieces
fall into your
stomach
dirt swept into
a pot
you're drying up
from the inside out
a scarecrow
on the high seas

you sit there
and the horizon bobs
up and down
like bait
a finish line
that runs the race
and runs away
you sit there
and you sit
everywhere
stuck between
the sea and a faraway place
neither a fish
nor a bird
but a body

made mostly of water
and a pinch
of dust




* Seascape (1969), by Gerhard Richter.

MACKIE 1.00.000*

* Jackie and I spent one evening writing a joint poem. It was my first ever attempt at doing something like this. We took turns writing the lines ... and so we tried our best (well, at least I did) to make it rhyme and be thematically coherent. But overall, I think it turned out quite wonderful. Thanks Jackie.

aria*

the
snow
flake
s
trip
and
tum
ble
to
earth

they
shake
through
the
air
like
jig
saw
piec
es
of
the
sky

si
lent
ly
they
shuf
fle
their
way
down

clum
sy
in
their
path
s

awk
ward
in
their
twist
s
and
turn
s

a
way
from
one
a
no
ther

the
wind
push
es
and
pull
s
them
a
part

lea
ving
each
with
their
own

lit
tle
in
di
vi
du
al

scars

they
be
long
to
the
world
now

each
one
hea
vy
e
nough
to
fall

they
make
up
the
world
now

each
one
light
e
nough
to
be
car
ried
a
way

they
fill
up
the
world
now

with
their

pa
per
tri
an
gle
s

scis
sor
cir
cle
s

and
the
re
main
der
s

each
one
a
part
of
eve
ry
thing
and
eve
ry
thing
a
pie
ce
of
an
o
ther



* Lights unfocused by Joming Lau. Thanks for the amazing photo Jo (though I haven't gotten your permission yet).

"I must say, this is very unbecoming of you."*

i can't change
i can't change
i can't change [the channel]

the lights come at me
like lasers
and arrows
whistles
pouring from the stars
i can't help it
the windshield
lets them all in

out of the tv
they crawl onto
the floor
bad dreams
seep into the carpet
sprinkles of rainbow
over a black syrup abyss

underwater
and overdressed
i twist and turn
looking for my sleeves
the world comes to me
like a music video
and i'm too slow
to close my eyes

i'm afraid
i'm afraid
i'm afraid [no one will believe me]

strapped to the chair
seat belt fastened
and running in
outer space
i'm stuck in the clouds
with an air bag waiting
waiting for me to run
out of space
i can't escape
my eyes
are not letting me out

i'm going and
i'm going and
i'm going [to die]

my mind moves two steps forward
but my body takes one step back
so the world sputters out
into ribbons
an end to a film reel
spinning and slapping
torso and limbs
limbo and torque

one stutter
two sttutter
three stttuttter [四]

"Mark ..."
we make eye contact
your lips move
but so does the world
behind you

"Mark ..."
i can't hold onto you
i can't hold onto anything
you're saying
cos' everything wants to
greet me

"Mark ..."
we're going to die
no one believes me
so we're going to die
we're going to die
not knowing

"Mark ..."
you don't believe it
you don't believe i'll do it
and i'm starting to wonder myself
so i grab the wheel
and pull down

"..."

am i out
am i out
am i out [?]

i look down
the pen and paper
are still in my lap
words scattered
like luggage
from a fallen plane
black ink pooling
like blood over concrete

i don't even look up
i just keep writing
i keep writing
just in case
no one believes me

























* Broken Glass painted by Edward Ruscha.
This piece is actually pretty personal ... perhaps more so that the others ... mostly because I'm still coming to terms with what happened that night in the car. Sorry for the tease, but until I'm better able to process the event, I'll just leave it at that.

the honey moon*

it's better this way ...

i sing
you sing
icing
sweet
i feel
too much
you fall
too deep
it's
about time
being
so soon
drunk
from drinking
the honey
moon
a hello
a hi
a wave
goodbye
going
gone
and gone
awry
nothing
to fear
nowhere
to hide
submerge
the sun
the days
subside
one more
smile
one last
laugh
one more
before
the after
math

one more
for
the after
math

this is way better.



* Photo of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, taken during their wedding in Hawaii in 1992.

a december poem

the snow falls ever-ever so slowly
the bugs crawl away-always so lowly
the world shifts like a painting on the wall
as the snow slows slowing down the fall

oh, romeo, romeo, rhetorical call
a woman's somewhere, "where art thou"
tamborine julie at the cat corner store
sit with the afternoon, wait waiting some more

the clouds slide ride-ride the sky
the sun giggles, a ghost, hide-hide nearby
the world dangles like props propped on the stage
as the clouds drop dropping from age

oh, juliet, juliet, jack of all trades
a somewhere man's hand is holding your spade
piano key "romie" waiting at your hotel room
sinking the thinking of seeing you soon

the snow floats soaks the ice-cream dreaming
the bugs fuck and fly away scheming
the world falls like a puzzle apart
as the snow shows showing the coldness of heart

the snow slows
slowing the heart

.... ("small dots")*

The scene takes place in the living room of a home. There's two matching couches forming an "L" around a big-screen TV. The couches are worn-in but not out of place. Though they are clearly older than the house, their unapologetically aged state adds to the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the room. The TV is similarly out of date, despite its intimidating size. The impressive dimensions of the screen are kept modest only by the amount of space it takes in the realm of depth. The image of a "large box" immediately springs to mind. Along the wall stands a tall plant. With the height of an adult, the plant gives off an "almost human" presence in the room. It stands quietly, like a man, unspoken, leaning against a wall, always watching but never with any sense of judgment. Underlying these various objects, the floor is carpeted, an off-white colour with a seemingly random but consistently spotted pattern of light browns over top. Viewed peripherally, it blends nicely together. Like a coffee with too much cream. Like a rolling landscape in fast-forward. Like a "van Gogh" backdrop with no subject to focus on. But there are, of course, subjects in the scene. A suburbia without subjects is simply the end of the world. And this isn't that type of scene.

****

"What's wrong with your head?" she asks.

Flip - nothin'. Flip - nope. Flip - goddamnit.

"You got a headache or something?"

"No, it's not that ..." he replies, eyes chasing the flickers of light coming from the TV. He has his fingers to his temples, rubbing in slow-moving tiny hamster circles.

Flip - again, nope. Flip - god fuckin' damnit.

She lays off the "Channel Up" button for a moment and turns her head to the other couch and finds him sitting with his elbows to his knees and hands to his head. Her sight lines effectively connect the ends of the "L" formation, creating a conceptual triangle with the objects in the room. She stares at him, eyebrows raising in anticipation. But the triangle isn't fully realized. He keeps his sight on the TV, content on holding tightly to the images on the screen. He continues to rub circles to the sides of his head.

"Writer's block. I've got writer's block," he spits out.

"Oh." She withdraws the bridge, presses down on the button below her thumb, and returns her eyes to the TV just as the shapes take recognizable form.

"I don't get it," she adds.

Flip - sunnovabitch.

He closes his eyes. They're tired from the chase. And he can't keep up with her. With eyes still closed, he rubs a little harder.

"That's exactly my problem. There's nothing to get, that's the thing. I can't think of anything to write about." A scent of desperation fills the room.

"I know what 'writer's block' is," she retorts.

Flip - jesus mother fuckin' christ!

"I just don't have it. I don't have that problem." She presses down on the button a little harder now, like she's trying to put down an animal. Like maybe if she presses a little harder, it will stay dead.

"So how do you remain inspired? How do you find something to write about? He reopens his eyes and looks across the expanse of off-white towards her still eyes. When his gaze reaches them, he recognizes the tiny flashes of light reflecting off. His eyes immediately start feeling tired again. Without removing his aim, he blinks once, and takes a second look. Her eyes remain open, her eyelids still like a frame. Like a frame of a mirror.

"Oh. It's simple," she snaps. The lights in her eyes flicker into darkness for a split-second until new shapes and shadows ignite over top of them. She is no longer releasing the button under her thumb, but instead, is grinding it in a "back-and-forth" motion.

Flip -

"You just gotta see the magic in everything, yunno?"

Flip -

"Like we're in a TV show or movie or something."

Flip -

"Like someone's narrating the whole world or whatever."

Flip -

"Like everything's got some big deep meaning."

Flip -

"And you just write about that ..."

He still has his eyes on hers. He's chasing again. But this time, he feels like he's got something by its tail. He stops rubbing. And from the corner of her eye, she notices. She turns her attention away from the screen and stares back. They look into each other. For a split second, nothing in the room moves, not even the objects on the screen. For a split second, their eyes darken, having no light to reflect off of them.

****

For a split second, amongst the various furniture in the room, and the tall plant, four tiny dark spots form. Like punctuation. Like periods. Like a seemingly random but consistently spotted pattern of small dots

Flip -

in a room of off-white.























* Averages (1987) and We humans (1974) by Edward Ruscha.

the last sunset

You useless little man.
You coward.
You inconsiderate,
insecure, and
incompetent
child.
You dare throw away
those that you love
and love you in return.

...

"Throw away"?!
Ha!
You're not even strong enough for that.
You're not strong enough to walk away,
but weak enough to stand there
and watch her go.
She's disappearing over the horizon.
The last sunset.
Never again a sunrise.
Forever night.

...

She made you happy, didn't she?
She meant something to you, didn't she?
She was someone really special, wasn't she?

yes she was ...

So why did you do it?
Why did you let her go?
Why did you leave her?

because ...
because ...
it was ...
the right thing to do ...

FUCK!
What the hell does that mean?!
You self-righteous sonuvabitch.
You pompous prick of a politician.
You hollow puppet of a man.
Answer me.
What does that even mean?!
Answer me!
Answer me, goddamnit!

the truth is ...

Yeah?!
What?!
Tell me!

the truth is
i don't know what i want
and sometimes
that can be the the worst thing
you can do
to those you love
and love you in return

You know she's almost gone.
She's almost gone.
You're really willing to let her disappear,
forever?

if there is one thing
i could never forgive myself for
is to hurt her
in the way
that i think i can

...

it's true what they say ...
"you don't know what you got til it's gone"
but it's also true
you can't further hurt those
you are no longer with

...

so i hope to god
i'm doing the right thing
cos' this hurts like hell

...

this last sunset

the escape (artist)

close your eyes
before the blindfold
keep your wrists together
for the knot
and hold your breath
to go under

(the trick is
you have to do it to yourself)

where you go
it's dark and wet
it's cold and enclosed
and it's the closest thing
to what you want

(the illusion is
self-empowerment)

seconds
float up to the surface
disappearing into thin air
silence
betrays your sense of time
for heaven may be a big place
but hell is just a moment
you can't move from

(the magic is
self-defeat)

the world has to wait
before you re-appear
it has to fear the worst
and want what it fears
the world must not want you back
it must lose you
think you are gone
before you can return

(the truth is)
under the blindfold
you're closing your eyes

(the truth is)
between the knots
you're opening your wrists

(the truth is)
you're holding your breath
simply because
you don't know when
you're coming back up

boulevard*

"You're stepping on the stars," she says with her eyes lowered.

He looks down at his feet and realizes she is right. Between the pairs of shoes spells the partial name, "Humphrey Bog----." Without a thought, he lifts his right foot off the golden tile. Caught off balance by his own sudden reaction, he plants his suspended foot on safer ground, but leaving him standing spread eagle over the now open-faced monument.

"It's too bad you're not wearing a skirt," she adds relentlessly.

"Alright. Enough is enough," he exclaims, as he jolts into half-flight from his awkward pose, like a frightened pigeon chased by a rambunctious child. After several steps off in a wild direction, he looks back at her. She's staring back at him in her steady steps. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn she was trying to look innocent. But he knows better.

"Yunno, you kinda looked like an ostrich back there," she mouthes, taking another step closer to him. Her face is filled with an expressionless expression. Like a painting come to life.
"Maybe you should consider wearing less tight pants."

"I thought I was doing a pretty good 'frightened pigeon' impersonation, myself," he croaks, in a failed attempted to match her apathetic tone.

By now, she's only a few feet away from him. He turns forward in response and kicks his feet into motion, now determined to maintain some distance from her. He looks back out of the corner of his eye and realizes he has acted a little too late as she is almost onto him. In mid-step, he twists his body to face her again. A defensive retreat. An animal protecting its tail from being caught.

His mind scrambles to find words to lengthen the space between them. He looks aimlessly at the moving ground and tries to think of something to say. Like looking for objects to throw out of a moving car. But as her feet slide out of his view, he realizes that she has stopped moving. Still taking steps back, he finds her feet and follows them up to her eyes and sees that they are no longer targeted upon him. Instead she is looking upwards to the sky.

She is standing still and shrinking slightly as his retreat leaves her in a zoom out. Out of fear, he keeps his eyes on her. Out of wonder, he does not look up. Out of hearing distance, he only sees her mouth move.

"The stars. They're gone. I don't know where they are."















