Showing posts with label bahasa inggris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bahasa inggris. Show all posts

Thursday 14 September 2023

Genrifinaldy's Poems (2)

Ode to the Adulthood

: Beach House - Space Song

i'm still that random boy in every sci-fi/adventure movie—playing hide & seek with the constellation of stars—seeking to understand what the hell is going on or what the fuck god's problem is. where did he throw the dice?

& how can a mature outside of me still have a light after entering the black hole of reality?



One of Reason to be Sad

long ago, one of the things that could make me happy all day was finding money in my pants. today, it actually made me sad all day. i realize i'm getting older & forgetful.

forgot that i had those pants & there was money inside of them.



I'm Disillusioned

by the fact that life isn't like a movie. there is no cinematic backsound for every filmic thing we experience: when we take a deep breath before making a tough decision, close our eyes while kissing our partner's lips, let ourselves be wet caught in the rain, sunken in puzzled philosophical daydreams, smile at childhood memory we have, hangout with friends on friday night then laugh so hard, crying alone silently on the top of pillow on sunday evening, & so on, & so on.

in life, there is no 'protagonist' either. since everyone is an 'extra'. & we never know who the antagonist is. but i found that the “advanced antagonist” can give us shelters, serve us food & drinks, lecture good value, go to the grocery store, pay our bills, & tell us to keep going on the endless circular track they build ahead of us.

unfortunately... that's not the worst part, but the probability that our life was probably directed by the most untalented-amateur directors with a bad sense of humor & taste of art.



Live Longer


are just undiscover




If You Ask How's My Day...

i just feel like a schiz with a bad headache. too bad, me & my mind speak in a different language. & my neck tells my ears longing for the blade of guillotine. i want to believe that there's a grand lullaby to my agony, a story that will validate my tears, stomachache, & back pain. that's a frail voice inside me hoping for a glimpse of light in the vast darkness. yet, as time unfurls, i recognize those whispers are merely echoes of a desperate heart. but the universe remains silent, indifferent to my pleas. since i'm just transient beings, insignificant in the boundless expanse of existence. my fretfulness, in the enormous narrative of life, is but a meaningless noisy disturbance. i think i consume too many western thinkers until i assume there's no cosmic reward waiting for me at the end. unhappily, i simply exist, endure, & the idea of me eventually vanish into oblivion, with no real assurance that my streams had any true seas. while my hopes perish like little flowers swept by the volcanic mudflow. perhaps, my daily basis struggles are that tinyer than i feel they are. unlucky, now, i have become a gigantic monster under the bed that countless religions fight with...

no, just kidding. i'm okay. that's just a phase. as you said.


Saturday 9 September 2023

Genrifinaldy's Poems

  La Voragine infernale by Botticelli

The Outcry of Silence

can we just knock on the sky & tell god to stop character development? we are at the max level. this is our final patience to endure the twinge of tragedy. & our last bravery to face the lethal uncertainty.

hello there... Plath? Dylan? is it completely empty up there? no one is there?



Every Dawn

i muse about
perpetually enlarged
cosmos while almost
constantly feeling back-pain,
sudden nauseas, random
migraine, impromptu eerie,
& simultaneously thinking: 
“could one rosy afternoon
i merely lay down on
my girlfriend's thigh
in the quiet park. discussing
Monet's painting or
Dostoevsky's novel. play
Morrissey's or
Beach House's songs.
watch Pasolini's or
Ingmar's movies.
for a moment forget
the untolerable horror
of life's trial & terror.
is it too much
to actualize for?”




in the midst of
four thousand two hundred
confident belief systems
& three thousand
omnipotent beings,
heaven knows
she's the only religion
that i will ever believe.
the only god
that i will ever worship.

she's the only myth
that i will ever need.
heaven knows...



Traveller's Tales

in the morning,
i walked barefoot
to the east. there,
i found artificial lights.
those mystical rays
bring peace. calming
the hidden storm
in my mind. i started
to realize this is the home
of tranquillity. i found beauty
lotus thrives on filthy mud.
the pacify of incense.
all the void in every part
of my soul is magically fulfilled.

at night,
i headed to the west.
& found a house.
burned house. there
are too many living corpses.
their tongue was the
sharpest sword that an
unbreakable shield
could imagine. in their
eyes, i see the highest god
suicide & the cemetery
of hope. the birth of
raven, the death of dove. 
i found no one could
take a rest. no one can
emotionally recover
from toward the west.

in the middle of the night,
i want to come home. but
as soon as i headed to
the west, i remember that
the east disappeared into
the nothingness. i'm homeless
now. don't have a home.
nor a house.




my whole life
is a labyrinth;

designed by
another version
of Daedalus.
to hold the unbearable
naked truth. to taming
the beast within me.
my primal destructive self.
has an insatiable appetite
to annihilate
ten thousand prophets.

