the beast

i think i may be capable of violence.
sometimes i feel i can just grab a hammer and smash someone's head.
whack their cheekbones. again and again.
and again.

and i will not feel an ounce of pain. or guilt.
or regret.

heightened by a certain sensation that flooded my senseless action.
i am afraid i might feel relieved at the end of it.

or worse.
i might feel that i just want to keep hitting.
smashing skulls. until they turn into a grotesque mash of deformed faces.
feeling a brooding storm of anger overtakes my sanity.
fueled perhaps by their scream, or lack thereof.

sometimes i think
that might be the only answer that seems appropriate. and sensible.

funeral song

there is nothing philosophical about death. the truth lies in the feel of it. when everything comes to a rest. so this is me humming a simple tune. on my quiet and peaceful mid-morning funeral. 

Lay your head where my heart used to be
hold the earth above me
lay down in the green grass
remember when you loved me.

come closer dont be shy
stand beneath the rainy sky
the moon is over the rise
think of me as the train goes by

clear the thistles and brambles
whistle didnt he ramble
now there's a bubble of me
and it's floating in thee

stand in the shade of me
things are now made of me
the weather vane will say
it smells like rain today

God took the stars and he tossed em
cant tell the birds from the blossoms
you ll never be free of me
He ll make a tree from me

dont say goodbye to me
describe the sky to me

lay your head where my heart used to be
hold the earth above me
lay down in the green grass
remember when you loved me. 

- Tom Waits, Green Grass

on my wall

there are songs
that could convey how i feel about you
such as

'some things last a long time.'

written by someone who has lost his mind
a genius. yet completely in a world of his own.

i do not believe in forever.
it made me sick. nervous. a loss of appetite.
i felt cornered. and out of control.

but i still feel the same way about you.
i do not know why.

it has made me sick
and incurable.

i have finally learned
the defect in my design.

that crazy genius. i know now how he feels.

cheers darlin'

one day you will come to see
that i have been right all along.

has it always been about winning,
you asked.

of course love.
i am no fucking loser.

acquired taste

i coloured a picture of a boy's hair with purple back in kindergarten because we ran out of black colour pencil. the teacher scolded me for it. she said that was nonsense.

if i were to meet her again today, i am going to punch her in the face. i am sure now she has a daughter with purple hair.

i lost a storytelling competition at the age of 15 in high school. my story was a simple life confession written by someone who has AIDS and was sexually abused by his gay parent when he was child. I lost to a story about a family of frog who took three years to cross a river.

perhaps i did not weigh in censorship factors in school environment.

i wrote compilation of poems to a paperback company who produced back-alley fictions, they asked me whether can my materials be used for school syllabus. i hanged up the phone and never look back since.

someone that i have cared for deeply over a span of years chucked me an abrupt disappearance just when i thought we can finally talk as adults. i am talking to you, the one in Siam. seriously at this age is a little tad immature, dont you think? all the notorious things that i could have said and hurled at her for being a coward. but i just couldnt bear the thought of hurting her. i do not gain anything by hurting anyone.

when you dealt with several rejections, you started believing you are a trash.

to put it elegantly, an acquired taste.

your own friends never really understood you. your smile is just a practise to appear civilised to the rest of the world.

you scribbled goodbye. goodbye. goodbye.
on your skin all over your body like tattoo.

and to those of you who liked what you read here, think Frankenstein.
think of that monster. the one that was cut open, sewn back together, torn apart again and put back together. now the stitches barely hold the pieces of lumps. all crazy and unfit.

all these writings come from that little piece of meat called Frankenstein.
i am happy that you liked what you read.

too much drama, i know.
of course, in real life my net worth is in millions.
my decent text-book life. but millions are full of zeros.
that is what they are.

to you in Siam. we are in our thirties now.
i am raising my white flag. stop running around.
let's deal with it.

and to the rest,
good day.

epilogue

there was a song.
it kept playing. and his was a lonely figure dancing to it.

all alone in the corner. nobody bothers to understand his quiet routine. he kept to himself most of the time. completely immersed in swaying his body to the soft beating of the music. but the picture was sorely incomplete.

he used to come here to listen to the songs that filled this place. he would sat there by himself and listened. his presence here was merely physical, he found himself transcended into the musical notes, one song after another. a girl came in one day and caught his eyes. she was a dancer. the one that looses herself in music too. she spent her time here dancing to the music played while he watched. one day she pulled him to the dance floor. she taught him to move in the music serenade. against the perfect lullaby. against the soft beating of her heart. she imparted life on him that day. the softness of her skin. the unmistakable scent of desire as two bodies trapped in the symphony of beautiful courtship.

one day she stopped coming. he waited. he could not dance the routine without her. he only knows how to move against her body. he responded well to her lead on the dance floor. he danced for her. and so he sat patiently waiting.

moons and years have passed since. one day he walked to the dance floor. he listened carefully to the music that was playing. he closed his eyes and imagined how she would have moved. how her dress would sway into the gentle tunes. and sometimes how she would pout her mouth playfully as he circled her nearer. he remembered her beautiful burst of laughter as she threw herself at him sometimes. slowly he moved his body to the music. he closed his eyes still. transported into a world where she was still before him, guiding his hand against her phenomenal moves. against this beautiful music.

and that was what he has become.
nobody knows whether she would show up ever again in this place. but he kept dancing in the corner. one song after another.

fiction

it has come to a complete circle.
she said the ending always mirrored the beginning.
one way or another it tends to reflect.
she called it karma.

if we were a fiction
it would have been beautiful.
i said.

and i woke up today
i found the memories itself has faded.
dissolved into a separate dimension.
detached. and unreal.

it has finally come to a rest.