For You & Her.

Note: I know I said I'm never posting my silly poems anymore but this is not my usual silliness. This is a letter.  Just in case.
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Of heartbreak I know nothing of
for Love I never have.
You gave your heart but
she gave it back.
Your first flight, your first fall.

I can only imagine
what sweet assaults to your sanity she must be.
I confess, for not wanting your beauty
I think her silly.
But don't be mad I just want you happy.

To harbour affection for one unattainable
must be a labour in itself.
To be quite so miserable,
made to feel so ornate and fragile
like cheap crystal.

Even then, you weren't pining
just silently, patiently, waiting.
I could see that
but back then she was simply not yours.
Now, she might never be.

For what it's worth, (for we're never
open with each other) I'm telling you
I'm here for you.
Dear brother, I too will pray for her.

I give up.

I've been doing my level best to abstain from writing poetry of any kind at all and now I'm giving up. I scribbled it all down (but I threw them out afterwards, so that counts as something aite?).

I tried I really did. It was a bout of self-hate and whatever it was that was deluding me that drove me to try and put it all to a stop. Didn't work. So here I am.

and here's a couple I typed on word because there wasn't paper easily reachable. I'll just throw them all here. Maybe someday I'll find enough strength to stop, or enough brilliance to turn it all into something worthy of treasuring.

Crappiness galore, enjoy:

ALL I NEED IS YOU

I don’t need sunsets to remind myself

How beautiful the Sun is

I don’t need stars to remind myself

How beautiful the Universe is

I don’t even need music to remind myself

How beautiful Life really is

You’re my sunsets, my stars, my music,

All I need is you.

(Mon, 12/7/2011)

SHAME

I try to think of things to say

that you would care for.

Requiring strenuous calculation

to avoid embarrassment.

When really there’s no accounting

your varied moods and interests

your flighty thoughts and sentience.

Your presence, my eternal penance.

Like a moth caught in the wind

I strive for the brightness that is you

thinking your electric artificiality

a kind of warmth clad in eccentricity.

Whatever I say

Your flick them away like flies.

Unknowingly I you repeatedly maim

Repeatedly scarring me with shame.

(Wed, 29/6/2011)

Like A Pinwheel

At the arbitrary mercy of winds
the pinwheel spins,
slowly, quickly, madly
or not at all.

Those invisible hands
that guides us or crushes us
gently, sometimes forcefully.
Always in His palms we rest.

Life is not adorned with succour
there are times we must suffer.
Stealthily if not swiftly
help will come.

The winds heeds no man
so stop cursing.
Like a pinwheel

spin freely.

I Saw It All

I saw it all
the blind Love in all its brightness
the wasted passion in all its glory
I saw it all
in their unseeing eyes.
A wealth of poverty.

They sang melodies of rebellion
They screamed brutally of peace
They sold their souls innocently
They think it salvation, freedom.
I saw it all
their rampant masks of befuddlement.

Art! exclaimed one
Poetry! cried another
A symphony! they sang together.
But I saw it all. Twas nothing but
a drunken stupor of gracelessness
laced with incomprehensibility.

I made my way slowly
deliberately.
I drank their mad slurs,
undiluted vulgarity
tasting nothing but restlessness
and the sourness of poisoned innocence.

Maybe it was I who failed
but who is to say?
The elusive Truth of poetry
music and artistry
may only be a plaything
of our wanton inner-demons.

Mar the Mirror.

Not eyes you think yours
witnessing your uncompassionate moments
your invisible presence
from a hidden plane
where nothing is ever in vain.

Not mouth you feel yours
voicing your feeble,
fatigued lies
from a silent tangent
where nothing is ever fallacious.

Not you
the self within is a sleuth
an entity of pure essence
shadow of a shadow,
phantasmic.

Mar the mirror
that face so familiar
Mar the mirror
with your fear.

Cynicism is but deep self hate.

I stare into nothingness for

I'm an anomic loner, wretched

and cynical, trapped in a shell

of rootless musings,

trying to articulate my dreams

into the People's language.

Lest the birds speak,

they would understand.

