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.