Late Night Vibes

Coffee kissing your lips, and

old Jazz making love to aural senses;  the 3am thoughts

I see and write. Holding hands,

stealing kisses on necks,

the smell of a whole day of mundaneness

washed away by a late night rain.

The roads are empty, emotionless,


Neon signs are sleeping.

It’s just you and me, and a thought of a city,

roaming around like nomads, drinking the leftovers

with passion.


[Photo by Masashi Wakui]



The Sea

Flowing between my future and the past

is a gray abyss. Liquid thoughts

have pooled inside it ever since,

choosing tidal waves to

show presence.


I’m a lost albatross who only

knew Galapagos, and not

beyond. While whales and shoals

of reality have migrated to

warmer shores, I’m still waiting.


Someone saw a dead body in

Easter Island once. It was also a

bird, shaped like a human,

looking at the sea.


[Artwork by Henn Kim]

Natural Disaster

The topology of a natural disaster is simple. It

rises from nowhere, and ravages everything in sight.

Some say there’s a soul in the tsunami. A decay so

wild, a longing so great that it has become



You eat like a pig, someone had said to me

in a city afternoon that was smelling of o – of loneliness.

Meandering into the thicket of clouds,

my thoughts were singularly focused on

making love to her.


The notes, the messages on the phone, the news headlines

were telling the same thing; that some natural disasters

have souls, and all of them

are out to destroy.



A cold, wooden almirah full of old bones.

A dresser full of clothes that are choked by more clothes.

A gray river full of emotions that are dumped carelessly to the sea.

A toasty morning full of morsels of depression in a cereal bowl.

A lighthouse full of people that vanished one day and never came back.


The calling is almost visceral.

The disillusionment gnawing at you like hyenas nibbling flesh out of

a carcass.

The only truth seems to be the mirage of a past

that never was, never will be. It’s like a saudade

for the ether.


Picture Courtesy: Blendscapes by Oriol Angrill Jorda

The more things change, the more they stay the same

Rusk biscuits have a typical way of

melting under hot tea, a way grainier

than others; Yet

after all these years their taste is

familiar, unchanged, like the closed

factory and the occasional

dead bodies that are found with their

throats slit open.

The tea is still warm to the sip, and

the sky still littered with stories

that never went anywhere.

All nostalgic, all-too-known

metallic aftertaste.


The first time you feel two arms tangling you

like an ivy, and moist breaths lashing

onto your face in steady intervals, you

panic. Fear runs through your brain

as your loin catches fire, then ice,

and then screams with emotions

you’ve never felt before.

Ten years later, you look

at naked bodies like they are invisible

stories at an overpopulated wall of

bad posters, and preach