* Hollywood (1984) painted by Edward Ruscha. This guy is a f*%king genius. More stuff inspired by his amazing work soon.

anti-pro*

the talking pigs
under the paper trees
sit in chairs
and wear white sleeves
they speak great things
[and know terrible thoughts]
they paint pretty pictures
and they connect the dots

[day]

they huddle and meet
[preferably] in brick houses
together like secrets
stuck on the roofs of mouthes
they worship the signs
[and they sign the warships]
they pay to the lords
and pray to the lordships

and all the while
at work they sing:
never-the-less
always-the-more
anti-pro anti-pro
anti-pro some more
always-the-more
never-the-less
anti-pro anti-pro
anti-pro for less

the tired pigs
over the paper leaves
take off their ties
and roll up their sleeves
they huddle like livestock
[and pant like machines]
welcomed by animal slumber
[and plagued by human dreams]

[night]

they grasp and grope
as they hop into bed
they twist and turn
with the things they've said
the grey in their eyes
condense into black
[and the kingdom that once welcomed them
does not welcome them back]

and all the while
in sleep they hear:
anti-pro anti-pro
more or less
anti-pro anti-pro
anti-pro-gress
anti-pro for your country
it's not what you can do
anti-pro for your country
it's what it does to you

[anti-pro anti-pro
it's what it does to you]



* The symbol is that of the International Atomic Energy Agency. The piece isn't against them or anything (or at least, not that I am consciously aware of). I'm just fascinated by their symbol.

the common people*

your yellow feet
stick to the
varicose street
and your heart
slows to
a viscous beat

we are the common people
come, join us
and expect
the expected

your crooked teeth
grind
under the heat
as you touch and grab
for a bite
to eat

we are the common people
worse than the sum
of our parts
and we have many
many parts

your sunken cheek
keeps springing
a leak
while your tongue
is swallowed for
its meat

we are the common people
come, join us
and infect
the uninfected

for it's the beautiful people
we want

we want to be them
and
we want them
to be us



* The Horse Race, painted by Judy Hall Grieve. The poem is my first attempt at writing a "zombie poem", but a lot of it was also inspired by being invited to a gala premier of a Hong Kong movie and being witness to famous celebrities up close and personal. I know it sounds silly but it's quite amazing just how "beautiful" these people are in person. At the end of the night, I was left with this surreal feeling of being both in admiration of these people and immensely insecure with myself. And perhaps that's how zombies feel, if they feel anything at all.

monologue*

"Oh my god.
You're bleeding ..."

it smells of earth
clay and pottery class
a piece folds over
and falls into your hands
you look down
and press it against your body
but all it does
is squeeze through your fingers

"Oh my god.
I can't stop it.
I can't stop the bleeding."

it's warm outside
your hands are clammy
from playing in the sea
the air hangs of salt
and a panic
of the setting sun
the heat escapes
into a hole on the horizon
and you shiver

"Oh my god.
Help me. Help me.
Tell me what to do,
for God's sake."

in slow motion
you fold neatly
onto the ground
like a leaf in autumn
the earth creeps into your clothes
and the sea slows into a memory
offstage
the sun is broken into a million pieces
and sprinkled back into the sky

"Don't die on me.
Goddamnit, don't you die on me.
Oh god, please don't die on me ..."

you're looking up
while everyone is looking down
you open your mouth
to share the secrets
but the words are swatted away
by those grasping to understand
and before anyone realizes
the wind carries your breath away
and returns it to the sea

"Oh god,
where are you ..."


* Sketch by Adrian Tomine. This piece was inspired by the accumulation of the tragic school shootings that have taken place in the recent years and my realization of not knowing how to comprehend them. The world is such a strange place. Somedays, I can't help but ask how there can be a God. And then on some other days, I can't help but think that there must be. But ultimately (and ironically), I don't think it really matters. If we're able to escape from our egocentric view of the world, the monologue we write for ourselves, we wouldn't be sitting around waiting for a response that will never come. And instead, we'd listen to the world around us. And maybe then we wouldn't think the world in some extremist way leading us to take some tragic action. Anyhow, I'm ranting.

rear-view mirror*

you're driving in the rain
and the trees chase you
like ghosts
in the rear-view mirror;
the windshield wipers
keep flipping the pages
too fast
and you see things;
you see things hiding
in the mountains

the mountains
pin to the horizon;
a point of reference,
always the last thing
to be drawn in a picture;
they watch you go by;
their eyes follow
you down the highway
like a painting on the wall

you can feel them
watching

you can feel the world
watching

you feel the world
watching

you go blind



* Vacancy 3, painted by Maya Kulenovic.

ephialtes*

you can't sleep,

not yet,
no, you can't sleep
yet

mouth open black,
a tar pit yawning
poisonous gas,
petroleum circles
around the eyes,
rainbows swirling
into the retina,
the corners covered
in a coffee cream
glaze

you can't sleep,
not yet

clouds brew black,
the breath smolders
under pillows,
words muffled
by the ambers,
cherry coke secrets
choke-choke-choking on the fumes,
the heart sputters
in exhaustion
as the engine
dreams of a world
of horses

no, you can't sleep
yet

the world is on fire
and you haven't even finished
your reading



* Field painted by Maya Kulenovic. More stuff inspired by her talent and her visions soon to come.

love story

She is in bed, laying on her back. Resting on the bottom end of a pillow, her head is tilted down to her chest. Her chin wrinkles into a couplet of little waves, rippling around her neck. Her eyes look down the barrel of her body and are locked onto the sight of her hands.

[the props of prose]

Next to her, he is laying on his side with his back resting against the wall. His head is held up by hand and elbow. His eyes watch quietly. He looks at her. She looks at her hands. They lay together in stillness and in silence, like lovers. Or letters of the alphabet.

[hold the story together]

Tucked into the corner of the room, the bed catches the remaining slivers of light. The white sheets make the bed and its two complements the only thing visible, as the three remaining corners of the room recede into black. The two lay in bed, adrift in a sea of starless night.

[hold the universe together]

He looks at her eyes. In them, he recognizes the focus of thought. His eyes follow down the imaginery line of sight, tiny red dots mapping out from her eyes. His visual path pauses over her mouth. There, he finds them twisted in the asymmetry of concentration. She is biting her lip.

[like cutouts of the moon]

She is biting her lip because she is trying to fix her hands. She is trying to fix the way the world is written. She is trying to fix the plot.

[finger on the mirror]

She is there, laying in bed, eyes lowered to her landscape, lips contorted in effort, attempting to stretch the wrinkles out from her hands. The universe is collapsing, so she is trying to pull herself apart.

[don't turn away]

He watches from a distance, keeping his back to the wall. But he wants to lean in. He wants to take a closer look. He wants to get caught in her line of sight, stuck in between her teeth, crumpled between her fingers.

[in mid-sentence]

But he knows his place. He recognizes the moment. And he wants it to last for as long as it can.

[there is something important here]

But he makes the mistake and speaks. "You're really pretty. Do you know that you're really pretty?" The words drop into her consciousness like a rock in a pond. Her motions slow to a stop, as the blood flushes into her cheeks. She blushes.

[a speedbump on the page]

She looks one degree towards him, then turns two degrees away. She puts her hands up to her mouth and tries to catch the vanity. "Thank you," is all she can say. "Thank you," is all she can repeat.

[and you lose your spot]

He has ruined it. He knows it. He knows the harder he holds onto it, the quicker it slips between his fingers. He knows better than to walk into the frame. "I'm sorry" he replies with regret.

[and progress in error]

Her eyes dart around the outline of her hands. She can see the air leave the room. She can feel the depressurization. But she doesn't know where it is coming from.

[there is something here]

A bubble of panic conceives in her chest, and the embryo pushes the words out into the atmosphere. "It's ok."

[it has to be here]

Her hands reappear into focus, one holding the other. She rotates each one slowly, like a jewel on a wrist. Like a star in the sky. She inspects them carefully, and to her disappointment, she finds that nothing has changed. They're still her hands.

[found and lost]

She's still falling apart. The universe is still collapsing, and it's taking her with it.

[compressed into a period]

He sees the dead in her eyes flare up again. She's searching in her story. And even though neither one of them is moving, he can tell she needs more room on the bed. He pushes away, not wanting to know perfection. He pushes away, but then realizes the wall behind him is still there, pushing him back.

[and the sentence finishes]

She can't pull herself apart. He can't push himself away.

[so, tell me something is here,
please]

They lay buried together, in the only lit corner of the room. They lay together, lost in the dark.

[tell me
the world dances
under the full moon]

morning diamonds

dropped
from the sky,
ashore upon
the sand,
and cut out
like diamonds
and disappointment

you stretch
the morning bandages
that keep you still
at night,
but keep you sore
in the day,
and try to
blink away the distortion,
the crack in the eye

you lift your hand
into the light
to see where the pain
is coming from,
but the shapes
stay out
of focus

so you place your hand
over the sun
and hold it still;
the flames
snake into your pores
and coil around
your bones

it hurts
to be still
and it hurts
to keep looking,
but it hurts even more
to know that
something is wrong

only you can't see it

you can't see it
because it is hiding
in the bend of light,
in the crack of the eye,
in the morning diamonds

the waves of the day
wash up your legs
and extinguishes the fire
between your fingers;
you lift yourself out
of the sand
and turn your eyes
inland and away
from the end of the world

your eyes blink,
with no effect,
and as you take a step
you ask for the strength
you expected to have

for the strength
you thought was there
all along

but must have been lost
during the night

a night time daydream*

puddled skies
clouded with ink
and black with rain;
heaven laid out
above our heads
like the bottom
of the sea;
the weight of stars,
stones in the sky,
hold the blanket down;
a little out of reach,
but stretched out
over the city,
it cleans the streets,
with its tidal sweeps,
and brushes them
into the cracks;
but there's life
between the rocks;
the ecosystem hideouts;
the crawling, the clawing,
and the cave drawing;
tiny movements,
the scatter of gravel,
and the rising smell of the sea

it's only a
night time daydream;
it's only a
night time daydream;
or perhaps a
day light nightmare

a flicker of flight
towards the surface light,
a mere spasm
stilled
by the thoughts of
drowning




* Woodwards, by Jackie Wong. It's one of the most beautiful photos I have ever seen. I can't quite find the words to describe it. But its effect is analogous to looking at an x-ray. It effortlessly penetrates through the superficiality of the our collective ideal image of what the 21st century civilization looks like, and instead, it heavy handedly impresses upon the mind of the viewer the coarse and callous skeleton of what the "city" truly is. And despite all that (the cold reflection of light upon steel, the obtuse blinding impact-effect of the street lamp, the creeping spread of stains from machinal and human waste, etc.), there is a certain sublime beauty captured. It's almost like contemporary romanticism, or something like that (if I even have the slightest idea of what I'm talking about). In short (because I could go on for hours about it), without the slightest effort, the photo captures some effect of transcendence. An x-ray. I just hope this piece of writing does it a little justice. If not, yunno, you can always tell me to take it down.
- in complete admiration, Mark

the inches of the dark*

blind,
you feel your way
across the planet;
inch over
inch;
pore
over pore ...

blind,
you find yourself
at the bottom of a hill,
or caught up on a cloud;
you look up
and you look down;
but never lose
your place ...

blind,
you crawl and caress
the ground beneath you,
looking for the edge;
counting the curvature;
mapping out the mountains
and the cutouts of the sky ...

blind,
you open your eyes
and pull yourself away,
away from the darkness;
off from the ground;
you pull yourself away
and she's still there,
in front of you,
lips slightly parted,
dragging in a breath;
the features of her face
fall away from you
like the planet ...

you close your eyes

blind,
so that the world
wraps into black
and into a tiny ball;
blind,
so that you feel the universe
over the surface
of your skin;
blind,
so that nothing matters
but the inches in front
of you




















* The Kiss, sculpted by Auguste Rodin.

