The lie they tell us

You cannot be happy

if you can't be sad

cause nothing is good

if nothing is bad.

Pineapple

A man smiles,

lights a joint,

sits back to wait

and watch the tides change.

No dry humour.

A boy eyeballs me

till I break down

and offer him a piece

he will eat with his face.

Not a dry spot.

A sun burns my retina mercilessly

while the earth turns away 

in red anger

from the shameless display of colour.

Not one dry eye in sight.

Not one dry cheek within reach.

Not one dry moment.

A fruit melts on my tongue

runs down my throat

to settle my stomachs' impatient roars

with a wet kiss.

Not a dry fuck.

An ocean offers me sand

with a soft touch,

a gentle whisper

and in generous measures.

Not one fucking dry moment.

Unbearably Unbreakable

A cockroach

never killed 

or cured 

anybody.

A cockroach

is made to be stepped at

with a hard heel

and a black booth

lustingly,

disgustingly crunching

on the tiles of your bathroom-floor.

There is no pity

in a cockroach,

or in me for it,

and I totally fail to see the beauty

in its persistent stubbornness

and its stubborn persistence

even if it is rather pretty 

as insects go.

A cockroach

begs to be loathed.

One could almost admire

its ongoing refusal of suicide.

But no.

They have to go.

Good morning, Viet Nam

The year is growing close to Tet,

the night is cool and calm,

and under my mosquito-net 

in Hanoi, Viet Nam,

the buzz of electricity

is colouring all sound.

I'm hoping she will visit me,

but there's no one around.

These walls are chalked in fading white

and cracking up cement.

I'm going on my second night 

here in this room for rent.

To me the world outside is dead.

The fever clouds my eyes.

The pressure built up in my head

is like a tightened vice.

When will she come? Oh, will she come?

No, never it may seem.

But call me dumb. Yes, I am dumb

cause still I hold this dream

that she will leave her room before

she steals away to be

the one who knocks upon my door

and whispers: "It is me."

She is no love that thus can ease

the fire in my veins.

She lacks the beauty to release

the hold upon my brains,

but there is passion in this scene

which only fits this night

which must be savoured while it's keen,

which dies with morning light.

This sickness grabs my naked spine.

I shiver in its grip.

This body is no longer mine

and stringy as a whip,

but then she's there. She's in my room

although this cannot be.

She whispers softly: "I'm your doom.

Yes, darling. It is me."

It strikes me numb. I'll die of fright

if she shows me her face.

I shut my eyes. It's not tonight,

and this is not the place.

I hear her scream: "I am your dream.

I am your lust come true.

How can I give myself? It seems

there is no trust in you."

But I can feel the passion go

along with all the pain.

The cynic grabs a hold to show

me irony again,

and when I meet her face by day,

it will be like before.

"No love, no beauty." I would say:

"A girl and nothing more."

I gather up the strength it takes

to lift the pen and write

before the morning comes with aches

that will erase this night.

The morning comes to Viet Nam.

My sheets are cold and wet,

and I am lying here embalmed

in my mosquito-net.

The effects of loneliness in terms of isolation

Silence

There it is,

hanging over me again

like a hippie vulture

pretending to be unconcerned 

with my impending demise.

Quiet

Quiet

I didn't know

that it could accumulate

in such a mind-numbing fashion

that when you have nobody

you can get more of this nothing.

No sound

No sound

It is like

the world could be doing 

flip-overs outside my mind

and I wouldn't notice

to busy listening for my name.

Darkness

Darkness

There is a

total lack of sensory input.

All I can feel is myself

trying to get out.

All I know is me.

Periphery

The party is over. They've all said goodbye.

They left me alone now to tidy and cry.

This should have been my night, my moment, but still

I am the result of a good social kill.

The hundreds of names that I know that I know

are people all claiming that they have to go.

Of course they remember my loss here tonight,

and they'll all be laughing when coming of sight.

As tragedy common it starts with a girl

developing into the end of the world.

She gave me a moment to melt on the floor,

a brief taste of romance and then nothing more.

