We’re binary stars and she’s a quasar consuming us.

Long before our stars were bound in orbit
around each other by their mutual gravity,
a girl with mystic eyes took you into her
spiral quasar.
Little did you know that her heart was a
vicious black hole,
until you reached for her hand and you
found her fingers clinging to a gun instead
of the rose you gave her.
But you were far too captivated by her bright
penetrative rays to resist her embrace, and
the outcome was a bullet in your spine.
You spent your nights mourning your damage
and aching for her heart to be once again
born within you.
Then my pulsars crashed into your remnants
and my fingers fuelled your passions all over
again,
but you still won’t let me embrace you -
you’re scared my chaotic radiations will cause
you an internal bleeding and you’ll be left
feeling like a shooting star marked its
presence onto your core all over again.

The kind of text I don’t let myself send you.

It’s midnight and I’ve had three cups of
black coffee in the past hour.
My hands are shaking and everyone in this
coffeehouse is oblivious to the wars exiling
my soul.
I went grocery shopping today and I bought
your favourite icecream flavour even though
I’m on a diet. I guess I just like collecting
little parts of you everywhere I go.
A week ago, you asked me not to fall in love
with you then you made me coffee without me
asking.
A broken record has been playing the same
hypnotising melodies and binaural tunes
ever since you showed me your scratches, and
I, mine. It’s carving the poetry you recite
every morning onto my brainwaves.
No, I’m not in love with you.
I just like sharing peanut butter cakes with
you and wearing your oversized sweatshirt.

I’m a photograph greying under your touch.

You told me that I am home,
that I am everything.
How can I be your home while every night
you sleep in her arms?
While every morning you crave the taste of
her soul the way I crave drinking coffee with you?
How can I be everything while she’s the one
you breathe in despite her polluted words?
Why do you leave your heart’s footprints on my
being knowing that it’s only running towards her?
Is it ethical, love?
To give her bouquets made out of the flowers
I plant in the holes she dug?
To give her the razor after all the nights
I’ve spent bandaging your cuts?
Move out of my veins, love.
I do no want to be your deserted dusty house.
I do not want you to leave your souvenirs scattered
in my insides; I still have boxes filled with pictures
and letters from the last home I lived in.
I cannot be your home anymore, love,
for I don’t even have a shelter -
I sleep in different motel rooms every night.

Featured Image -- 251

“I swallowed a moon made of iron”. Xu Lizhi, Worker, Poet.

Originally posted on Hummus For Thought:

Xu Lizhi (1990-2014). Source: LibCom

Xu Lizhi (1990-2014). Source: LibCom

我咽下一枚铁做的月亮
I swallowed a moon made of iron
他们把它叫做螺丝
They refer to it as a nail
我咽下这工业的废水,失业的订单
I swallowed this industrial sewage, these unemployment documents
那些低于机台的青春早早夭亡
Youth stooped at machines die before their time
我咽下奔波,咽下流离失所
I swallowed the hustle and the destitution
咽下人行天桥,咽下长满水锈的生活
Swallowed pedestrian bridges, life covered in rust
我再咽不下了
I can’t swallow any more
所有我曾经咽下的现在都从喉咙汹涌而出
All that I’ve swallowed is now gushing out of my throat
在祖国的领土上铺成一首
Unfurling on the land of my ancestors
耻辱的诗
Into a disgraceful poem.

‘I swallowed a moon made of iron’ – 19 December 2013, translated by LibCom’s Nao


I came across the work of Xu Lizhi, and couldn’t stop reading. Xu was a worker at Foxconn, the company best known for producing products such as iPhone, BlackBerry, iPad, Kindle, Playstation 4, Xbox One and Wii U in, let’s say, ‘controversial’ working conditions.

That I put the…

View original 1,393 more words

Poetic confessions

I confess,
I kiss cigarettes hoping the
nicotine they leave inside my
mouth will render an addiction
in your system and make you come
back crawling to the taste of my lips.

I confess,
I drink coffee hoping my
caffeinated words will turn
your morning blues to midnight
meteor showers that elude your worst
nightmares.