"they keep warm; they keep warm" *

[ the black jewels
sparkle in the dark;
they huddle together
like treasures
of the empire;
pink tails
chase each other
into the spaces
between the
stone walls;
they keep warm;
they keep warm,
and wait ... ]

fires float up the streets
on a sea of shadowed bodies;
limbs and torsos
tangle their way
through town;
the details adhere
to one another;
unobservable
- and horrifying -
as a bad dream

[ the black jewels
pass on through history
without notice;
from hand to hand;
from mouth to foot;
never missing
an important event,
always watching
from the dark;
they keep warm;
they keep warm,
and wait ... ]

- trickle trickle -
no one speaks;
there are no chants
nor spells cast;
there is no preaching
nor claims to
righteousness;
there are no
murmurs of doubt
nor whispers
to unify

[ the black jewels
litter and lay amongst one another;
kept without order
or pattern;
shadows with fur,
shapes with feet,
secrets without words,
they keep warm;
they keep warm,
and wait ... ]

under the starless night,
above the city of stone,
at a height where the clouds
normally rest,
the sound of a thousand legs
- a millipede made of human parts -
stack its way up
to the castle tower
where one man sits in silence
and strains to hear
the sounds of progress
in the midst of mad rustling
coming from below his window

[ the black jewels
decorate the dark spaces
between the walls
and the unspoken
words of evolution;
they keep warm;
they keep warm
from the fires beneath their feet;
and wait,
knowing the only way
out from the underworld
is to be as patient
as hell ... ]
























* Last Judgment: resurrection of the dead.

the act*

the skies
disguise

themselves

secrets
hiding above
the clouds

drops
of doubt
burrow
their way
to the
soles
of your feet

every step
one more step
across the stage

every action
a pull of
a string

free to be
never free
from being

your head falls back
and you raise a hand
over your eyes

you search the skies
for a disguise
but the clouds
get caught
in your eyes

if you could only
see the strings
you would
cut yourself
free

and fall
to the
floor




* I edited the picture just a tad. I'm sure they won't mind.

passing notes in times of war*

i know what you're thinking

[cos' i'm thinking the same thing]

you're wondering
what it is
that you're now looking at

you're wondering now
what it is
you should be looking for

[perhaps a hidden message]

poetry can be so
pretentious
sometimes

the antithesis
of human contact

speaking in morse
in times of peace

words that act out
espionage

and find their way
behind enemy lines

to disarm

[are we at war?]

all of a sudden
we're children again

taking turns
watching each other
watch each other

but this is no game

people get hurt
when people play
for keeps

[this cannot be love] [can it?]

i know what you're thinking

[cos' i'm thinking the same thing]

you're wondering
what it is
that you're now looking at

you're wondering now
what it is
you should be looking for

here the message ends
there are no more
tricks and traps

here
there are
no promises

[we are at war]

but sometimes
humankind can be
so incomprehensibly
stupid

we hold each other
to promises
when all we need
to hold onto
is hope

[here's the important part]

i know what you're thinking
so let me finish

as you're wondering
what it is you are looking at

as you're wondering
what you should be looking for

know that
even in these times of peace
and in these times of war

it is the way
and not the wonder
i am looking for



* Attached is Kurt Kobain's alleged suicide note.
* Upon further reflection, I'm afraid one might interpret this to say that holding one another to promises is "incomprehensibly stupid". The (primary) stupidity I intended to refer to, albeit poorly expressed, is the human desire for certainty, that this existential insecurity sometimes leads us into despair, that it leads us away from hope. The stupidity is forgetting that all we need is hope, that hope is all we need to sustain the will. Because once we affirm our will, then it is (simply) a matter of finding the way. With this in mind, in no way am expressing that I intend to break my promises. Quite the opposite, I am looking for a way to fulfill them.

arts & crafts

arts & crafts

all this is
is arts & crafts
rolling around
in the dirt
the fun
of being found
the ecstacy
in tag

i see you
unbutton your blouse
and all i hear
is the slow
snippet
of paper
being cut
little cutouts of
construction
paper
falling to the
floor

arts & crafts

all this is
is arts & crafts
my afterschool
assignment
my biology
class
my putting
of pieces
together

i lift you
off the floor
and place you
onto the table
making sure
i have you facing
the right way up
i fold you open
like a cardboard box
and climb in

arts & crafts

all this is
is arts & crafts
sunday sharing
of cookies and milk
watching clouds
crashing in the sky
laughing at the sound
of laughter

i'm trying to take back
the breath you
took from me
the chase and capture
the euphoria of
struggle
the effort to name
the kill
after you

arts & crafts

all this is
is arts & crafts
the hide and seek
the lost and found

the innocence of sin
at every afternoon

lady of the desert*

the wind,
she doesn't see it coming

it hits her face
like someone's spit
dragging
like a stream
across her skin
carving scars
across the
desert

make the parade
across the land

the sun,
she doesn't see it coming

her robe
shifts up and down
her back
the weight of
tectonic plates
scrape off
the dry autumn
leaves

burn as bright
as a sacrifice

the men and women,
she doesn't see them coming

born
not for love
but for the sake
of formula
born
because from that height
he cannot see me
and he cannot see you
but
because from that height
all he can ever see
is a view

the graves and landfills
hold a handful of ideas

this,
she doesn't see coming

the winds hit her
and the sun burns her
but she marches on
knowing no justice
but the forces between
her own two feet
she marches on
with one hand held up
not in search
for what she deserves
she marches on
with one hand held up
simply to
balance herself
against the world

she is not blind
but blinded

so,
she doesn't see this coming





* Captive Andromache, painted by Frederic Leighton.
* Dedicated to you. Is there any justice in this? Do we deserve any of it? The happiness? The sorrow? I do not know. I only know that there is a balance ... somewhere. And one day, the scales will tip back in your favour. If not, I owe you $1,000,000, remember?

6:00*

(6:00)
(sun up)

dreams at your feet
the bruise on your knee
stumble across
the horizon
and fumble
with the
key

walk in w's
step over
the cracks
be careful of the
whites
and beware
of the blacks

follow the sun
keep it up
in the sky
12:00 is here
both hands
point high

even your clock
is praying
your hands
choose to sleep
pockets to hide in
a fortune-cookie fate
to keep

chase the sun
always in sight
eyes bleach and burn
from the black
to the white

count the steps
don't count the sheep
a nightmare without
the night
sleep
the ignorant
sleep

the sky turns
to sand
a desert
from the sea
the oceans ebb
and evaporate
into memory

you keep waking
with dreams at your feet
as the nightmare clock
keeps mistaking
time
from
eternity

(sun down)
(6:00)

* Edited photo of the surface of Venus from the space probe Venera 14. I cropped off the lower portion of the photo which revealed the legs of the space probe.
* For you kids who've actually read all/most of the stuff here (either from recently or since the beginning), the "nightmare clock" at the end of the poem is derived from my earlier poem "postmortem". I've always enjoyed the line (and concept of), "a clock who cannot tell time from eternity", and I thought I'd give it another shot here. Hey, it's not plagerism if it's your own material. More like re-runs.

hiding behind the trees*

haiku, a creature
who appears as lazy as
it is elusive








*1535 wood carving by Erhard Schön.

city of ghosts

[hold me
at
seven steps]

i hear
whispers

heavy with
age

and
i hear them
hold you down
like chains

[hold me
at
seven steps]

there are
secrets here

swaying in the
sea

the shackles
you wear
like
jewelry

[hold me
at
seven steps]

in this city
this city of ghosts

the past
never pass

and the people
never let go

and
amongst the
liquor-breath
lies

the shuffles
under
bottle-capped
skies

you hear
apologies
for things yet done

and cry
for things
that have yet come

[hold me
at
heaven's steps]

in this city
this city of ghosts

the truth will set you free

[if you only knew
what you do not know]

[you would also choose
slavery]

the contingency

collapse under the kiss
wrapped up
in ruin and rubble
blankets of earth
caught between
fingers
and collecting above
shoulders

you're safe now

hiding under
fallen trees
sharing the secrets
of birds and bees
waving your feet
over winter
leaves

you're safe now

from the stars
the space between
silent and black
quiet and wrapped
around the eyes
blind and bold

you're safe now

embracing
and escaping
the touch of cold
promises
the land of shadows
ideals written
in coal
on cave walls

you're safe now

resting on rock
and solid footing
the scrape of knees
remind you
of the bliss of bees
and the hollow
trees
that hide the heart

you're safe now

that you have reality
on the lips
and crumble
from the kiss
and are hung
from the wrists

you're safe
now that my love
is not real

you're safe
from what you
do not
deserve

my love, my love

cosmology*

step carefully,
tread softly, now,
to trace paths
that never cross,
that never collide
but always running
side by side;
get away,
get away
and

make a straight line
make a straight line
make a straight line

step carefully,
tread softly, now,
and connect the dots
with minimal strokes;
minimize the size and
make it,
make it

the shortest line
the shortest line
the shortest line

step carefully,
tread softly, now;
look up slowly
and pray
not
for those who do not,
but for yourself;
look up slowly
and pray
you're looking
in the right direction
and

follow the line
follow the line
follow the line

step carefully,
tread softly, now,
for heaven may be
cloudless
and hell may be
cold
and the world we stand on
may be all that we can
stand

the end of the line?
the end of the line?
the end of the line?

step carefully,
tread softly, now,
for in between
heaven and hell,
gravity only works
in one direction;
it only works one way;
on your way
down









*The Falling Man, taken by Richard Drew. I do apologize in advance if some people find the photo offensive. I have no intention to disrespect any of those who suffered in the September 11 attacks. It is not my intention to use the photo for "shock" value but rather I find that it captures human tragedy with such simplicity and potency that it fascilitates the mind to confront transcendental ideas of existence that we are too often (willfully) ignorant of.

the rapture*

buried in your flesh
and writhing
beneath your folds,
there is a beating
in the dark

muffled behind muscle,
it calls to me
in short gasps,
as the cage that keeps you
[both cartilage and bone]
shakes in a whimpered effort
to unhinge itself

lost in the corporeal
labyrinth,
the heart shines
as dark as
stone

so i tear you open
to let the light in

your eyes keep open,
though tears fall,
for the window to your soul
must let the light in,
afterall

with muscles that hold
like marble,
there should be some light
in there,
afterall

poor Persephone,
i'm beating you to death;
but Demeter will have to wait
for this rapture
to end

with a heart of darkness,
i cut you open,
only to find the darkness
in there as well




* The Rape of Proserpine, sculpted by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Photo taken by unknown photographer.
* This poem is dedicated to the victims of rape, especially to the women that I personally know who have experienced it. If it were up to me, I would have those men castrated and forced to eat their own dicks. And if there is a God out there, (if I am to pray to you) I pray that one of these days, you will face your own children and explain why you would allow such a horrible thing to exist in your world.

life forms*

the pillow-top of my lips
perch next to
your ear,
peering between the
crumpled fabric

i look for a way in

my whispers
billow out
as bubbles,
caught on one side
of your face,
like morsels upon
little whiskers

my words are
making you
hungry

and
i want in

the warmth of baked goods
escape between the
soft dough
that outlines my mouth;
the heat of my breath
traces paths
across your landscape
searching for hidden messages
and secrets
beneath the skin

you're hungry
for something to
chew on

and
i need to get in

you lay still
and play dead
so that you become
inanimate,
an object,
a device

a trap

your chest heaves,
your limbs uncoil,
and the curtain of your lips
pull back;
a breath as hot as hunger
floods out of you,
and before i can pull myself
away,
it's over

the predator becomes the prey
the subject becomes the object
the man becomes the meal

i wanted in
and now here i am,
littered along your walls,
stuck between your teeth,
and ringing in your ears

i wanted in
and
i wanted immortality
and
things that are not alive
can never die

so here i am

inside of you
and
immortal








* Isabelle, painted by Audrey Chihiro Kawasaki.

the sunday picnic*

Mother Eden,
now fossil and bone.
Rocks and thorns
now make our home.

Mother Eden.
Uteral dream.
Lost in birth
and born unclean.

We cannot go back.
She was never there.
Secrets are spoiled
but are never shared.

So we roll and toil.
We toil and roll.
The big fish eat the little fish.
On and on we go.

It is here the land
belongs to the dead.
Shuffled feet whisper.
Shadows hang off heads.

There's no slow panic.
There's no racing hearts.
There's only sunday picnics
and the late starts.

So we wander and wonder,
as we make monkeys into men,
we wander and wonder
what that makes us then.

We wander and wonder
who the maker really is then.

We wander and wonder
who our mother really is then.



* Big Fish Eat Little Fish, painted by Pieter Bruegel.

la valse

circlé, la circlé
the sun and saturn,
atoms and eve;
spinning matter

circlé, la circlé
the circus, the clown;
the sights and show,
the lights, the sound

circlé, la circlé
the clap, the dance;
a love, a loss,
choices and a chance

Round and round we go,
but will you come around again?
In the circle, the circle we're in,
can this really be the end?

And it goes,
"Ce ne vas pas etre ce soir -
that we find out who we really are.
No, it won't be tonight
that we know what is,
but only what might ...
so sing the stars."

your "V" is for victory

how do i thank you ...

jackie,
always there for the support,
ever-loving, ever-caring,
i know no one with a heart as big as yours

yu,
always confident in me,
willing to defend me from my own doubts,
true loyalty is as rare as a friend like you

joming,
always cheering me on with endless smiles and hugs
a mentor, a pupil, a peer, a partner, an equal,
someone whom i look up to despite walking next to me

sarah
always there for laughter and wisdom,
showing me how the strength of conviction
can be so human

mom & dad,
always providing me the balance i need,
dad, always preparing me for reality, and
mom, always believing in the best of me

kent,
always there to make me laugh things off,
forget the frustration,
and make the wait as fun as possible

snowy,
always there for all of it.
the highs. the lows. the not-worth-mentioning's.
you have been there, holding your breath, when i lost hold of mine.

how can i thank you ...

To Mark Leung*

CONGRATULATIONS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
five o'clock in the morning
sleeping
esacaping from papers the phone
rang
A voice from
across the Pacific Ocean
'YAU SUET MAN'
the other side yelled as if the world is collapsing
'I got into UBC law school!'
couldn't believe what i've heard i yelled back
[in chinese] what?
Opened my eyes at once
'oh my god oh my god oh my god..........'repeated thousand times
holding the letter
uttering each word from it
he was like the happiest child
he got it
and i believe it
Congratulations!

-----------------------------------------

Thanks for sharing this moment with me (and making me the first to be told hehe...) I would never forget that yelling! Remember this moment of victory.



* Thank you for your words and allowing me to put them on here (There will be more thanking later).

the dreaming of God's children

Power.

I had a dream.
I had a dream
where I did terrible things.

Power.

I had a dream
where
I did not need wings to fly.
I did not need weapons to fight.
I did not need rules to follow.