I wanted to charm her, to move and amuse.

More likely I harmed her with vocal abuse.

This brick wall of language just caught me alone

in towering anguish I started to moan:

"Oh, if you just kissed me caressing my face

and said that you'd miss me, I would have your grace.

They'd talk to me more then and call me their friend,

and I would be someone, and this not the end."

But now, as you know I am thrown to the lot,

and she clearly showed that she cared for me not.

She mocked me in public while telling it all,

retreating while gleefully watching my fall.

I guess I should hate her for leaving this way,

but sooner or later it'd come out this way.

So now it is over. They've all said goodbye.

They've left me alone now to curl up and die.

Metro

The ants of Paris are

the people,

their queen, the carriage.

Steadily reborn to die

they pull and push

with their suitcases, half-read books

and non-smiling lips towards the exit.

The empty faces snarl

to no one in particular

and everyone:

"Here is my road. I am walking here.

Get off my road. Pardon-and-excusez-moi

my stringy ass."

So many different faces

joined in one expression.

So many colours

seeing only red.

The ants of Paris

are the people,

the people

are the world

being passed through

a labyrinth-rectum.

Still.

It's better than London,

or Seoul,

or Bangkok,

or not.

Restlessness

The time is midnight and the tone

of my muscles lets my bones

fall together in a heap

desperately craving sleep.

My mind weary and at ease,

in love with this one moments' peace,

but it knows just all too well

any thought could raise a hell.

Therefore I refuse to think

and my minds' reflections shrink

till my focus is turned off.

Only then is it enough.

But, of course, there is a trail

that insists it will prevail

showing symptoms like disease

when I need a full release.

It's a wound infected which

makes me ache and throb and itch.

There's no mark upon my skin,

but the sea of pus within.

Therefore I will toss and turn

as a picture glows and burns

with a flame that seems in vane

in the darkness of my brain.

Language difficulties I

-And the many frustrations of desire

The grey-haired gay is shouting

at the bar

in a solo argument

loud and too incoherent to be deciphered.

I feel so sad for his inability

to be desired

that I forget momentarily

the weight of feeling sorry for myself

in a room filled with undesirable men.

As I go out,

I distastefully want to thank him,

but cannot find the right words.

I do not speak Spanish.

Crusoe takes a trip

Shells.

I'm grinding the exoskeletons

of these sadly destined beings 

from depths uncounted for

into obscurity,

and I think to myself

since there's no one here to question 

that this

must surely qualify as a Friday afternoon.

I feel like evaporating

cause this Island is not for me.

I've travelled its sandy beaches 

till utter boredom

walking in my own footsteps

imagining there is someone ahead of me,

and these coconuts,

these hellish nuts.

I would sacrifice my tongue

if I got to taste water just once

without that wretched aroma,

or if there was even an ounce of meat

which didn't fly away from me.

The sky is such a damned perfect blue

it makes my stomach turn.

So transparent is the sea 

that I cannot find comfort in drowning.

There are no shredding cliffs

where I can throw myself into the roaring breaking 

of the waves.

It's all so beautiful

that everything I do seems a crime.

I cannot move,

I cannot touch

anything

without disturbing its diabolic tranquillity,

and Friday

is just another day,

or maybe not.

My father

My father asked me:

What are you doing with your life?

Your studies?

A job?

Ambitions?

Women?

Money?

And I answer him:

I'm fine, dad, but

what are you doing with your life?

to make him go mute and mumble:

None of your business.

Pulau Perhentian Kecil

Pulau Perhentian Kecil

vanquishes paradise by far.

Closer to this island is still

Pulau Perhentian Besar.

Kota Bahru can be the gate.

Kuala Besut the closing door.

South China Sea can thus create

miracles on the ocean floor.

Listen, cause history will tell,

Pulau Perhentian Kecil,

heaven can quickly change to hell,

beauty is not an act of will.

Humans are beggars in the night

longing for life-long loveliness,

craving your beauty and your light,

cursing the places which they bless.

