Tag: spilled ink
Autumn whisper
Maybe we had once driven through a windy town to a rundown dinerWhere a song about sadness of a past time lingeredin happy notes over fruity tones from carelessly made coffeeI had hoped in this life you’d have more of those for me to see It is not that we ought to, but only that…
Projection
I am closing my eyes as the gentle up-and-down of this music carry me through the faint tangibility of my soul I’ve turned back to the music, the mysticism of art as my tears have now started to fall and I risk drowning in my nature I am silent, stuck and shaking, nervous as is…
Secrets of a rainy night
On the roof is confrontation that strangely comforts me and my little brothers, asleep through this pitter-patter. In our room, it resonates this sound, through this this noise: they can sleep lying dogs after a long day and I in here can breathe, stay still, finally, still. The rain seeps through the ceiling making our…
‘Riveted’
A magic pill that brings forth wakefulness instantaneously to my sleeping hippocampus sedated by the lullof every ticking time bombs: dead-lineswhere the living humans lie—this word is my panaceathat an unseen spirit injects often without consentlike emergency aid before all is too lateand there is no one in the roombut the patient and the medicine…
초코파이
There was a box of choco piemeant for youleft behind the hidden door of the pantryback there in the place where home meant alonefor me, at least, that was what I had wantedunless otherwise meant I could walk you backto where you had wanted to beI think it was October too that was supposedlya last…
stress, eating, stress-eating
It is a cultural thing to eat with one’s hands: coming from one of the many archipelagos in Asia, it is a cultural thing to touch food directly here. It is more than a cultural thing, if one thinks about it how else did everyone else’s ancestors eat before the invention of chopsticks? I usually…
Being, doing, tiring
I heard it was said that resistance is a form of anger what then is this anger for? I cannot even see it only feel the tingles underneath my eyes Burning, oh, how they burn The yellow light from the distance remind me of hope, some home far away Except that home is not mine,…
그 사람
I have yet to figure out which of them is art: his face, his smile, his voice his disposition? Or mine, having looked into him at all through the yellow-hazed screens.
In Finitude
Imagine being in the middle of the world,the exact pointin which everything crossescrosses one’s mindscrosses, crosses, crosseseveryone else carries on their backs Imagine being in the middle of the universe,the deepest spacewhere gravity is concentratedwhere nothing else matters but the nothingness of mattereveryone, hence, is everyone else: is no one else. Imagine being in the…
Song for the Muse of July
Why ought I write so long when the word Spirit brings me are few? So scarce whenever I ask So much when I could not care less And how, do you imagine? How do I care less about love? Love itself, the very foundation of my existential affections I love as much as I am…