We keep on filling things up

we keep on filling things up

clothes on bedside,

books on chairs

words on papers

ice teas on supposedly bottomless glasses

to the brim

to the edge

mid-level

a millimeter before the bottom

reaches out for a kiss

the fridge is piling up with take-outs

and food spoiled even from the second

we decided not to take the last bite

the hamper moans in mouthful agony

pillows push each other off the bed

if we can't have conversations,

nor notes to paint over the gaps

and all the sheep were yesterday's stew

there is always white noise

to light our shallow sleep

we run on full tank for miles

wind on our ears,

silencing the sounds of our stomach

the clumsy click of our tongues

the grief of yawns and guilt of hiccups.

water tanks tend to leak on the side

punctured by rust I guess

and rain is a promise unkept

so helium heads are sent up

lanterns lit filled with short-lived illumination

a commissary in the sky,

a split-second shooting star

we have rubbed against too many narrow walls

to even feel the watery splinters

that has wedged against our eardrums

between cottons and soundproof walls

ribcages and hollow halls

the things we drown ourselves with

always reverberates a deafening

loud and palpable echo.

April 1, 2013

11:46 AM

In waves

they come in waves

breathing

the rise and fall

of chest, shoulders and lungs

water running in a rhythmic sweeping

of sands

and the shells  and dead pale corals 

break  into the foamy cycle

the staccato of blinking eyes

and choked sobs and thrusting limbs

ready to burst into flaming percussions

still in waves

we cling through boards and shipwreck

planks through a sweep of white fire

enveloping a non-nauseas state 

of pure, unfiltered gas

we heave in deeply to rip the 

throbbing flesh out by its hind legs

and it struggles and grabs all

innards in its way out. 

It's bulbous head and flailing arms

stuck between sphincters and intestinal

entry ways

and so in waves we feel it

envelop from within

puncturing in pinprick precision

sandy scraping through open tissue 

coral etching a messy aimless decoupage tattoo 

till we are inside out, breathing.

nothing left but pure

unfiltered gas

waiting to be lit.

March 27, 2013

3:24 pm

It rained today

it rained today

after weeks of scraping heat

and I can see the leaves shimmy

in excitement in the empty lot beside his room

they bob their heads in agreement

vigorously in rhythmic discussions

yes yes, trickles and droplets

and map lines quickly erased and

easily replaced

brushing on stems and clinging 

on roots

there the sea is silently overflowing 

in a split-second drowning

dusted and washed and muddied

and decomposing and damp

and dark and murky where water

sleep and later on harden 

six feet under

the dripping raucous of laughter

silenced in ground cracks

sealed shut from the light

even from the shadows

from the room beside the empty lot.

3:43 PM

March 22, 2013

Bokeh

we run in circles only to bump into ourselves

we reckon this escape would bring us somewhere 

but how could it be somewhere when we run infinitely

the same circuit

till someone closes the gate

a streetlight casts that condescending look

the sprinklers slippery gossip on willing cement

cars shamelessly hoot and mock and glare

and you are left to thread on higher pavements

avoiding eye contacts, 

and a line no longer becomes the shortest

distance between you and yourself

because there is no line,

there are just endless

infinite

circles.

11:31 PM 

March 20, 2013

Cup of Tea

There are thirty ways to betrayal

and they scandalously flicker their tongues

over wandering whores and sacrificial virgins

their egos clang, and echo emptily between

carnal perpendiculars and thoughtless trajectories

without really bothering to solve the value of x

masked with pretentious book quotes

and excuses of existential crises

they fumble and jingle and stage

confusion like a farce, 

a keyless liquid justification

to a one-size-fits-all morality 

they carve their hearts into unrecognizable shapes

thinking that as long as it still beats, it still the same

fingertips licked clean with clinical grade precision

Resting every now and then

silently heaving the lightless burden of their secret

between clenched legs and an inextinguishable fever

They dust the crumbs off the bed, and flush the dead fish

freshly washed linen shirts ironed to its starch conception

Shame cremated, only to come back as exotic teas dipped on

perfectly boiled water, served on expensive silver ware

sweetened with a single kiss on the cheek 

and a delicate french flesh-colored macaroon 

9:07 PM 

March 18, 2013