Their singing, my whims,

attuned to a brand of sweetness

simple only to the naked eye.

From the depths of a nebula

soon there'll be a star.

From the height of my fears

everything seems a curse.

So breathe slow,

breathe deep.

Implode.

Betrothed to being egotistical
narcissistic and dumb
I wilt in this darkened corner
a loveless creature.

While my woes are small
and insignificant once it's passed
I shriek mutedly
in lonesome agony.

All of it stems from my own doing
this I understand.
But when submitted to suffering
I accuse Fate of ill will.

Staring heavenwards I search
for help, guidance, strength;
luck, clarity, sanity.
An answer to my silent plea.

All this is but the throes,
that precedes an inevitability
of which course I have no power
nor the sufficiency.

I walk in circles
around my failures, hoping
in vain that it would just end
quietly, peacefully.

A Painting, Unseen.

An abidance to truths unseen, unjustified
but with all of one's heart
encapsuling all that there is to yearn
all that there is to be desired.

Like fine grains of sand
heaped into small mountains
majestic, yet at the gust of a wind
they all submit.

Heaven upon this world
lies between your brows
where it crease with worry
when you think of me.

I am the Sea, the Trees, the Dust
swim in me, grow with me, fly
Don't worry about invisible things
close your eyes and trust.

Always beautiful
what we could dream up
you and I.
Like a painting, unseen.

Adagio Days

Lackadaisical. In other words, a lack of focus and diligence. Exams are in 9 days (this includes tomorrow). I will cram hard tomorrow. Monday. I'll cram hard on Monday. *sigh*

Let tonight be a slow one 

Allow me one last waltz

with my lovely 'normalcy'

my moody sanity.

With each tick of the clock

each bat of an eyelid

Time will fall away in ones

silently, like eyelashes.

Let this dance be a slow one

Allow me one last kiss

upon thy pristine fingers 

bella Languidity.

To the red velvet drapes I wave

Farewell, Indifference 

Farewell! 

My adagio days.

Home, soon.

I took Rumi from my shelf
opening it at random, out fell the polaroids
taken at the asphyxiated airport
I look at myself.

and I see nothing.

All I see is him, my brother
teary-eyed whilst trying to smile
his eyes so sad
back then he still cared.

Days shrunk into weeks, melted into months
I kept calling and he kept waiting
each time he says, "You come home."
each time I'll say, "Soon, soon."

but not anymore.

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P.S.  I'm going back for winter break. Maybe that's why he doesn't mind my not calling. Ah, I miss him.

The World in My Window

If I were to

I found this and placed it in front of my study desk, against my window. It's made of wood and probably weighs ~3kg. I've always wanted one, a world map.

I found the World today

thrown out and discarded by the cobbled pathway.

Looking lonely by the ancient TV

it stood proud and perfect.

Enchanted, I knelt by it

and caressed its printed lands.

My mind roaming free

I looked for my loved ones.

I pressed my ear to the flat, wooden World

and listened to its many seas

I heard the wailing sad songs of the whales

the plaintive voice of the forgotten.

The unwanted World I took with me

and placed it against the glass

so I may view the World from my window

so I may smile and whisper, "Someday" everyday.

Non serviam.

Non serviam
I whispered to my reflection
looking into my red and ruthless eyes
tracing the lines of my frowning brows
with pale blue fingers
dying and cold.

I have skittered the edges
and met the devils that reside there
their cruel grins growing askance
when I turned away
and their horned fingers grappled
tearing at me.

When silence fell
like long shadows in the dusk
of my oscillating piety
I press my fingers against my neck
and count the beats
of my wicked and weak heart.

No, dear heart
non serviam.

Autumn Apparations

I'm beginning to realize how hard it is to stop being so self-depreciative. Feeling mediocre all the time isn't very productive. Am trying to pick myself up, shake this cloak of gloom and in it's place, let something more akin to positivity bloom.

When feeling distant to the world around me, then it is time to distance from myself even more. I'm my own worst nightmare. So, walks are good though I despise the cold. 

I've woken up to a nosebleed two days in a row now. I ought to drink more I think. Or perhaps stop thinking altogether.