Power.

I had a dream
about God and his children.

Did I do all that?
Yes, you did.

The will can be a terrible thing -
when it knows
how much it can do,
when all it wants
is to express
itself.

Power.

I had a dream
where I destroyed
the world
just to see
that I could.

And I enjoyed it.

You wear hearts. I'll wear ties.*

You wear hearts
and I'll wear ties.
We'll hold hands
and hang onto lies.
You sing and dance.
I'll dance and sing,
and laugh and smile
at every thing.

The sky. The mountains.
We all melt into the sea.
The "this' & thats"
disappear so beautifully.
Everything is gone
and everything is done.
You worry, and yet
you'll cheer up as it comes.

You're wearing hearts
and I'm wearing ties.
We're clapping our hands
and listening to lies.
The song and dance.
The words we sing.
The smiles that stretch
from nowhere to nothing.

Everything is gone
and everything is done.
Already you're cheering up.
Smile, here it comes.

Here it comes.


* Hell, painted by Hieronymous Bosch, from his triptych, Garden of Earthly Delights.

between you and i lies this place

when you saw me, what did you see?

i want to know
what you saw.
please.

tell me.

was i any different
than the way you
remember me?

did i look happy?
did i look happy
without you?

when you saw me, what did you see?

was everything different?
was i the same?
was it a second chance,
or was it a goodbye?

when you saw me, what did you see?

while i was sitting there with you,
talking, smiling, laughing,
could you see
that while you were there,
you are never here ...

that while i have lost you,
i will never stop
losing
you

to this place
lying between
you and i


*Dedicated to the late Stanislaw Lem.

hum*

everything hums

the
stars and cities
the
fists and kisses
the
cuts and smiles

everything hums
through the air,
bouncing & bubbling
about

you can see it
froth
like hunger
burst
like patience
crystalize
like focus

a riot seen from space
a war fought in reverse
a sparkle in watered eyes

is it not beautiful?
it is too much.
is it not indescribable?
it is too much.
is it not too much,
for us?

we don't deserve this ...
we don't deserve this ...
we don't deserve this ...

everything hums

the
moment
the
morning
the
hope

that we may earn it


* Untitled photo, taken by Joming Lau.

there, swinging in the sunlight*

you don't remember it
but it's there

you don't know it
but it's still there

it's still there,
waiting

you're holding her hand
and

she's holding you back

you can tell
she's smiling
by the way they
swing
in the sunlight

there.
in the lensflare

there.
in the corona

there.
in the shadow

the things
that exist
only in
between
us

you're holding her hand
and

you can tell
she's already gone

everything is gone
and

everything is
still

waiting
for you

forever



* "White Light" photo by Jackie.

curl-un-curl

i'm quiet when i turn the knob
clockwise;
the "click"
of mechanics,
however,
ruins the romance

(uncurl)

i see you in bed;
you're fetal
and lying still,
a Grecian statue
of a womb;
but i can see you
struggling
with the sheets;
your mouth, open
on the shores of a pillow;
you take a breath
as the tide rises
to flood in

(curl)

i want to kiss you
and keep it forever
on my lips;
i want to be the
air in your lungs,
an ornament
in your chest;
i want to be inside
of you
without you feeling
me there

but don't worry,
this is but a moment.
a moment
i will always have
without ever holding still

the concept
the conception
the creation is an illusion

decay is the only reality
we know

(click)

i see you in bed
and i see
the universe

the forming of a fist
with no hand to hold it still

the seconds that pass for the non-protagonists

Give me a second.
Just give me one second
to talk you down from this.

one...two...three...four...

out of that gateway
you appear
and wave me away;
you tease me with a smile designed for strangers;
for letting them know
that you're untouchable

i can't save you

cos'
this time
we're not acting for anyone;
no one is watching us pretend
to be protagonists,
cos'
you never really needed saving
and i was never really a hero

So you say,
"I think
this time
we are really
saying goodbye."

you appear in that gateway
four times,
waving me away
with more tears in your eyes
each time

one...two...three...four...

four seconds is all it takes
for the one you love
to walk away
forever

and the jukebox is playing, "Ode to the Amazon"

(to be read along with some good ol' dirty blues rock)

you lick 'em lips, and
pucker up that pose.
the way you stand there like that,
i could pick you
like a rose.

the way you curve up like a highway ...
the way you spin down onto my thigh ...
the way you wrap yourself around me ...
girl,
you're one knot i'd love to untie.

where you goin' honey?
why you movin' like that?
take me with you, darlin'.
i was never yours,
but take me back!

don't leave me like this,
don't you dare leave me now.
don't you know i can't get down from here?
don't you know
i don't know how?

you flash one of 'em winks,
you blow me a goodbye,
and you walk out that door
like you're leaving me
to die.

damn you, woman.
damn you to hell.
damn the things that are damned
in such a way that
i can't tell.

waking to the spiderwebs outside of windows

you hang over me,
like a dream
leftover from the night;
sitting so still
in the centre of your
universe,
you somehow
hold on
while looking like
you're letting go

every night,
the cold comes to claim us;
it meets you at my window,
truth tugging on your strings;
but you hold on,
refusing to meet
half way,
when winter is willing
to wait much longer

the morning is only
what the morning
makes out of us

and every morning,
with the dreams
drying from my eyes,
i'm trying ...

i'm trying to learn
to love
while letting
you go

The following is a journal entry I wrote this summer while I was flying across the Pacific Ocean heading to Hong Kong. It reflects well the mental state I was in before my epithanic experience in China. I know this ain't the same run-of-the-mill Mark poetry, but for those who know me, I thought this internal dialogue prose / journal entry would be nice to share with you. But I promise more poetry soon. If only I could be more depressed and be able to focus without having her in my head so much ... I'm just kidding. No really, more poetry soon. I promise.


The only thing wrong with me is that I believe something is wrong with me.

Do I need to travel across the world in order to find myself? Am I not already here, in myself? What is it that I feel is missing in me?

Perhaps nothing is missing but the belief that nothing is missing.

I do have tendency to make things harder for myself. Is it easier to cry when you imagine it being heard? Yes.

For your own sake, Mark Kwong Leung, stop thinking about everything and just be. Just exist, and you will find a reason to. You got to let go. I've said it before, and you've heard it before. Let go of yourself and you'll find yourself ... with what you've always had ... what you've always needed all along ... just yourself.

Just myself? Just myself? Is that not one of the most depressing concepts/ideas in all existence? To be truly alone? Always and inescapably alone?

You need to differentiate between what you're looking for. Is it yourself (or a part of yourself) or someone who can make you feel (more) whole? One you have a significant control over (or at least, that what I'm trying to convince you of), and the other, you have less influence on. However, the two are interrelated. What you need to focus on is the former and stop thinking that the latter is essential to the former. In fact, it's probably the other way around. You have to find yourself on a (more) solid place before you can better meet someone. Don't you see? Be at peace with yourself, and things will fall into place.

Hah! You have merely introduced the "chicken and egg" problem. What reason do I have to be happy/content with who I am if no one else does?

Why do you need reasons dependent upon others for your own satisfaction with yourself? Are you saying that if you were the only person in the world, you would have no reason to be happy with yourself? No, there is no necessary condition requiring the interests of others to be in your favour in order for you to be happy with yourself. Sure, the interests of others help, but by no means should one be dependent upon such an external opinion. It's not healthy. And besides, why do you believe that no one likes you? You have tons of people who enjoy your company, who think you're a wonderful person. Again you need to make a distinction as to what kind of opinions you somehow find significant for self-worth. I think you have attached to this value certain qualities, like physical appearance, social skills, attractive friends, etc. More specifically, you seem to be really concerned with certain features of attraction as a yardstick for self-worth. BUT WHY? Not only are features of attraction different for different people (i.e. it probably varies more than you know), but also you have many good traits that you seem to underplay, such as intelligence, wit, humour, loyalty, ethics, principles, friendliness, being athletic, healthy, interesting, creative, original, honest, good at communicating, etc. Some of these traits you don’t give yourself enough credit for. A vicious circle is what you’ve put yourself in, as you previously have mentioned. But this circular trap is artificial, it lacks substantial structuring. As you can see, a lot of how you feel is exaggerated and unfounded. You need to have more faith in yourself. How did you come to question yourself so much?

Robin? When I lost her, I lost more than just her. To this day, I think, I wonder if we separated because I wasn’t good enough for her to stay with me. I mean, if only I was a good enough boyfriend, would she have stayed with me? Would I not have lost her? If only I was a better person … if only I was something more than what I was … maybe I would never have lost her. Maybe that’s where all this comes from. Maybe I’ve never been able to forgive myself for losing her …

But it wasn’t your fault. You must know that. You did your best … you both did. But she had to follow her own calling … like you had to as well. You may think that if only you spent more time with her, if only she was able to fall in love with you just a little bit more …

… if only, if only …

… if only she would have decided to stay … or not end the relationship … But we both know that you can’t be blamed for something like that. More importantly, it was a decision that both of you made … it was bad timing. It was bad timing. So forgive yourself if you need, but you shouldn’t feel that you are to blame. Or that you failed in some respect. Think of her, Mark … think of her, and the wonderful time you two spent with each other … she would not have wanted you like this … if not for yourself, think about making her proud of who you are … who you can be.

I know you feel weak … I know it hurts … it hurts a lot … but let go. Like you did when you first fell in love with Robin, let go. Let go. But this time, let go of the pain, the hurt … the regret? The questions? The truth? The truth … let it go, please … just let it go, for the both of us. I know you’ve got potential kid. It’s time you stop being afraid of letting go of what was once before. The future ain’t so bad. They say the sun still comes out in the morning. So close your eyes. Breathe out. And wake to the sun. But this time, with new eyes.

Let go, and wake.

Mark Leung
July 8th, 2005

Here's something quick and fun that I wrote at work in an email on Friday. Yes, that's right. I write poetry during work.


A Poem about Snowy and her Melon

Snowy, oh Snowy,
oh, don't you know I'm sorry?
Leaving you last night
must have left your heart all gorey*.
Despite my good intentions,
and I have a lot of those,
I hurt you when I shouldn't have
and that's as simple as it goes.

You can imagine how happy I was last night
to finally hear your thoughts.
But let me tell you how painful it was
to have to leave you with nought*.

The other day, sunrise-smiling was I
with a new phone card in my hand.
“One thousand minutes of Snowy’s voice?!”
Oh, I must have yelled across the land.
So the night finally came
when I hoped to finally hear
my dear Snowy’s voice on the phone
whispering and singing into my ear.
“A-RING, A-RING, A-RING” it rang,
with no Snowy to pick up of the phone.
A STING, A STING, A STING, it stang (?!)*
To be sitting and ringing alone.
So I went downstairs in hopes to see
that maybe Snowy would be online.
Then KABAM! There she was (with me!),
we were typing together in no time.
But again, the fates it seemed
was against us from the start.
“Snowy forced to work all night?!”
the thought like a second knife to my heart.
And so I left you, albeit abruptly,
hoping you would eventually get some sleep,
not knowing that I left you wading
in a place that was dark and deep.
How sad it must have been that night,
both of us missing the other.
And to hear you mad at me now
is like choking while being smothered.

But nevertheless, I was quick with the jest
to leave you to get to work.
Oh my dear Snowy, see that I’m sorry.
This nice guy ended up being a jerk.
So I hope you're not mad, not upset, nor sad,
and so when I finally call you on the phone
you’ll tell me you miss me, and you really want to kiss me
for calling you and writing this poem.
For I may be forgetful (but hopefully not regretful)
and be guilty as a felon.
But one thing is for sure (and I hope you concur)
that I’ll always be your melon.

*nought: nothing, nothingness
*gorey: adjective of “gore” (“coagulated blood from a wound”). Basically, I described your heart as being bloody and wounded.
*I am quite aware that “stang” is not the past tense of “sting”. But “stung” just didn’t rhyme very well with “rang”, and so for rhyming purposes, I decided to invent my own poetic device called “MAKING UP MY OWN WORDS”. Sue me.

the morning finds me waiting

the morning finds me waiting;
with eyes to the sky
and my back
to the ground,
i grow tired of
gravity
holding me down

buried in the silence,
let the world melt
away from me,
none of this is real enough
when it's you
that sets me free

for the sake of love ...
for the sake of love,
i can hear you say;
no one is counting your losses,
no one is counting
today

so the morning finds me waiting,
the sky empty
with things
that may never
come,
still something
falls upon me;
it's love
when there should be
none

with so much inside of you

with so much inside of you ...

[you hold your breathe]
[just to keep yourself]
[standing]

with so much inside of you ...

[you close your eyes]
[just to cover the world]
[from your tears]

with so much inside of you ...

[you bury your heart]
[just to keep yourself]
[from floating away]

with so much inside of you
inside of me,
i can't possibly
miss you
more

a moment [no more]

i hear you;
you haven't been silent at all;
it's been you, all along ...
all this time,
all this laying before me,
all this

- noise -

how can i not hear you now?
here i am,
in your midst,
swallowed and digested,
hearing you
churn about

how can i not feel you now,
when I am forced to
be
so as to have
the choice
not to be?

spinning
&
spinning
&
spinning

and all of a sudden ...