Pulau Perhentian Kecil,

look at your neighbour from afar

see how our people slowly kill

Pulau Perhentian Besar.

I'm

Always confusing

my presence

with my essence.

A mutual agreement

The ocean before me looks dead and dry,

all docile, immobile a mile away.

Still stealing its shades from the coloured sky,

and still navy blue in the light of day.

I just cannot grasp how it slips and slides,

the ease with which it rides on the growling shores

as wave upon wave and with even strides

while being the field for thousand wars.

I run to it wanting to damn its size.

"How dare you come out all so flat and vast?"

I run and I shout till I realize

that out there my curses would never last.

It whispers to me: "Settle down, my boy.

There is no point screaming your throat all sore.

Relax now, dear mortal, and live, enjoy

Do not be so coy till you've heard me roar."

So settlement's made on the growling shores,

and heat and read anger turns blue and cold.

There's seawater flowing through open pores

with volatile odours too soft to hold.

There's putrification all sick and sweet

along with a sailors last dying yell.

and seaweeds are rotting beneath my feet,

but somehow I rather enjoy the smell.

Candle wax

The candlelight

flickering endlessly in the windowsill

is crying candle wax

quite convincingly

while I am in the habit of admiring

the fine curves

of a bottle of red wine,

and all this reminds me of a woman

I once saw

leaving me

'cause her hair had a reddish hue

and I

was deliciously drunk at that time,

too,

and the flickering candlelight

is in a hopeless fight

with the shadows lurching

and jumping

in and out of every corner,

or maybe

it is the other way around,

and maybe it was the other way

around.

I wish.

You, me and the liquor-store

We met in one of those places where people seem to meet,

and it was like a roof-covered copy of a city-street.

'cause lights were going on and off like a flashlight in the zone,

and music; like the morning-rush; a steady, humming drone.

Along the walls the girls were lined like hookers on display

while the boys were in the bar and thinking what the hell to say,

and everyone was walking, but never getting anywhere.

They never focus with their eyes or turn their heads down there.

So I didn't catch your eye that night. I caught you by the arm,

and we danced to something sounding like a burglar-alarm

until the smoke was rising from its sleep down on the floor

and we were told there was a fire in the liquor-store.

But when we got outside the fire seemed to die and stop,

and someone gave us whiskey just to shove off and shut up.

We drank and got so pissed I can't remember anymore,

but when I woke, you still lay there beside me on the floor

Then marriage was a pregnancy and just six months away.

I never asked, but you said: "Yes, I do," now, anyway,

so we got settled in a suburb in a run-down avenue,

a place where people never stop, but speed up and drive through.

I drank myself to sleep to tell the world I didn't care,

and hoped and prayed that I would wake to see you weren't there,

and time was eating calendars like French fries 'till the day

you packed your bags and got our kids and car and drove away.

So, now I'm bathing ice-cubes at the place where people meet,

and these pretty women seem to hover right on by me on their feet.

I never get to catch them by the arm now anymore,

but soon I'm gonna light a fire in the liquor-store.

The Candle Light Effect

A word that's made in candle light

is not born false or true

and does not come as black or bright,

but with a softer hue.

Cause even if the air is still

the flame will move and shift

to its own heat, and people's will

must surely likewise drift.

The light takes trips on moving lips

in an eternal chase

for shadows, but it often skips

the details of a face.

And restlessly it flickers

to hide a paper sheet,

a syllable or apostrophe

that eyes will never meet.

Thus words conceived and born to us

at night in candle light

are neither true nor false and thus

a truly fairer sight.

The place where people meet

The bar is filled those 

who share their problems with their drinks

and those who ask the man behind the counter

what he thinks.

Grant, as rumour has it,
is drunkard who once swore

when witchy-bitch had left him 

that he'd burn the liquour store.

Grace is dancing rhumba
in a corner on her own

spilling Bloody Mary 

on a worn out evening gown.

Phil is killing toothpicks
with a vigour him unknown

slouched beside a two-chair table 

branding him alone.