Burning Desires #3

I’ve been waking up to
phantom bites and gothic traces,
to my frisson pleading with my skin
to set it free so it can chase this enticing
mystic soul each time it escapes my consciousness
and returns home; to the celestial infinite dimension
that shelters it from the realm of my mediocre greed.
Its presence seeps into the marrow of my bones
and interlocks around my flesh, and my veins
crumple into nothingness.

November ninth.

Every time I finish building you out of endearing words that chisel themselves onto the bittersweet tragedy of our misguided souls and disguise it as an ancient Goddess of space, I wonder:
“Will I ever nuke these cracked delusions that black out my whole iridescent being? “
“Will I ever stop searching for you in every motel room I sleep in since you destroyed our home?”

And a year later I still write.
And I continue to ask the very same questions.

Burning Desires #2

He does not believe me when I tell him
that his scars are as alluring as the
curl of his smile.
He does not believe me when I tell him
that I’d use my own cells to heal his
wounds, that I’d bear with the rusty
taste of his blood, that I’d break myself
down and line my bits up in the genetic
make up of his lost soul.
He does not believe me when I tell him
that I ache for his nakedness and long
to strip him down from his intriguing
shield, to sip wine from his collarbones,
to slit my throat with his shoulder blades,
to tangle my limbs with his, to intertwine
my ribs with his.
He does not believe me when I tell him
that he’s beautiful.
I’m scared the day he does is the day he leaves.

Letters to my forever

My dearest,
I know the funeral triggered memories you’ve been trying to block out of your mind.
I know it felt like a bullet diving in your flesh and never finding its way out.
But what you need to know is that death is brutally, mercilessly inevitable.
The loss is almost surreal and you’re scared your heart’s shattered pieces will leave you as it floods your chest.
I am scared of that, too.
Death has been chasing my family for four years now and I do not want it to start haunting yours, too.
You are too pure to even acknowledge such a cruel thing.
I would rather die a million deaths than see your precious tears abandoning your heavenly, fascinating eyes -
your eyes resemble the way the ocean yields to the sun as she kisses him.
They resemble the gap between dusk and dawn.
They embody every goddamn beautiful thing I have ever craved;
I meekly drown in my vulnerabilities each time my soul summons your presence,
for you are the only crystal clear jewel in my life -
I see you as a diamond even if you’re still a coal under pressure.
My knees are buckling at the thought of you mourning your loss without me reminding you that souls are eternal tears me down to the ground.
So please,
my dearest,
remember that we are omnipresent in the boundless regions of the infinite,
and that my heart is entwined with yours;
I’ve been feeling trying to escape my ribcage to settle in yours, to mend your heart.

A tangled observation.

If love is vowing to be with one person for life, then I am incapable of love. You see, I’ve always belonged to everyone – the sorrowed, the mad, the damned, the golden, the empty, all of them. I’ve always craved feeling too many souls all at once–he breaks down at my door every night. He likes the way I hold my cigarettes. He curses at my demons. He teaches me how to embrace my peculiarities. He is too dead to love me–all of them build the man in my head–mon prince and mon petit amour–the man no one can live up to.
I’ve never belonged to one soul because I have this desperate need to experience every lucid dream every man ever lived, a desperate need to kiss every wound and taste every type of blood out there. I search for my missing pieces in everyone and I cling to the ones that fit in my curves. I numb one’s absence with the other’s presence. My heart is too involved in different passions that I cannot fulfil but it is a blessing to shelter every soul that comes across my path.
I do not need anyone to take me in because I am my own home. I am the one who sings me lullabies when I’m sad. My heart beats for me and myself only. My body fights to keep me alive. I belong deeply to myself. Therefor, I am love.
Love is not skin and bones, nor words and flowers. Love is embracing the divine power in all its forms. It is allowing the universe to reach you through everything existent. It is smiling at the stars and hugging the trees, making someone coffee and kissing the tranquil silence, feeding stray cats and helping a stranger, looking at your reflection and exhaling pure bliss.
Love comes from within and engulfs everything when shared. Love enables you to live. It is not tied down to relationships. You are love. I am love. And we are all One with the Divine.