- silence -

the sound of
escape
and the whispers
that never reach my ears
but find their way
into my chest

Can you believe it?

I don't feel the world at all!
I don't feel the world at all!
I don't feel the world ...

just the heart held in between my arms.

- a moment -
[no more]

the silence breaks
and i am back here,
back in your mouth
where it is never quiet
enough

if only you would just
listen

&

let me be
free from you
for a moment
more

This will be our goodbye

I need you to do me a favour.

Wake.
Tell me where you are.

The Sun is melting to my left,
like gold spilling
into the ocean;
the warmth reaches for me.

I turn to my right
and watch the water
freeze into a mirror,
as if to catch the stars
amongst its waves.

I need you to hang up the phone
without saying a word to me.

Tell me where you are.

I don't know.
But I can feel the universe
pulling me
apart.

If "home is where the heart is"
could you tell me where I'm going?

Something has found me here though.
It holds me down at night
and whispers into my ear.

"We are always and inescapably alone."

We were once alone together.
We are now both alone once more.

And this will be our goodbye.

---

Deep Cove

Here,
the Universe rolls over
the crest of mountains
and comes down at you
like an avalanche;
sometimes,
you can't breathe
cause the only way out
is up.

Here,
the sunrise
captures the world
as an embryo
and hides it
in silhouette;
in its uterine glow,
the trees
are no longer
neighbours,
but are a forest
once more.

Here
is where home is ...
and when the world changes,
you try to change with it.

But things remain the same:
Another "goodbye"
without the "hello"
and sooner or later
you'll have nothing left.

But for now,
here's one more for the record books.

I'm going to miss you.
Goodbye.

Come and see me with your weaker eye*

You see me here
between the lines
and you don't even
close those eyes
at the fluorescence
- the lies -
that encage you.

Why did God give you
the ability to cry
when he knew
that right here
and right now
I would give you the reason to.

I stand before
the cage
that keeps you,
and I can't help
but hope
that you can
hate me.

God,
at the very least,
should have given you
what is rightfully yours.



*Dedicated to Flubbo (or "Flubs" as she would like to be called), and to every other mistreated pet and animal in the world. I would say "I'm sorry" to you (Flubs), but even the unintentional implication of asking for forgiveness would further the injustice I have done to you ... the justice I have failed to provide for you. May you find a better life elsewhere ...

colours of the storm

You're wearing blue.
I must be seeing things again.

In my car,
I drove past
a crow
who lifted its head
to watch me go by,
the red mass of
meat and fur
at its feet
cooling in the
summer rain.

You're wearing red.
I must be seeing things again.

I drove out
of Deep Cove
as the sky fell
upon the streets;
there is a certain
darkness
here
when it rains
that reminds you
of that empty space
left beside your heart.
A darkness that
lingers
even though
it drains to the sea.

I want you back.
But that never is quite enough,
is it?

If only love was truly blind,
I wouldn't have to find myself
seeing you all the time.

It's "beddy-bye time"* and I'm still awake

A pause to stop midbreath and hold on
with half of which is already gone;

you wake with heaven's weight on the heart
and hell half smiling at you from the start;

a handful of pink-painted bullets and of hope,
but love keeps you up only because of rope;

you see, it's the cold steel under your chin
and the dreams of escape that keep you in;

fuck, here it comes and you know it's boring,
but it looks like we're going to need the morning ...

afterall.



* Thanks Jackie (and your mom) for letting me borrow your words.

Here, at the point of contact

hold that smile
and let me count
the scars
hidden in the light

let me hear
the hesitation
when you whisper
into the night

i can catch you
if you would just
let go
and fall

and
we'll be alright
when nothing
is right
at all

cue the sunset

in the darkness
waiting down
the road,
and running alongside
your window,
tired eyes roam
in search for
a sight
- a face -
to rest on

you blink slowly,
careful not to spill
the tears
pouring down
your throat
as the darkness
wraps around
your view

a sunset
caught in the eye

and so
you close them -
to dream
of dreamless nights

end credits

i can't stop you
and i won't
stop you
from holding
your breath
for just
a little
longer

but wait for me,
please

wait, cos'
i'm almost there
with you

wait, cos'
i want this
to last
longer
than the breath
i have left
in my lungs

but you fall

you fall
faster
than the world
will let me
catch up

and so, i lose you
to the earth,
like the secrets
buried along
with the dead,

i lose you.

mens rea

you hold it in your hands
and you know it's there;
you know it's there
cos' there's a hurting
coming up your arm;
you hold it so tightly -
your eyes closed;
but hidden in the dark
between the reds and pinks
you know it's there
cos' you can feel it
fall apart;
you know its still there
cos' something keeps pouring
from the heart

you look up every night
and see the moon
hang over you
still,
so you whisper to it
a "thank you"
and swallow it
like a pill;
you sleep with a smile,
with forgiveness
in your ears,
but the sound of
indifference
is always harder to hear.

a title for the untitled

start with a hello

you don't know it,
but i've been here
all this time.

looking for you.

proceed with a kiss

this thing between our lips,
the warmth i taste
on my tongue
and the
little sound that
escapes
when we separate

the soft
wet
language
that no words
can name

help me find it
help me describe it
help me understand it

then say goodbye

cos' all i have is
a hello and a goodbye

help me put them together

Now you've got what you've always wanted*

Oprah has a show dedicated to her favorite things
so I figured I would dedicate a post to mine.

what do you think about,
when you make love to her?

I've now just eaten a whole pizza.
Not too happy with myself.
Why can't pizza be gross?

what goes on in your head,
when she kisses you goodbye?

Spending hours in chapters
with a starbucks in my hand

do you watch her walk away,
hoping to turn her around
and pull her back to you?

it says that I am a self-centered arrogant brat.
Uh...yah, that sounds about right.
Just kidding.

i'm sorry, but i have to ask:
is this what you've always wanted?

I always get my way.

cos',
you're killin' me, matt.
i shouldn't have to
cringe for you.

phew.

That was a long sentence.



*Italicized material courtesy of her.

project sleep

shattered shells
and broken bubbles
collect themselves
upon the windshield

the rain keeps crashing upon us

from left to right
and back again,
the wipers
chase one another
to a beat
unknown to the sky;
lovers
lost,
turning their heads
when they ought to
stay still

a head rocks
upon the shores
of a shoulder,
pressing into a body
like waves upon the Earth

they sleep in their seats
like sloppy drunks,
sloshing and tossing about;
and yet ...
their fingers find their way
around each other's hands,
holding,
anchored together
by the same pulse
beating beneath
their skin

Let the lovers sleep.
Always let lovers sleep.
So that
maybe tonight,
instead of finding you in my dreams,
it is myself I find in yours.

[deletia]*

tick, tick, tick ...

times new roman.

the mouth:
a carcass
for the words
and worms
that come out
of you

times new roman,
what the fuck are you?

new roman times.

#@*% !
now look what you've done.
the blood on my lips ...
how is it that
it tastes like your tongue?

are you the ink and brush ...
for my voice ?
for my thoughts ?
for hope ?

no, you are not made out of love.

all you are ... is a backdrop.
all you are ... is a default.
all you are ... is a second-rate god

lost in language.

but, why won't you let me describe you?
why don't i know what came before you?
why can't i escape you?

wait.
what are you ...
wait, give me one more try ...
just one more tr-
one more tr-
tr-
t-

tick, tick, tick.
times up.



* As much as I would like to take the credit for such a wonderful word, I borrowed it from Douglas Coupland (Microserfs), meaning "everything that has been lost".

the sum of your parts

tonight,
the moon nestles upon the leaves,
resting lightly on the tops of trees;
your tiny billows of breath
rise into the darkness
of winter's wheezing death ...

tonight,
the pencil-marked page
fills into your wrinkles of age;
like scratches of time past,
you write not with words
but with tears of glass ...

tonight,
lust echoes off of flesh,
as limbs quiver and collapse to rest;
a new scent forms in the dark,
when bodies become greater
than the sum of their parts ...

tonight,
you don't need to rush
for you've got the time;
the night
ain't lingering for love,
it's here for Valentines.

speaking in whisper

I stand here
and the stars
whisper
down
their secrets.
They tell me that I shouldn't listen to God.
Don't let his touch seduce you, they say.
... drug you into a
photosynthetic stupor ... I hear.
... he is cold-hearted;
A cold-hearted Sun.

The voices hang
on silent string.
I almost have to swim through it
just to hear my own breath.

They are secrets.
Baiting me,
waiting for me
to look up
at truth.
They would like to see me
crushed
by thought.

The sky must be tired.
She can't cover us up
from the Universe
forever.
No, she can't keep us
from forever
forever.

something falls from her :
... leave the dead to memory ...
... and leave memory for the dead ...

She isn't dead.

... go ahead
and tie yourself
to the bullet ...

I stand here
and take one step further
than I want to.

... that way,
you can't look back ...

That way, I can't look back, I repeat.
I brush the words out of my eyes.

Let the Sun lie to me.
He tells me things too.
That is truth up there, he tells me.
But while it's up with the stars,
things hide down here ...
yunno, in the dark.
He smiles first -
What?
You think truth can be in two places at once?!
- and ends up laughing.

You are beautiful,
even if they're both lying.
Not even the Universe
can take that away from you.

I look up
and I'm pulled into the sky,
hoping you are
looking up
when I'm looking down
for you.

for the Hollywood hearts

with apologies
waiting on lips,
and the rotting words
trapped on their way out,
the plot is written in regret
and played out
only in silence

The world turns white
under the styrofoam sky.
It's still red in here,
but you gotta wait for such things.

being almost weightless,
floating between pale-drained hands,
a script drops to the ground
as a ball of bad ideas:
the ending is ruined
before you even say a word

in memory of the meltdown

it is
the everything grey

the sun choking
on clouds,
coughing up winter
with tear-clenched eyes

it is
the everything grey

the burn that ignites
as an itch;
the malignant growth
in the lower back;
to rest itself
in an act
to tear me apart

rising in memory of the meltdown
the world is still on fire

so
keep your distance
keep your distance from me

and let it be
ash and blow away,
oh, let this be it,
the everything grey.

the window by your eye

nevermind what is outside;
nothing but shadows
behind mirrors;
a darkness
hidden behind glass;
i know you hear voices,
i know you hear songs,
but it is
nothing;
your shadow
is still nailed to your feet

from the 41*

where is that
pocket of
scent,
put away
in between your jaw
and your neck?

where is that
soft cheek
that crumples
under the delight
of a smile?

where is that
oven-fresh warmth
that bodies are
under sheets,
while the world remains
cold?

lost is
belonging too well
to a place
where
you don't want to be

* 41 is the number of the bus I take to get to UBC and back.

Songs of the cardiograph

pwodlvntusm-sphhhhhhhzzzs-ziodldnvkwn
wskdjxmzoiq-it-xhjdflrnmau
ifmerxdjoxe-is-efgnwefnwel
hxmwjuajsip-rainfall-tegdfbxgaje
nerlkngfwon-;-vbjbwehbvqu
wenvsdojvsq-the-qjvcjdkslfn
afgbnrwepsz-quiet-bnrhwnjfvla
vnrjbwonsdf-scraping-fpjrensdkfh
bvnzxofqpbn-between-reudfnvcxlv
znqoitryskv-earth-gwrhqncbvqp
erjfsdgslcm-and-vfcmneroqnsd
vwenfdoadnf-heaven-ijhtdffkjxc
opqeieporcv-;-xkmslajkdhf
sfdjnweisdjv-held-ejiweiosdkl
lkvcbqeopsk-and-rasgcxnmweu
tjyureiwoqi-heard-brnvpafjbfd
aoiermvgjue-at-smbvmxzugbv
lwkrjthgyps-a-mkzxvnfwxru
enbvclasadp-distance-qixvyntmrwj
xoqrwenvsdp-despite-vbqrutbhjsh
hedslafjqwe-the-pdofhqwimcz
iuydbqvnzpq-echoes-wodnfkaleug
coeufgnbvmw-inside-swrgfimjkpq
qpoakvnzxvc-;-fbjpwernbjg
uengpdfjasd-the-kfvnqkmzxiw
ucmwofkduwk-background-pebzqkfghol
gemxwxntukx-soundtrack-mzmxcnvtdqy
pujebnzxmqi-,-fibemzutrldh
reiqwdfnxcl-when-djiclxmasde
jepqnmdgnal-love-geonaxcmapq
chqpwenxkzs-becomes-ibowmdcqcjz
yjkjsdlvcxz-but-dklcnvqpfsd
wqdsbfxcpag-a-xvnbefjdald
veldsfjcmaq-noise-lqdbqjdfhvv
nbjwernrwgf-in-uwnewrpfgwl
oerhglrejkr-the-jwenrjohblz
wajsgunbhql-rain-nmbwjgoflsf
meiwncvqirw-sphhhhhhhzzzs-dheuiqobjew

I, the domesticate

a purr
drips off the lips
in a slow motion
sedated
rage

but the heart beats still

a beast born to
captivity;
the endless pitter patter
prowl
behind its cage

and the heart beats still

with breath
wet as fuel,
and as hot as hate,

the heart beats still

for the animal remains
afterall

such & rather

it is quiet
i hear too much
and the numbers
move
with such
sluggish fragility
i would rather
slip
and
sleep
than to hear much more

oh, don't you know?
you taste better
in slow motion

(or is it
bitter?)