Sally's hitting bourbon
like she's tugging on horse,

and the bottom of the bottle 

is her only steady course.

Graham's sipping sherry 
feeling heavy with remorse.

His wife just died, 

and he has lived
through seven futile wars.

Mary only shows her face
in fading candlelight

thinking she's to hideous 

to ever come in sight.

Joan keeps telling everyone
that everything's all right,

though every little movement 

seems to startle her tonight.

Barry tries like always
to send out cheery wink

to Eleanor, but like before, 

she doesn't even blink.

What Grace, Grant, Phil and Sally,
Mary, Paul and Eleanor

will never see is that they all where here 

the night before.

And Barry? Yes, he knows, I guess.
If only all too well,

but he's aware that people here 

has nowhere else to dwell.

I think that's all a bartender like me
can hope to tell

about the place where deadbeat souls 

live out their living hell.

Primus internates

The distance between
primus inter pares
and
rima internates
is
surprisingly short
and
frequently traveled.

My reality

I'm seated on a wooden bench

intoxicated by the stench

that comes with autumn leaves that spoil

with sun and water into soil.

"The smell of spring" they say it is

that promises a time of bliss,

but I can't help but sit and feel

that nothing here is really real.

The sun, to me a blinding lap

that turns the air all moist and damp,

but will not give my skin a tan.

The wind comes from a giant fan

that's hidden somewhere out of sight

and that is moved around at night.

The clouds are copies drifting by

in something looking like a sky

that is a badly painted lie, 

and all the people walking by

are stand-ins acting out their part

and stylised lines with half a heart.

The birdsong and the waterfall

behind me is not there at all,

but something that my mind can add

so silence will not sound so bad.

Yes, I am sure there's no such thing

as scenery and budding spring.

There's only me, and I'm alone

when I can't hear you on the phone,

and I can't talk or sing or hear

when your voice is not in my ear,

and I am blind and cannot see

if you're not right in front of me.

My feelings fade to something numb,

and I am deaf and blind and dumb.

What happens to my sense of smell

I do not know and cannot tell.

I'm lonely when I am alone,

and I'm alone when on my own.

Thus on this bench I wait for you

to come and make my dream turn true,

but if you let me down again,

will I be lost forever then?

Hard

Some people play

hard to get. Others play

hard to want. I play

hard to miss. It's just hard

to notice.

The biker

I'm a biker. If I say

that it's more to life than flying

just above the road some day,

then you'll know that I am lying.

By and by though I  may feel

such a sting for earthly pleasure.

Then I put away my wheels

and I walk the streets in leisure.

Usually I find some girl

that is young enough to charm me,

old enough to know the world,

kind enough to never harm me.

We talk of such and such alike,

but I sense distress about them

when I tell them that my bike

is my life. I'll do without them.

But one day I meet the one

beauty which exceeds all scaling,

and I court her just for fun,

always with the thought of failing.

But she's strangely drawn to me

where I sit all tanned and greasy,

and I think that this could be

not too good if it's too easy.

She's a  woman. I'm a man,

but I feel her charm is loosing

'cause my bike is pure titan.

I don't even think of choosing.

We make love although I feel

as I'm in a  work of fiction.

Maybe it is all too real.

Lovemaking is only friction.

Bicycling is all about

sliding with the least resistance

ever forward without doubt 

out of reach and of existence.

As our night draws to an end

I admit I truly like her,

but I know that I will spend

my life stomping. I'm a biker.

So I leave her on the bed

moments after she starts crying,

telling her that if I said

that I'd stay, I would be lying.

The thought of stopping

Tired cars with tired drivers are slowly driving by me under 

a mint-coloured sky, and I can just hear the mileage gather 

below me on the freeway where all life is our life. Moaning. 

It's a jazzy rhythm of clanking machine-parts that grow and 

fade, fade and grow, never stopping but to start all over again. 