There goes my attempt at battling self-depreciation. Ah, let's just end this with a piece. It's been a while.

I called you to say hello

and tell you of the cold weather

how autumn's now almost winter

just so I'd feel a little better.

Maple leaves all red and brown

tree barks all grey and peeling

you could smell the wetness of rain

and hear the dry southern wind.

I take walks and imagine you're there

beside me holding my hand and smiling

an apparition from a warmer future

when I'm sure you're my lover.

My solitary woe is silly

this I realize with clarity

so I tell my self-rigtheous self

'Stop worrying! Spring is coming.'

nobone halfbanana moons sloping in the tangled night sky

Johnny Depp reading Kerouac's On The Road

The excerpt being read is here.

Whiter than light, darker than black.
In the Sun's eye I find my eternal happiness
floating like clouds in the sky that sails like ships.
Mastless, free, airborned by invisible winds
with the weight of the heavens upon it,
no anchor will hold my spirit.

Dark, inside.

It used to be downright agonizing
but now it's like a wound healed.
Cold days when I you abandon
invisible fingers tear at the dead nerves.

The boredom of singing the same songs
as your fingers brush the same melody
with force I'd strike the plastic keys
dead sounding, with it I swallow my fury.

Wondering at people's antics and speech
I look for the frayed ends where they slip
and let up what festered in their minds
sometimes petty, sometimes funny, even dirty.

Staring out of our mullioned lives
only out of love or pain do people reach out.
In such an external world, for one as private as you
and me, it rains constantly so we drown daily.

Someday somebody will shine laser pointers
into our vacant eyes and burn our retinas
as they look for reflections of their selves, never ours,
but they will see nothing because they've been blind always.

Anger

In their attempts to break the mundanity of 

their repetitive and dull lives, they publicize

every single insignificance that decorates their monotony

fatuously perceived as extra-ordinary.

Pleasure, ridden with the stink of corporeality

What makes them happy no matter how briefly

they seize with hungered hearts, as they scream for Love.

Love! They say, Love me! Love me! Love me!

Then there be those who knowingly let their minds rot

by prioritizing the paltry and delaying things of magnitude.

In their foolishness they say 'I don't need brains, I've attitude'.

Sighing loudly whilst bearing responsibility, they stink of idiocy.

In anger I pray for enduring tolerance

Berating myself I try to remember people tend to blunder

but really now, my patience is of a limit,

Come now people, I've enough of your shit.

__________________________________________________________________

Ah, I need a vacation. Hurry up Easter.

Old man to his daughter

Dear J,

                I hope this arrives to you in time. The paper is shit nowadays, I can’t get through to the crossword puzzle without having to wade through all  the dirt. People all scum. Anyway, got the coffee I sent you yet? It should arrive soon if it hasn’t. Cee threw in some paintbrushes into the box said to tell you to draw her a scenery.  I’ve told her a million times that people don’t draw with brushes, people paint with them but you know how she is.

                My wrists are alright now. I can play for hours again and they would only start aching when it’s cold outside. Took the vitamins you told me to. Don’t think they work much though. Them pills, who knows what’s really in them! Pillmakers could have just scraped all the dust on his cupboards, made pills and tell us they are 100% natural and safe. Old Buster never had a pill in his life and look at him, still barks at the mail man like he’s still a nervous puppy. If men are dogs, we should be able to live like them. Eat whatever, poop everywhere and be healthy as can be.

                It’s getting more difficult to get your brother to come home now. Won’t even take phone calls during his ‘business’ hours. I bet all he’s busy doing at that stuffed up firm of his is send thank you cards to his clients, talk bout politics with his mates and chat up his lady secretaries. The big oaf knows nothing about running people around, he’s too busy being nice and all that. When he calls you up cause he says he will you tell him I want him to bring little Mimi over to our house, Cee’s been huffing about it over breakfast brunch lunch tea dinner and supper. Thinks I’m deaf or something oh I hear her little sighs and mutterings just fine all right. Do that for your old man okay?    