Go to bed hon.
You'll feel better in the morning.

(chuckle)

No,
I won't.

(somewhere between Jupiter and 41st & Granville)

Stop.
Stop, Dave.
Please stop, Dave.
I'm afraid Dave.
My mind is going.
I can feel it.
I can feel it.
My mind is going.
There is no question about it.
I can ... feel it.
I can ... feel it.
I can ... feel it.
I am a...fraid.

silence
held under
a fall's grey

drown in shadow

and
hold me
with a
winter's hate

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.

the games children play

The secret sound

in games children play,

you want to be found

despite hiding away.

A holding of breath,

a building of silence,

the heart warms still

and red waits in violence.

But the greatest lie

is one that acts like a rule,

that the world you hide in

cares to find you.

The Spot

He had been laying on the grass for some time. Long enough for the grass to begin to reanimate under his body's weight, and slowly prickle his skin. The ants soon followed suit, as dozens of them began to free themselves from under the fallen giant. But he didn't move. He didn't dare to. No, not since he had found "the spot".

He remained still, there on the grass, as green tendrils of grass continued to uncurl around him, as the insects explored and climbed all over him. There he lay, still as a rock, as Earth and its motherly embrace slowly swallowed him into the ground.

But he didn't feel any of this, because he couldn't feel any of this. He was lost in some place else, some place he called, "the spot".

As far as he understood it, "the spot" was the centre of the world. It was the source of the world's energy. This did not mean that it was the centre of the planet, but rather, to him, he saw "the spot" as the little area left of the centre of a person's chest. The spot over a person's heart. In his conception, laying on "the spot" was like putting an ear over a beating heart. And laying there, he could hear the world no other could.

So he laid there, paralyzed. And slowly, he became numb to everything around him. The song of birds became absorbed by the trees. The blowing of wind lost its breath. The world went silent. And then, out of an abyss deeper than anyone could drown in, a faint pulse emerged. And as it grew, he slowly began to feel each pulse move down his arms to his fingertips, and down his legs to his toes. And soon, the beat surrounded him, as it simultaneously ran through him.

For the first time in his life, he felt his own heart beating. For the first time in his life, he felt the blood being pumped to each end of his body. For the first time in his life, everything internal of him surrounded him.

And as this feeling stabilized, a different energy was felt. It was an energy that accompanied his own. It did not come from within him. It came from below him.

For the first time in his life, he felt the world. For the first time in his life, he felt the Earth spin. For the first time in his life, he felt his heartbeat pulse into the planet's motion and the Earth's spin in his chest.

And at that exact moment, for the first time in his life, he thought to himself that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out alright.

Love-notes from the Bermuda Triangle

out here,
where skin wraps itself
around bones
and beating veins
like a noose;

out here,
where the lungs inhale
with a slow
caution
and claustrophobia;

out here,
where water
wears its weights
and struggle
is a shirt
clinging to the chest;

there is blood in the water

and things
are only going to get
crowded

Morning hum

an oscillating stir
hides its hum
under blankets
of red-blooded
self-deception

machines stuttering
on dreams
of warm meat

what is "tomorrow"
when it
wakes with
the same feeling
when it
wakes with
the same friction

when it
wakes with
a friction

that could start a fire

the taste of its truth
a dryness
in the mouth
that cannot be
extinguished

Vancouver

tap tap tap
fingernail tap dance
on glass
the rain knocks
like a scratch
at the window while
morning grey cracks
its joints in
stiff reluctance
to wake

The songs hiding under his eyes

There was once a boy. And there was once a darkness. A darkness the boy remembered well.

He remembered how it hid itself neatly in the cracks of the wall, and kept its head tucked under the window sill. He remembered waking to the morning sunrise and hearing the strangle of their moans until they became whispers. He remembered learning that while light cannot travel around corners, it is in the corners that the darkness breathes; where it is the strongest. But above all else, he remembered the words they spoke. Every night, even while he slept, they sang songs of half-promise and of half-threat.

But there was also once a voice. A voice the boy remembered well.

He remembered how it waited patiently in the cheeks of his mother, and how it radiated through her skin and warmed her smile. He remembered hearing it being powered by something deep within her body, and how it resonated with a strength and a fragility. He remembered learning how it could speak, not only through words, but also through a touch; through a holding of hands. But above all else, he remembered one song it sang. Every night, before he fell asleep, it would whisper, in half-song, half-caress:

Bring back,
bring back,
bring back my bonnie to me.
To me.

Bring back,
bring back,
oh, bring back my bonnie to me.

For a long time, this voice and its song would wake the boy to a warmth that gave a smile to his face.

But things are different now. And things are still the same.

Every night, before the boy falls asleep, he can still hear the darkness, and he can still hear the voice. The only difference now is that the lullabye that once sang like a song, has now begun to sing like a lie.

And, going unnoticed to the boy, in the place where his lowest ribs connect to form a cage, beneath the area centre of his chest, at the very bottom left of his heart, something hard, and something dark, has began to form there. And, from a view taken from the inside of his heart, what once appeared like a red and healthy curve of a muscle, has slowly taken up a strange semblance to one of the corners of the boy's bedroom.

Of wings and water

Beauty.
Everytime I see you,
you take me apart;
disassemble the gears
wrapped with meat and bone;
inject me with doubt and hesitation;
and
disarm me with a vulnerability
no other can master.

But beauty.
This is not the bone
I need to pick with you.
The truth is,
the higher you take me,
the farther I fall.

And while you keep
giving me wings,
I am still dead in the water
and
I drown
by the very thing
that gives me flight.

Our weapons of choice

With a back
racked up upon the cold slab
of a street,
I am
armed to the teeth
with patience.

Virtue never hurt so bad,
but these are our weapons of choice.

Caught in between
love and heroics,
I am as harmless and
obsolete
as an imploding ideal.

It's morning where you are

Your oven-baked body
in the morning calm;
flashing them eyes
like little bombs;
with pasta for hair,
and a face to bury,
the sun's on your back
with nothing to carry.
I swear you're on fire,
cos' you're starting to glow;
you're not even trying,
but it doesn't even show.
Now wake me up slowly,
tug me at my seams;
take me where you are,
where you're not just a dream.

the space that keeps me apart (from you)

hope, and
a handful
with no pockets
to keep it

hope, and
a heart machine
to keep me
breathing

hope, and
a half second
daydream
before gravity
makes itself into
a grave

The loss of language

If you were here,
right now,
I would ask you,
"Help me come up with a word.
One word to describe
the event,
the feeling
in which
the mere act
of understanding
what is real
hurts you more than anything
possibly imagined."

The reality is,
as is this
one word,
I am at loss
to find you.

Assembly line love song

go on,
flip the switch
boo-doomb
and now it's on
boo-doomb
the machine is on
boo-doomb
oh, all our hearts are on
boo-doomb
but once it starts
boo-doomb
it won't stop
boo-doomb
oh, this won't stop
boo-doomb
cause choice
boo-doomb
was never a chapter in the manual

bee
eee
eee
eep

the Industrial Revolution
didn't make things easier
for us
afterall

Princess Suburbia and her suicide lullaby

Don't panic
Princess Suburbia.
Don't panic.
Cos' I'm about to sing you to sleep.

Go hide
your keys;
I know you were hoping
to stay a little longer,
but you won't be needing those secrets
and lead weights
tonight.

Oh, Princess Suburbia.
Wipe those jewels
worn under your eyes.
I know you're
sore like
a whore,
lie-ing there
under the sky.

in utero

But tonight,
it's just me and you.
Tonight,
I'm tripping you
as you fall.

But.
Don't panic.
This is only evolution.

Beautiful colour machine

Please don't be afraid.
I am afraid enough
for all of us.
I'm enough
for all of us.

little murmurs
that echo in the chest
[it gets heavier everyday]
this self-defense mechanism
turned on, like a box
inside
[it gets heavier everyday]
hardening this heart
into a statue
lodged like a bullet
in the chest
[it gets heavier everyday]

Bite down my darling.
Bite down hard
and swallow your tongue.
Cos' you're about to fall
through the ground.
Cos' your heart
is dragging all your organs down,
like a stone
cast to sea.

You tell me
all I need is a
beautiful colour machine.
I'm colour blind
and the jokes on
me.

The joke is
me
and I'm enough
for all of us.

To an angel

In a place of darkness,
where time stood like a rock,
something happened to me.

For the longest time,
I was digging in the dark.
For the longest time,
I was digging myself apart.

And in a place of darkness,
you flew over me
and took me out of a hole.

They say
even the Devil's heart
can be pierced
by a Cupid's shot.

Something happened to me.
Something split me open
and you came into me.
You filled me up
and made me into something
I never thought I could be.

And suddenly
I was no longer cold.
It was no longer dark.
I was no longer digging,
but flying
with your arms around me.

An angel with the Devil
in her arms.

All you did
was show yourself to me.
And I was shown
something I had never seen before.
Hope.

And in a place of light,
I was flying.
Because of you.
Because of you.

But deep inside,
a dark fire had kept on burning.
A fire that I could never extinguish.
And as I looked down
into my chest
I knew it would grow.
Grow until I set fire to
the ears that would hear my words,
the skin that would feel my touch,
the eyes that would see my face.

Grow until I set fire to
the angel that carried me.

So I pulled away,
thinking you would hold on
and tear something within me
apart.

But instead,
in a place of pain,
in a place of darkness,
in a place of light,
you said to me,
"You are brave."

But instead,
in that moment of silence,
in the sound of release,
you let me go,
while smiling
like the rising sun.

And as I fell,
all I could feel
was my shattered state.
It was me who fell apart.
It was me who broke away.

And as I see you now,
almost as high as you once were,
all I want you know
is that
you were the brave one.
You were the one who let go smiling.
And in a place somewhere beautiful in the sky,
I know you will be soaring there once more.

Highways growing on flowers

we are [all]
a terrible happiness

growing

oh,
we never stop growing
do we?
[no]

with
[no] tragic irony
[no] careless punchline
intended,
it reads:
CAUTION - Deer crossing

my deer [sign],
you are the only thing standing
in a field of
fallen trees
[scratch that]
growing cement
[that's better]

we are [all]
a terrible happiness
travelling along
highways
growing on flowers

self de(con)struction

we are supposed to outgrow our past
the past is not suppose to outgrow us

"change into who you are,
not who you are trying to be"

my past has outgrown me

and I am left alone
with nothing
...

untitled

I'm too tired
to be poetic.

I'm too tired
to drive lovers home.

I'm too tired
to always try to be the hero.

Fuck you.

One of these days,
I will hurt you like hell
just to rest my hands
away from my heart.

Circles for breakfast

a kick to the ribs
that gives life
to metal

*verrrrrrrrrrrooooommmmm*
*mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhm*

a mutated purr
pricks the
still air

I stand at my door
key halfway in its hole
the sun is racing up to catch me
but I stand still
head half turned
caught on something

*cao-chirp ... cao-chirp cao-chirp*
(at a distance further away)
*cao-chirp cao-chirp ... cao-chirp*

we woke the world
while falling asleep

If only this was blood ...

outside my window
stands six roses
blooming like grenades
above my head

oh how I envy you
and how you peel
yourself open
to let things crawl inside;
how you let the wind
tear you apart
and scatter your genitalia
across the lawn

and remain beautiful all the same

oh how I hate
the way you force me
to write poetry
just to bleed like you do

yet remain ... all the same

... maybe spring would arrive.

Maybe you could be my extinction

The universe is a big place.
There's a lot of room for
mistakes and regrets.
But don't let that scare you away.
No, don't let me scare you away.
Cause,
you could be my extinction.

The universe is a quiet place.
Everything speaks
in sign-language.
But honey,
I'm trying my best
not to fall apart.
Cause,
you could be my extinction.

The universe is a still place.
Nothing moves much.
But once in a while,
once in a very rare while,
something lovely
enters the atmosphere
and crashes into us.

My dear,
maybe you could be my extinction.

Complaint Case #1: Dear Mr. "Poet"

Dear Mr. "Poet"
and your pocket-fill
of self-inflicted
tear stains;
your big, bloated
bag of sensitivity,
with a
handshake advertisment campaign
of sympathy ...

Dear Mr. "Poet"
and the soft
spoken shirt
you wear to bed;
the photos
of ghosts and shadows
that you force
into your eyes ...

Dear Mr. "Poet"
I grow tired
of the
rock you carry
ever so carefully
as a heart.

what the stars do while we sleep

maybe you,
maybe you could ...

close those eyes
and visit me
sometime

Oh, nevermind.

maybe you,
maybe you could ...

close my eyes
and leave me alone
this time

Oh, nevermind.

maybe I'm
maybe ...

i'm just tired of
waking to nobody
but myself

and yet
all this time

the stars are
witness
to our crimes

Oh, nevermind.

ad infinitum

this is blood
written on light
these are tears
bled during the night
this is a rerun
coursing through veins
and of promises
that break the same
this is amputation
with rusted words
a white flag is spoken
only silence is heard

cardiac

all of a sudden
this looks like
how I feel

one
dislocated heart
another
mislocated start

and stars
like broken glass
embedded
into the flesh

a single " yes"
spoken like a bullet
tied to a rope
around my neck

and all the while

alone with the desire
to decompose

just to get away

Talking in our sleep

A memory
that could stop
traffic,
blood to the heart;
you don't realize how dangerous
you still are to me.