Sometimes. Occasionally a lost soul wanders the bicycle-path 

through snow the colour of a smokers lung and the asphalt, 

the asphalt seems to grow up from underneath, eating its way 

through the white cape of frozen air and water while it is silently 

lurching and lunging and biting after every living thing it 

cannot get to. The noise. The sound of weakening steps 

through sludge and machine-crud is like someone gnawing 

lustily on the soles of passers by wearing rubber and dead 

animals on their feet for the sake of protection. There is a bus 

going by, but there sure ain't nothing else out here. This is the 

place where people pass through. There is no point in staying. 

They never stop to think so why should I think about stopping

Nicotine, my Heroine

Hi Nicotine, my Heroine.

Say have we met before,

or are we strangers every time

that you stand at my door?

My Nicotine, my Heroine

my mistress and my queen.

You are the gentlest whore to me,

both subtle and obscene.

Hear, Nicotine, my Heroine.

You linger in my veins.

You pull me down in apathy

as if to ease my pains.

Dear Nicotine, my Heroine,

you never gave me more

than what I asked in loneliness,

or what I begged you for.

Lo! Nicotine, my Heroine.

The fear has left my face.

With you among the audience

I safely leave the race. 

Oh, Nicotine, my Heroine.

How you define my world

and never changes the terrain

as would a foolish girl.

But Nicotine, my Heroine

believe me and be gone

the day I tell you it must end

or naught is ever done.

The living room table

Running my fingers through the fabric

of the carpet

looking at the wooden plate 

above me,

I find comfort in thinking that this

could be my world.

In thanking the tablecloth

for its blessed length

and darkness

letting in almost no light,

but red,

I find myself craving

solitude,

and 

the sound of distant music

only increases the feeling of

oneness,

harmony,

singularity.

While the stillness of the air

gives me time to count every

speck of dust,

I find comfort

in thinking that this 

could be my world,

and

as I pull up my feet

in foetal position

feeling the weight of being

slowly releasing

the pressure on my temples.

Warming up

as my surface decreases,

I find comfort

in thinking that this

could be all.

The Desert

A beach without an ocean

is not a beach.

My life is a desert

without love,

and dry winds

bear no comfort or release

from the omnipresent sun.

The horizon offers nothing

and I walk aimlessly 

in whichever direction

knowing I'll always have

more than I can find.

Yet there is peace.

My heart moves like a dune

whereas the wind

and shifting tides will change

fates in seconds.

And one can survive pleasantly 

on morning dew

and a promise of rain.

The Salesman

The Salesman's voice is sweet to hear

for everyone who lends an ear.

There's birdsong in his soothing voice.

All other sound will seem like noise.

His rat-like face will hold your gaze

and teach you of the simpler ways,

of how you can be born anew.

He seems so beautiful to you.

His teeth and touch you may despise,

but still you'll gladly sacrifice

the world for items that he brings,

the prize of all your needful things.

And when you look into his eyes

you do believe when he implies

that there is everlasting youth.

His voice becomes the only truth.

As payment he will just discard

your money and your credit card

and say: "This deal was fairly done,

and now, my son, you owe me one."

The interest of his petty loan

will rise till you are not your own,

and overshadowed by your greed

you pay him back with loathsome deeds.

The Salesman's laughter fills your head,

his smile your vision and instead

of letting life be filled with choice

you only hear his sugared voice.

Fiona

She
wasn't sure what she wanted, but was certain
what she'd get.
She was
the mirror watching herself
and wrote her own part in the play
called life.
Moving was staying
alive and that
annoying whisper of faint memories was
quelled by continuous action.
A collector of
things she did not want,she'd
leave everything behind to stay
ahead of herself.

Disorderly personality

Being

A paranoid, schizoid, histrionic,

Narcissistic borderline, antisocial,

Anxious, dependent and insecure

With fits of mania

And streaks of depression

Has its advantages

Nobody can tell

Me

Who I am

The Flutterby

On jungle-paths, don't ask me why,

I see this creature flutter by,

so colourful beneath the sky,

so pleasing to the human eye.

A butterfly they call it, though,

a name I simply can't bestow,

as blunt an crude as it is slow

and nothing like this thing I know.

