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
[Photo by Masashi Wakui]
Flowing between my future and the past
is a gray abyss. Liquid thoughts
have pooled inside it ever since,
choosing tidal waves to
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]
lighthouse amidst the sea.
Je ne sais quoi of holding an
finished letter with an
what the loneliness
has in store
waiting in line
for their turn,
but the shop
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
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
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
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