There are things worth being woken up for.
I should have woken you up to tell you this.

Without these eyes,
you can't see
how you look to me.
But at least,
looking through those eyes
must make the world
look beautiful.

You're still in my phone.
Half crying for reasons I found out soon.
If you would like to call this person back,
please press 1.
I wish it was as simple as the number 1.

On the last page of my journal:
"I know --- wants to see me
in --- and sustain our relationship.
This above all else on this trip
makes me very happy.
See you soon."

There are things worth being woken up for.

Of promises baited on wire

Lay a morsel of sunlight
upon the blue platform
of the sky;
gently wisp the scent
of spring,
like the littering of traps,
of promises baited on wire,
amongst the whispers of the wind.

Do this,
and I guarantee
I will open my petals to you,
like welcoming arms,
like an anxious heart.

Who can blame me?
I've waited all winter for you.
I've waited too long for you.

This time of year is fatal
to those too anxious for spring.

But who can blame me?
I've waited all winter for you.
I've waited far too long for you.

19

Long ago, I thought best to keep count,
hoping that one day I could impress you
with numbers.

Now, all I am left with is
a mathematical joke.

3 + 3 + 6 + 5 + 2 = 19 days
Sometimes, 19 days is enough.
Sometimes, it's enough for 6 months.

Today I start at zero,
hoping that this time
I won't need to keep count.

Give and take

Despite the invention of the wheel
this bus isn't letting me get closer to you.
So just sit there and look pretty for me.

You look beautiful to me.

Despite the invention of the wheel
I'm not getting closer to anything at all.
Cause the delicate difference
between giving and taking
is as quick and incurable
as the blink of an eye.

Leap Year*

The time has come.
It is time for sacrifice.
It is time we sacrifice.

We are afraid.
We are very afraid.

Time has not changed
the superstition of science,
the science of superstition.
Same rituals.
Different rules.

We are still afraid.
We are still very afraid.

Numbers keep us in orbit.
Numbers keep us in line.
Numbers keep us alive.

We are still afraid of him.
We are still very afraid of him.

We sacrifice time for you.
We sacrifice numbers for you.
And in time, all we are are numbers.

*Yes, I am aware that a leap year is the addition of one more day. Just read the fucking poem.
Thanks,
from the Management.

"Haiku"

"Hey man, fuck you too!"
"No dumbass, I said, 'Haiku.'"
"My bad. Sorry, dude."

Automaton

You make this look easy.
Cos' you make this so hard.

My breath gets caught on
the stitches left in me.
And I have to pull it out
of my throat
just to breathe.

You make me hate the love I have.
Cos' you make me love the world I hate.

This looks easy.
But I'm getting tired
of forcing the air out of me.

Breathing hole

coffin lid grey sky
held down
with enough
gravity
to bend bones
and make the soil
stood upon like
quicksand;
liquifying earth
beneath feet
into a tar trap

blue sky breathing hole
day-long slit
with enough
circulation
to mend asphyxiation
and depressurize
the weight of
atmosphere;
planting in the air
hidden seeds
of hope

A Malfunctioning Defect

I thought I had built this well.
I thought this was fixed.
Quake-proof. But
this wasn't here
in the mirror, in the
morning.

It must be something I overlooked.
Something I didn't see.

Or something must have come loose.

Cause this leak on my face;
the one I had to check
in the mirror
just to make sure
it was there;
this must surely be
a mistake. This
must be a
malfunction;
a mal-
function-
ing d-
efect.
Cause only with a hole this big
could I have never realized
that all this time, I was
still standing in it.

Geometrical tragedy

Here.
I'm closing my eyes.
I'm walking blind for you.
I'm not even looking both ways.
Now show me something new.
Show me what the laws of momentum feel like.

Here.
I'm closing my mouth.
I won't speak.
I won't even make a sound.
Now tell me something new.
Tell me how I'm supposed to feel.

Here.
I'm letting go.
I'm letting you teach me.
I won't even protect myself.
Now touch me somewhere new.
Hurt me somewhere different.

Wait.
I've been here before.

I should know this by now.
I should know that
the tragedy of a circle
is that just before it ends
it forgets where it all began.
Here.

echo

I said goodbye.
Out of a cocoon
you became a dream
once more.
And all I was left with
was an echo.

Sometimes,
all you can really do is
listen and feel
whispers
burst inside of you.

I'm saying goodbye
for the last time,
but I swear,
it still sounds the same.

defrost

a sigh crystallizes
on pale lips;
nothing is moving;
the world is still
like a limb that is numb

Everything is cold.
Everything is heavy.

a sigh precipates
in the air;
too much for the atmosphere
it collapses to the ground
like a body;
lying there,
you can hear it whisper...

Lie to me.
Cause this time
I'll believe you.

addiction

white light hallucination
injection into my eyes

this is fire
without warmth
and all I need
is a little warmth

boil it down
distill and
concentrate
the earth
our Earth
into

a drug

this is words
without feeling
and all I need
is a little feeling

Shh...
quiet
hear that?
that's my heart
getting off a high
it's slowing
to a drip
drop
off

...........................

In this darkness,
I'm waiting for you.
In this world of addiction,
you're all the drug
I will ever need.

Holding...

. . . . . . ...your hands
I can't stop
your hands
from caressing
. . . . . . ...your hands
my memory.
Your hands
are the first things
. . . . . . ...your hands
I think of.

Your hands
make you stronger than your body.
Your hands
make me weaker than my mind.
Your hands,
opening my heart
. . . . . . ...your hands
for you to hold.
Your hands
I hold...
Your hands
I hold...
Your hands
I held...

. . . . . . ...your hands

I can't stop
. . . . . . ...your hands
from remembering
your hands
in mine
. . . . . . ...your hands
cause it was easier to hold onto
your hands
than it was to
. . . . . . ...your hands
hold onto you.

Manimal

Hold your science
like a spear
and wound the world
with your words.

Names like chains,
drag the planet
like a slave,
to hold up
The Manimal Kingdom.

Teach the manimals our language.
Teach the manimals our culture.
Teach the manimals our God.
And we will make the world ours
by making the world us,
by wording the world
in our own image.

The Fall of "Man" undone.
The Rise of "The Manimal Kingdom".
Let us give ourselves
another name...
for
the end of the world.

The Art of Waiting

Something grows
deep inside
like swelling metal.
I am heavy
with lead.

Organs pushed aside,
my heart
presses against my ribs
like a mouse
cornered in a cage.

It's strange cause
while this cancer
of a feeling
is spreading
through my vains,
all I feel upon me
is a
collapse.

The following is a copy of an entry of thoughts I recently wrote down on a piece of paper:

Saturday, August 30th, 2003

I don't like the machine that moves me. I don't like it cause it feeds off me and it hurts the world.

Everything that is unfair, that is unjust, I want to end.

And for the longest time, I believed (perhaps I have been conditioned to believe) that in order to change things, I must first be part of that which I want to change. I must integrate myself into the vital gears of the machine in order to successfully and effectively change it.

But I wonder now whether this is the machine's greatest defense mechanism. For it is true that although the strongest gear affects most powerfully all of the machine's workings, the same gear is simultaneously most affected by the workings of the machine. How can I stop something by becoming the organ that ultimately is made to perpetuate and fuel that thing I wish to end. I cannot become the Sun in hopes to extinguish myself for my nature is to shine.

So what now? Must I destroy the machine by standing outside of it? An anarchist? Would not a revolution cause more pain and suffering? That is not what I want.

Here I am given two choices. Option #1: to conform in hope (and in risk) that I am not only able to break the chains that shackle me but to free the world of them as well. Or Option #2: to force rather than convince the world to end this insane crusade of suffering, by destroying the foundations of which I, myself, stand to live on.

Before I do anything else, I must choose. For if I do not commit myself fully to either one of these choices, I'll be already lost in the labyrinth of motion of the machine that needs to be stopped.

Memory

Holding on
to something
no longer there;
made
not of molecules,
not of material,
not of matter,
but memory;
you exist
to me
like
the backdrop beating
of my own heart.
If I lay motionless,
I can still feel you
ebb
through me.

Like a flame
crowning a candle,
you burn bright
now,
but what will happen
when the fire fractures
and shatters into ash?

Being made of memory,
I cannot forget you.
For if I do,
I will have nothing else
but the stillness
of my heart.

Feeding the masses

I'm so tired
of feeding your face.
You keep digging,
and you'll keep on
hollowing me out,
until my skin stretches
around my bones
like Saran-wrap.

The meat in my hands
are raw
like the stringy pieces
of flesh around a wound,
torn open
in the thick
hemoglobin air
under a bandaid.

You see,
when you sit down
to eat,
you're not eating
what I make.
You're eating
what I am.
You're eating me
alive.

I'm so tired
of feeding you my face
that I have now lost
my appetite.

The Mosquito

The air furs against my ear.
The noise plunges deep,
jerking me like a
posthumous
spasm.

There is something unsettling
about the way you move.
Eratic yet driven.
You're a drunk
stumbling in
an effort
to rape
me.

Your light hollow touch...
Your thin cold penetration...
shakes me with force.

But the worst part
is the lingering
of violation
on my
skin.

3:48 AM

the words fall out
of my head
like the settling of dust

inside
i am falling
to pieces
while
the universe
is reconstructing
outside

anticlimax

Imagine God
masturbating.

This is me and you.
This is everything.

Imagine God.
Imagine God's orgasm.

This is who we are.
This is what everything is.

Imagine God.
Imagine the Big Bang.

This is what we are
to God.
Ejaculated sperm.
Vaginal contractions.

They say the Sun is shrinking.
They say its fires are dying.
They say the Universe is cooling.

An anticlimax
is what we are.
Get used to it, baby,
cause things are about to get
cold.

Fish & Chips

Thawed from the freezer,
thawed from the sea,
I hold something that was once
a cod.
Where a skin of scales
used to be,
there is now only
batter
that drags on
and drips off
like the pulling
of a sheet
draped over a corpse.
An unspoken act
of violence,
of viscosity.

How long does it take
to fall
from Heaven
to Hell?
It's guaranteed to be fresh,
so it can't be long.
From the endless ocean
to fryer number 4
in under 7 days.

It took God
7 days
to create the world.

The new skin
bubbles
and blows open
in the midst of canola oil.
Similar to what happens
to fish that come up
from the depths
too fast.
Decompression.

Something explodes
and I feel my knuckle
begin to boil under heat.
And I let the fish go.
But something else
floats back up.
This disfigurement,
this reconstructive surgery,
this reanimation
of skin over a corpse,
I serve to you
with fries.

A dark spot
has been growing
onto my skin
where I was burned.
Though I am certain
that I am not immersed
in canola oil,
I can't help but feel like
I'm growing new skin.

empire

dear swallow-me-machine:
gears grind bones into dust;
digest with conformity,
and shit me out
into something harder

dear swallow-me-machine:
liquified; dripping
in between the cracks
and landing into the mold
like a car crash

Dear swallow-me-machine,
you eat too fast.
Your empire will collapse
like a windpipe.
So hold your breath
and prepare to choke
my dear
swallow-me-machine.

photograph

I hold you in my fingers,
tight like the strangling of a throat.
You are a stranger to me.
And you are my victim.

You stand there,
content,
happy,
frozen in time,
which makes murder
so much easier.

I found you in the space
in between pages,
in between words,
in the midst of some story
you didn't belong to.
Frozen in time,
as a bookmark.

Is murder in two dimensions
murder at all?
Because next to your aging face,
that powdered colour,
that proud smile,
I hold a flame
like a gun to your head.

The scariest thing about God
is indifference.

The room warps
and bends into the third dimension,
where it doesn't belong.
It begins to bubble
and turn black.
The edges of your world
singe and flake away
into ash.
Soon the fire hooks into your flesh,
and that smile is torn off,
melting into a scar.
Your eyes pop
into liquid plastic
and the heat bores into your body
like nails.

The scariest thing about you and me
is indifference.

Welcome to the third dimension.
Welcome to a world where existence and identity
combust into ash...
into ash...
into...
ash...
...

Of keys and crickets

I hear the sound
of crickets
climbing out
of the air vent

they must have escaped
many years ago
from the snakes, lizards,
and hamsters
I once had

safety in
exile
lost in
the ventilation system
of my home

I bleed myself
onto the keys
of my piano
and sing like
cracking
while I hear their cries
echo out of the floors
below me

a symphony
of loneliness
shatters the
hollow space
of night

The box that became my Universe

The cold grows
like mold
off the single pane window.
There’s fermentation
in the air,
and I’m shivering to it.

Heat death
is what some people call the end of the world.

The glowing globe in the sky
makes this place seem bigger than it really is.
But when the light goes out,
I share the emptiness with shadow.
And this Universe is full of empty.

Below me,
the fallen stars lay still
like corpses;
their blood-thick warmth
cooling;
drained and devoured,
as the spores of thin air
grow off their carcasses.