             One more thing, I want to meet with Mr. Ira Soon. I don’t want any excuses just bring him over next week for dinner. The turkeys are getting real fat now we can have good food and just chat. I want to make sure this one isn’t some poppycock lady charmer who thinks he can make you his lady just because he has looks to match yours you understand? You been telling me he’s wonderful beautiful and bashful well I just don’t know what to make of that. Sounds like a dodgy poetry loving teetotaller to me and I’m not sure if that’s what you should be looking for in a man. I just want you to have a good life ahead of you.

                My wrists are starting to act up now I’m gonna have to stop here. Remember, tell Walter to bring Mimi over soon and invite Mr. Ira over for dinner.

P.S. If the coffee doesn't get to you by next week give Arnold a call. He'll let me know.

Yours

R. F. Lee

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So much for me sticking to a bedtime curfew. But daylight savings ended yesterday, so I gained an hour. Extra sleep so that's fine I guess. I suspect my nightly manic typing is starting to annoy roomie. I should stop.

3 A.M

Lightless, listless, mindless,
This is me at night, or morning if your prefer.
Soft breathing, loud snoring, even whispering,
This is what I hear at night, or morning, rather.

It's easy to forget about things that bugs the Day me,
So very easy in fact, to be calm and tired but not to worry
It's just temporary, this sleeplessness;
Also, It doesn't kill me.

Wakefulness

When uncanny lucidity plagues the wee hours of my consciousness
the tick-tocking of the plastic clock is almost deafening
with my arm under my feather pillow my sighs like bellows.
It never matters what my days are like.

My feet cold, I'd rub the soles against each other
the sshhk-sshhk sound of friction a comfort I relish.
Sleep eluding me though weariness tugs my very lashes
I'd glance out the window at the twinkling and flashing city lights.

Above the silhouette of lighted sky-scrapers the sky glowed
burgundy, maroon, indigo and sometimes even slightly yellowed.
As if some haloed grounds lay beyond the concrete and metal,
where moonlight bathes the world with silvery fondness.

Such nights, the morning after is difficult.
I'd awaken haggard and parched groping for the coolness
of cavernous stillness one could find within Sleep's embrace.
Such is the last refuge of one as reclusive as me.

Nevertheless out of my iron-clad nest into the loveless world
I'll drag myself. My compliance wearing thin as the days grow shorter
the chilly air a testimony to my silly pining for solitude.
The winds howl coldly, the leaves fall into atrophy, I'll lose myself into eternity.

I'm with you in Rockland:

I walk the streets
      of my old home and smile at the neighbours
      while their pets gambol on the golden grass
      their original owners dead
      their liquid whiteless eyes sad.
I walk the streets
     of Sydney, Melbourne, Beijing, Vietnam,
     where the ponies are fluffy, the pianos are phony,
     the pavement scarred with spit and
     the history scarred with irony.
I walk the streets
    of my life upon which I continually sigh
    as the tips of my fingers freeze
    and shuddering laughter echo
    in the plains of my love.
I walk the streets
    of ebony and ivory
    where music and lyrics bleed
    snaky tendrils of rapture
    ravage all that they capture.
I walk the streets
   of Silence that
   only the Moon could speak of
   only the deaf could mutter of
   only the dead could convey.
I walk the streets
   of all that is triumphant
   and gawk at the shining glory
   gossiping away with victory
   laughing, snickering, smirking.
I walk the streets
   of my father's dreams
   his countenance stern and loving
   in his hands, mine
   on his shoulders, the universe.
I walk the steets
   of God's lover
   but this is a lie
   one can only try
   kneeling, only to cry.
I walk the steets of my mind
    Within it, I sit and lurk.

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Yes. I ought to stop posting my mediocre attempts and keep my experiments to myself. If I let it ferment long enough, or possibly just rot away, maybe there'll be something somewhat sweet left. Residual, but...sweet.

I'm just going crazy a little because I no longer have the time to revise my lecture materials on a daily basis for all my units to keep up with classes. It annoys me. Just as it does when my hands do not distinctly smell of soap. Fingers in particular must be either odourless or soapy fresh.