Wednesday, January 17, 2018

still breathing

still breathing

not stealing the sun's gold leg-
less sheeps engraving a blue flag
sky grow smaller, smaller
same old song same old
wind sings
birds disappear
into tree find a home
in my chest
each stir catches
a string I never knew

Friday, January 12, 2018

Of Whore, Of Darkness...


I am a whore, you blow
one night like a little boat
into my ear, only
for you. Darkness closes
deepest like our skins.

You breathe, you really
breathe, I hiss.
The snake my arms
skim around you

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Still Writing...

What I like about this space: the anonymity. I just write what I want to write, without any danger of criticism - I have a fragile heart/ego, you feel, not see.

Years Passing

angry with the years
passing not revealing
till now how little i know
even now i don't know
what they will know
but what i should have known:
a balding head may shine
does not make clarity
on truths


Father once said, don't
say you are nothing,

you are everything
like me. Ice cubes

thundered to meet
prune lips. Eyeballs

rowed away in dreamy
mist. Leaving me

an ice statue
quietly cracking.

P.S.: I surprised myself with the ending. Not entirely satisfied with the end-product - can't find a better phrase than "prune lips", "Eyeballs" only works because it rhymes with "Ice" - but I am, after all, a WIP.

4 am

a night bird waves
his pipe like hands
conductor of the dark
silence is the musicians
the world tiptoes closer
to its end
i am the last man.

P.S.:  I think I took half an hour to edit this again and again....

Monday, January 01, 2018



what is this nail clenching, not part
of, my chest? Cold, biting as truth
suddenly open to eyes still close.
Is this your hand leaving the broken house
of my hand? Why does the warmth
on your lips stay? And when will this nail
part its pain?

first day

Dear Blog, please don't complain that I am just planting wrinkles on your face. You already have your own worries, I know. And I have my own mistress. Let's call it even?
on the first day

lost in a crackle of flames,
a circle of rainbow*, bow
to a few lumps of brown mud
floating like the year passed,
almost forgotten to be flushed.

*"A crackle of flames, A Circle of Rainbow" - Selected poems from Mohamed Latiff Mohamed
P.S.: What is the value of the past, after digestion that is, when it is the present that matters?
I almost gave up writing. In response in an online forum which triggers memories of struggle and self-doubts, I re-write my past (literally) and fortify my determination. Just enjoy playing with words, I wrote, playing with words.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Random Writes

I want to change the sun
to something new
and the moon too,
move some colour
over its paleness,
but shine it may
over the hill, over
the river glittering
in the darkest corners
my heart hides, over
and over.


In silence, voices
in my head bounce,
layer over one another.
Still, be still world,
leave only dark

Sunday, December 03, 2017



The light outside blinding as ever
has fallen and a finger now follows

with its own move as aged to release
your bedroom to its one naked face

as you begin to dissolve like salt
into its watery depth, eyes open,

nothing reminds you of your face,
as it loses the anchor of a comforting grin,

unlearns to be as naked as the drifting room,
undresses the pride it wears like clothes.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

That Giant Ocean

What is there left to say? What of love, of loss, of memories? Maybe there will be more, just as the last wave crashes on white, barren shore. I was here. I say, I was here. Then...what?

I wish...what do I wish for? And what are wishes for? Like the wise old lady in the Japanese movie, "Mother Water", I quote her:"Make your day!", not "Good morning!" or "Good day!"

Time is that giant ocean running up and down interminably, always beyond your expectation. You will do well to hold on to it.