Above me,
some stars retain their place in heaven,
calling my dreams to them,
like Sirens.
The space between my mind
and the ceiling of the sky,
a graveyard.

Every night,
I witness the end of the world.
Every night,
the Universe decomposes
into darkness
before me.

I am a shadow
of a corpse
frozen
in vacuum.

You

I wince as bile and gasoline are pumped into my heart
I can’t make sense of what you’re doing
to me
I know you’re trying to tell me
something
I know I’m supposed to come away from this
better
But:
- All you’re doing is tearing me up
- All you’re doing is carving into my chest
- All you’re doing is breaking me
over and over and over and over
again
until the pieces disappear from sight

But they don’t vanish
I’m still here
in pieces
in pain

I don’t think you know how much this hurts
I don’t think you know how weak you are making me

And here’s your chance to destroy what’s left
Here’s your chance to burn my heart
to blister bubbles onto it
to char it black into coal
to burn
Oh! to burn me into
nothing

But you don’t even grant me that
I’m still here
in pieces
in pain

You know, I am learning something
I’m beginning to learn how to
hate
you

I swear to you, I was dead.

I swear to you, I was dead.

There I was,
lying there with the light
that I never turned off,
trying to penetrate into me
but I wouldn’t break.
I was already broken.

There I was,
rotting
my teeth (unbrushed),
with my jaw slack and open,
as if inviting the insects on my walls
to harvest my blood for their brood.

There I was,
unable to respond
to the crying of the telephone ring,
to the mourning of the radio waves.
My reply
a hovering stench
of silence.

There I was,
eating myself thin,
my stomach,
empty
on the meals I missed.
A cannibal.

And to my surprise I was born again.
I broke the crust that formed over my eyes.
I tasted the decay that crawled out of my mouth.
I turned to see the battle that left me dead.
But there I was,
alive.

It’s funny how life likes to play tricks like this,
to fool you into thinking
that all is lost
when in fact it’s just making sure
that you’re happy
when you’re given everything back.

It’s funny how life reminds you
that you’re still alive.

postmortem

the clock on the wall is missing its arms,
fallen off, like pieces of rotten flesh,
decaying,
decomposing on a pile of numerical maggots,
at the edge of time

this is my soul.
this is eternal.
this is.

me
drilled to a brick wall
for all time,
face-less,
without purpose;
except to be written as a poem
about a clock who cannot tell time
from eternity.

5:00 March 19, 2003

(or Lament for Iraq – A country extinct in the 21 century AD)

wind bites into my face
tearing pieces of heat off my flesh
the rain, like a bat,
beats down on me
in hate

something is wrong
death is in the air
and Mother is angry

somewhere else
rain doesn’t fall from the sky
only bombs
wrapped in a flag
as if to represent a savior, a giver of life

(but if you pry open those eyes
- and the mind attached to them -
you’ll see the once bright
blue and white
smudged
by an ever growing rusty stain
of red)

a nation is about to die
an execution,
scheduled to the minute

No,
this is going to be a beating
and when the skull is finally cracked open on the curb
with our heel halfway inside
(like a thumb that pressed too hard on an egg)
our plastic surgeons will go to work
insert silicon, genetic codes,
and Christianity
to forge a frankenstein

To take our turn as God.

i look outside and the wind is waiting
to crush me with atmosphere
death is in the air
and Mother is angry

How I can’t find myself in Superstore

I’m looking for myself again.
This time I’m lost in a
SUPERSTORE.
Except the aisle numbers aren’t helping.

I’m looking at the foreign foods.
The aromas awake something dormant inside me.
I hold it in my hand.
And as its exotic nature begins to ebb away,
my skin fuses with it.
But cold fusion has never worked.
And the chemistry between us is only skin deep.
I take one more look
and recognize that it’s a part of me.
A part but not all.

I’m in the “home-grown” produce
which includes things of all shapes and colours.
I must be in here somewhere.
The smells are familiar,
comforting like the feeling of my own bed.
I feel safe standing here
in the middle of juxtaposition.
But harmony soon fades into anonymity.
(white noise)
And I feel lost, even though I belong.
I am an anomaly within an amalgamation of anomalies.
I lose myself again.

I open a box
and take one of them out.
I like the feel of it in my hand.
I like its shape.
I like its colour.
But most of all,
I like how it fits nicely with the others.
Funny, I would never have thought
that an egg
would be more accepted than me.
I guess I don’t like how the shell doesn’t fit.

This time I’m staring at a fruit.
And it stares back like a sibling.
Everything seems to match.
Our skin peels the same way.
Our organs pulse to the same blood.
But its simplicity scares me.
There is something comforting about complexity.
So out of fear,
I throw the banana away.

I continue roaming,
looking for what I need.
But pushing an empty cart
is making me lonely
ever more.

Valentines Day

He's not supposed to want this.

But he does.

I have never liked him.

I don't think I ever will.

But I'm tired of seeing him

everywhere.

In the mirror.

In my shadow.

In the waking weight of the morning.

Like lost parts, hidden pieces,

and fragments

stuck together,

we go to bed,

knowing that the crack within

is only getting bigger.

A sunset of subjectivity and illusion

Riding on a chariot
fueled on centrifuge,
I soar my way home,
as the horizon begins to
swallow the sun whole.

Flawless, free from
the scatches of clouds,
the empty sky
keeps me from falling out
of a jar called Earth.

But screams combust through the air.
The drowning star
at the edge of the world
won’t die
easily.
It’s sputtering breath forks across the land,
lighting trees on fire.

Being a bug stuck in a jar,
I grin at the gagging of a god.
Knowing God’s weakness is
subjectivity,
I somehow feel bigger.

But as I make my last turn,
the Sun surges out
from (near) extinction,
hoping to swathe me with flame.
A whip crackles above me
but a house becomes the victim.
Hellfire erupts from the ground,
and all I can see now
are demon claws
tearing meat off bone.
A skeleton is all that stands.

My chariot jolts, as panic
flushes through me.
Who hath felt the wrath of God?

But the jar shakes once more.
He is not done
(seeing me crash
into the walls of my prison).

Fires extinguish.
The house rematerializes before me,
and so does the illusion
that comes with its mirrors.

I turn around; head home
to a box I can close around myself.
It seems to me
my loneliness within a lonely world
is the only thing that I can control.

Seeing a bug stuck in a jar,
God smiles at its specimen.
Knowing its strength is
subjectivity,
He somehow feels smaller.

To remember from forgetting

To remember from forgetting;
A door unseen, opened.
Without seeing it coming,
the universe laid itself out,
(like "show and tell")
bragging its simplicity
upon the street before me.

Under a chipping, weathered frame
a woman finds herself
within three young smiles.
Momentarily envious of
purity.

Across; the other side,
hair pours off a head.
But a stream shattered.
Stuttering, as it crashes itself
upon Earth and its rocks.
She tilts her head further
as she tries to brush out time.

Further down the road,
I am met with four eyes.
One hand finds a square root.
One mind imagines mice.
Together they take notes
about a world they will never share.

Sprawling on the ground,
a group huddles close,
feasting, like hyenas,
on the flesh of fried
doughnuts.
They bare their baby teeth
and smile,
as their kill lies
neatly,
within a box.

The street tears into two
and I face a dying friend.
The tree nods in agreement,
as I cannot help but laugh
in appreciation
at the beauty of a street
called Everything.

Only I would be playing music with Mr. Twitch

Only I would be playing music with Mr. Twitch.
He cannot stop
And neither can I.

I must like to be alone.
I must like to play dead.
The truth of the matter is:
God hates cowards.

Only I would be playing music with Mr. Twitch.
Him speaking to his spasms.
Me spilling myself onto sound.

I hear "hero". Hah!
"Anti-" the more.
The truth is:
I was beginning to like myself.

Only I would be playing music with Mr. Twitch.
We both have an itch.
Except we're not in control.

Am I suppose to like this?
Am I suppose to want this?
Truth is:
I've been waiting too long to be rescued
(and now I've forgotten myself).

Only I would be playing music with Mr. Twitch.
And now he's gone home.
Only I would be playing music with Mr. f*^k technology.
And now I wish I was alone.

a weak reflection

On my way home
I heard the whisper
of moonlight
reflect off the street

Looking up
Searching the heavens
I spoke to the moon
The Nether-Sun

In silence, it replied:
Keep your head down
Answers are in reflections
Not in the infinitum
There are none out here

(But how can I find you
Within my own reflection?)

Like the whisper of the moon
weak
A shadow of a ghost
I walk home
To look into a mirror
Knowing I won't find you there

A Hero's Armour

I stand alone after tonight's battle,
Over fields of fallen.
I look down and see my face on every corpse.
Some are torn apart.
Others are charred black.
But the ones with smiles scare me the most.

My sooted armour absorbs the glow of dusk,
Making me a living silhouette.
My hand tries to wipe myself clean,
But the blackness sticks
And brushing it away pulls something inside of me.
Skin stretches, muscles tear.
Soul fissures.
A layour of armour sheds off my body.

My burning skin begins to cool in the twilight.
The night will give me time to heal.
But I know the Sun will rise again
(as will the enemy),
And another piece of me will be torn away.
I look down and see that I'm getting close to bone.

How many pieces of myself have I lost to you?
How much of me will you finally take?
I wake every morning to your smile
But I'm so afraid.
I don't want to be like you.
You continue to smile
And think otherwise.

The moonlight floods the land
As my skin turns to scars
(only to be ripped open again).
I realize that soon there will be nothing left.
I will lay there, broken and shattered
With only a smile on my face.

My crusade has justified my pain.
But even heroes get tired of fighting,
And this hero's armour is getting thin.

Gravity pulls the moon off the sky.
The mountains try to slow the rising Sun,
But the Golden Chariot rises
(as it will rise for all time).

A tear escapes from my eye.
Running down split skin.
Only fear keeps me standing.
And the battle is about to begin.
I charge into the enemy,
Knowing this hero's armour is getting thin.

last night

Last night I dreamt with the lights on,
Perpetually dreaming of turning them off.
My semi-self finally floated off the bed
And extinguished the blaze on the ceiling.
My ghost wafted back into my body
As I clamped my eyes shut to keep myself in.
But my eyelids must had caught on fire.
Because the light still seeped in.
I opened my eyes (hoping to blow out the flames)
To realize that the fire was much deeper inside of me.
I dragged my eyelids closed
Waiting for the oceans of dreams
To come wash away the fires within my eyes.

untitled

The sun rose again today.
That's always a good sign.
And here I am once more.
Mind morphed by a journey of dreams.
Reconstructed for all intents and purposes.
I wake and I feel gravity still holding onto me.
The sun is up there in the sky.
That's always a good sign.

Prologue

4 letters . . W-H-O-A

This word, in all its simplistic glory, defines how I feel about what I am currently doing. To talk, to communicate, to allow others to hear me throughout the world. No person fifteen years ago could do what I am doing right now, in the lost time of night, in a basement in Canada, wearing only plaid boxers and white socks, opening my mind to millions of people.

Well, i suppose all I can do right now is simply introduce myself.

My name is Mark Kwong Leung. My generation is a strange one. This creation called the Internet spawned before the world while I was in my early teens. Before then, this synthetic and digital universe never existed. I am of a generation that had just hit the crest of the internet wave, almost missing it by being born too early (which would have me become a twenty year old man, taking night courses at the local college to learn how to grasp and control this virtual phenomenon), but at the same time, not being born late enough so that I would learn my alphabet while discovering how to search for digimon toys on e-bay. I do not know whether this flourescent screen before me is my glass eye to an infinitesmal realm, or the eye of a growing technological beast slowly digesting my mind and soul, only to be churned out onto some demons's hand as a new blue-coloured five dollar bill.

I do not know what I have planned to do in this place. I do not know what this place has planned for me to do. Will it be truly "me" who is speaking, or another drone murmoring sounds of disillusionment. I apologize. I do not know. For in my generation, such dividing lines of individuality and society are greatly blurred.

And in my generation, these headlines will define our time. Obesity. Addiction. Consumerism. Pornography. Terrorism. Empire. Global warming. Cloning. Extinction.
You will fail to find words such as: Fulfillment. Morality. Replenishment. Some words will disappear from the face of society entirely. Abacus. Tazmanian devil. Cash. Other words and their meanings will be changed into an "online dictionary."
Online shopping: to purchase goods through the use of the personal computer and the Internet with virtual credit.
Online tourism: to travel to other places by viewing the scenes on the monitor of the personal computer.

Perhaps these things mentionned will never happen. Perhaps humans have not turned their back completely on nature. Perhaps a revolution of life, replenishment, or healing will echo throughout the lands of Earth, and these things suggested will never be. In that case, my moment here on this pedestal, where millions can read the words I have littered upon the screen, will be a mere flicker in history. The distant shadow of my soul will be forever lost in cards of metal and plastic, forged by a man living in India, with two daughters and a sick wife.

So in wonder and in horror, I open myself to you, whomever you may be. My skull is cracked open, for all to now prod and poke. This is my non-existent reality, where my virtual self now resides. And in a place between diabetes and insomnia, the real Mark Kwong Leung is looking for answers to an ocean of questions. He and I hope that maybe you'll learn something here. And perhaps, we will too.