But if you take the fl- in fly

and add to utter as you try

to put the b before the y,

you'll end up with a flutterby.

This name I feel is much more right

for someone who can catch the light,

create from just the colour white

a beautifully coloured sight.

A flutterby in guise and grace

which fleetingly will flaunt its face

and fly with ever-changing pace

to greet the sun and summer days.

Declamation

I distrust

the moralizing preachers

with woes of chastity

to disguise their hopeless

lust

for endless orgasms

and knowledge.

I deny

the tyranny of angels,

their prophesies of what is

to become

of us some day

and when we die

we're one of them,

or not.

I despise

the scapegoat of religion

and the arrogant cry for afterlife

and hidden meanings

as if the wonders of the world

are never good enough

for somebody.

In the telling of the tale

I ask for water from your well,

and for the stories it might tell,

but if you want it to end well

it best be told by a Martell.

You pour me coffe and your tea,

but this is water foul to see,

and nothing looks so good to me

as shots of purest Hennessey.

You give me splurting ginger ale,

fermented leaves all harsh and stale,

though I have heard that any tale

which starts this bad will surely fail.

I drink my beer and bid for wine

altough the taste of Ballantines 

could tell me stories of divine

that I could proudly claim as mine.

My mug is empty, I implore

of you to fill it up with more

of just whatever  there's in store.

You say you've heard that tale before.

But this you have not heard, I beam

This story ain't the way you deem

'cause nothing here is like it seems

and logic is for happy dreams.

So pour me Irish Whiskey, and

a dash of every Scottish brand

and watch as randomness expands

and blends in perfect circumstance.

Bliss

A beauty stands right in front of me.

I just have to say: "It seems

as if it was time we met, you see,

you feature in all my dreams."

I want to, but surely won't.

I can't do it so I don't

I just have to raise my voice, you see.

I just have to turn my head,

a twist of the neck away from me,

but I shy away instead

pretending to have a choice.

I can't even raise my voice.

She lives just around the block, you know.

I just have to cross the street

and walk maybe thirty yards or so

if I wanted us to meet,

but it's nearly ten o'clock,

and she lives around the block.

I could call her on the phone, I guess.

I just have to breath and dial.

I'll say that I got the wrong address.

She'll laugh and we'll talk a while.,

but what if she's not alone.

She might not pick up the phone.

So nothing will come of this, I deem.

I just ask about her name

so that I can put away my dream 

when she asks me first -the same.

I answer: "My name is bliss,

and something may yet come of this."

Call me

Call me some day

if you can find the time,

and let me do the talking

I will pay every dime,

'cause I so need to speak,

and I so crave to say

one "hello" to a person

at least once every day.

Call me some time.

I can wait by the phone.

Even carry it with me

in the streets on my own.

My number is twelve

forty-four thirty-eight,

and I'll wait through the night

if you must call me late.

Call me someone

if you feel a bit sad

'cause my life is so empty

that yours won't seem half bad.

I plead you. Just call me.

I am all alone.

With no other friend

than my cellular phone.

99

I'll stand below your window

and there I'll truly spend

the time by calling out your name

a hundred days on end.

I'll wait for you in anguish

through every weary night

'cause I could never let you go,

but then again I might.

Untitled

I am so many persons, but

there’s always just this one,

and I have many faces though

the mirror gives me none.

The further that I travel from

this wretched status quo,

the faster I return to be

the person that I know.

I cannot change! I’m stuck with traits

that always reevolve,

and when I try to see myself,

the image just dissolves.

I’m organized as fluid points

set arbitrarily.

I’m characters combined to form

a shapeless entity.

The emptiness, it pulls me in,

it bites and beats and screams,

’cause what I know is not what is

and nothing’s like it seems.

I cry to you: "Who am I then,

who catches light this way?!

For am I just a fraction of

a passing solar ray?

Or am I more a hapless shape

of energy delayed?

Or did I happen as I am,

yes, was I even made?

You wear your best expressions while

I ponder in dismay,

and all you can is smile and shrug

’cause what is there to say?