thread

it is a fine and mighty
thread that is either
borne out of unison
or spun out of
hope in masturbation;
still, a thread so fine,
one can only be tugged
by it and strive to
be blind

(been) moved

even as the bark peels, i peel it. as if

it needed the help. even as i sit perched,

i am shedding and exchanging breaths. even as

i look and stare, i dilate

with the changing lights. as if

i could fool myself into being exempt.

even as the locomotives encouraged each other, i could

only hope to cast a retrospective eye. as if

i had not (been) moved at all.

almost there

you said it felt like
we were almost there
and i asked
where is there?
you said it was
more of
what was there
so i asked
what?
and you finally said
to feel.
i stopped asking
and i found
there near:
it was already
here.

faye wong

-androgynously and
almost narf-like-
your gills
collect my breath while
only a brusque trail
is left even
without frills
(nor tail)

Reacquaint II

Burning wet,

After a few steps in the open.

Two pairs of footprints this time, not solo.

Swinging hands clenched together on a

Smoldering journey.

Pented passions, restraint ravishes.

Oozing, dripping, sweaty.

Again the grey comes.

Half a torrent,

Just as sudden.

We close our eyes,

Looked up,

Smiled,

And got reacquainted with nature, together.

Reacquaint

Scorching blaze burn me brown and red.

Insatiable thirst,

For wind, for water

These earthy desires.

Toned finer than white.

Quenched in gulps,

Splashes of relief.

Sky relents and drips in torrents.

Cold clothes cling close,

While wind whips wintry wetness.

I close my eyes,

Look up,

Smile,

And get reacquainted with nature.

hunter(s)

when your heart hunts it injures more than its prey when my heart hunts it tends to itself not they when our hearts hunt they seldom recognize the fray when my heart hunts out yours there is bound to be blood either way

unravel

while you are away,
my heart comes undone,
slowly unravels,
like a ball of yarn,
the devil collects it,
with a grin,
our love, our love,
in a ball of yarn,
he’ll never return it
(so when you come back)
we’ll have to make new love

- bjork, homogenic (1997)

with or without you

sometimes, i’d turn to check
for your prints, your smell,
but whether it means a lack
it seems too early to tell

(with you, i managed access
to gardens of my city;
only to bury what was being blessed
at a hyper-velocity;
with you, i ate my greens
and wore extra vests;
framed everyday life on screen;
without feeling any less)

sometimes, i will still turn to check
for your prints, your smell,
but whether you have since turned your back
it’s all too late to dwell

7-9

for two hours, i was
the troll atop a hill,
basking under lunar-cy,
armed with sleeping pills;
for two hours, i sang
melodies to my fill,
at times straddling shadows
of my moat so still;
for two hours, i sought
my kick to the thrill,
only to shiver cowardly
in the wake of overkill

varicose alarm

when one ever gets
awoken by the
varicose alarm,
rescue is quite on its
way in the form
of a rhythmic charm:

of routine lip-
moving trances,
programmed within
sanity-inducing pulses

if wind could

if wind could displace
the moon-light cast upon your face,
then it must have been a tenderbreeze case,
since it remains a crease-less portrait
of all the contours i navigate,
cease-lessly, of late

once

once seed colonies, once parched,
suddenly crack open to spill forth
life!

once larvae colonies, once still,
burst into frivolous mobilities of
locust-death!

once just pods in her cradle,
once gestating, and
sharing the same milk; (same lives)

yet she continues to insist on
blinking her eyes

明.扬 (walking2)

“...does it matter whether it is the moon
that follows the sun, or night
that comes after day,
so long as there is light (明)
shone through each and every sway;

does it matter then, if this light is kept safe
or placed intentionally at bay, or
if its shadows are worthy only
of a heavens-high puppet’s play,
so long as this light has been scattered (扬)
and paved along this month-old
milky-way...”

walking1

love-making should be like walking
where the scenery keeps changing

i see that
your back’s dripping
and i just can’t quit thrusting.

the pace’s hastening
the distance’s inviting

i see your palm
out-reaching
and yes, i'm coming!

canopies3

filtered, and across
an ocean cavity, tones and
articulations (of the diaphragm)
arrive as murmurs
in the head,
that are heard
only through a silent heart.

canopies2

it can be utterly plastic

or glass-like, the way these shy sheets

of ceramic stars peek through

urban’s meso-layer

skirt;

it can also be completely wooded

canopies1

how long can these luscious canopies wade us over
before
the tide of time announces that felling season has come
and
start stroking grey beards out of these promised longevity
silver barks?