“i have a sublime longing
for cinematic catastrophe!
the downfall of David!”
said the Goliath
inside my flesh.



Friday 5 August 2022

An Oasis for the Stranded, Losers

"What is a rebel? A man who says no."

—Albert Camus

While Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard and Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky have written extensively about absurdism and issues related to it around a century before him, Albert Camus is the one most closely associated with absurdism philosophy. As a person, he is often labeled as an absurdist author, existentialist thinker, even anarcho-syndicalist. But Camus emphatically says 'no' to the term of author, existentialist, or philosopher—let alone an absurdist. In fact, it seems he prefers not to be given any nicknames, except "The Rebel".

On Existentialism

One thing that is certainly clear is the fact that Camus is a French Algerian, having also a Spanish descent from his mother's side, and was born from a Pied-Noir (a person of European origin who lived in Algeria during French rule, especially one who returned to Europe after Algeria was granted independence) poor family in Algérie-française (French Algeria). In the context of thought, Camus seems to be different from other philosophers—even compared to other influential philosophers, such as Kierkegaard, Friedrich Nietzsche, to Jean-Paul Sartre—who sleeps on the top of the mattress of Existentialism.

The obvious distinction between Camus and existentialist philosophers is a matter of meaning. Some existentialist philosophers such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche emphasize meaning in each individual. In short, both require human beings to quickly make sense of their lives. In other words, we as humans are required to live life with meaning, value, or essence.

According to Kierkegaard, what is very important for humans is their own state or existence. But in its existence, human existence is not static, but becomes, which implicitly changes and moves from the possibility to the higher level of reality. He formulated that human beings have three stages on the way to becoming a true self: aesthetic, ethical, and religious. Simplified they are: aesthetic, the pursuit of pleasure; ethical, the assumption of duty to society; religious, obedience to God.

Simply, Kierkegaard wants us to transfiguring the meaning of all existence (despite irony) into the divine dimension (gods and religion)—therefore, the meaning of life according to him is to become a religious existentialist.

Thereafter, Sartre gave an antipodal for Kierkegaard Philosophy (Christian Existentialism) by the design of atheist existentialist on the corpus and discourse of Existentialism—and played the key role in French Existentialism (also influencing giant-man of French cinema: Philippe Garrel and Jean-Luc Godard, which is prominent for their existentialistic storytelling, nihilistic narratives, and atheistic worldview).

Meanwhile, Nietzsche engages us to value our life, to encourage us to become Übermensch (superman/superhuman/overman) who sees his existence as a source of value/meaning/essence—who exploded of all his existence (particularly: tragedy, despair, and suffering) with his legendary phrase: Fatum Brutum Amor Fati; love of fate, even when it comes with so brutal.

But Camus was an anomaly. It is another way, to be precise, a shortcut to unique philosophical thought. In the midst of earth that every day continues to spin like a carousel in the middle of a busy bazzar, the wheels of thought that require humans to live meaningfully, and the many of us who run away from absurdity—Camus want us to face the day full with courage and bravery—without any kind of philosophy which opens another getaway from absurdity.

Camus also said that life was already quaint enough, odd, strange, bizarre, abnormal as well as absurd. Indirectly, Camus assumes that every human being can still live a meaningless life. In other words, being useless is not a problem at all—and that is clearly okay. Camus seemed to be an oasis for some stranded, who were too thirsty because there was no water (meaning/value/essence) to drink.

"Don’t walk in front of me … I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me … I may not lead. Walk beside me … just be my friend." —Albert Camus

On The Myth of Sisyphus

The philosophical essay entitled Le Mythe de Sisyphe (The Myth of Sisyphus) is Camus's statement on the most archaic questions about meaning: "what is the meaning of life?"

In that philosophy essay, which contains 120 pages and originally published in 1942—Camus excorticate the classic problem of the existence of each individual: inevitably undermined by the absurd reality.

Camus shows that humans (as part of the absurdity itself) cannot possibly escape, or flee from the nightmare of the futility of life—as well as the meaninglessness of death.

The Myth of Sisyphus illustrates that life is indeed absurd and that is clearly illustrated by a person named Sisyphus. Based on a myth from Ancient Greece, Sisyphus was once a king—but by a reason of becoming too tyrannical, cruel, and cold-blooded—he was condemned by the Gods/Goddess on the top of Mount Olympus.

Sisyphus was punished, or rather cursed: to push a giant boulder to the top of the mountain—but when the boulder reached the top—the stone would roll back down, and Sisyphus had to do it again from the beginning—until swallowed by the eternity of time.

So that's the only life he has. On a sane level of consciousness, the eternal curse by continually pushing a rock to the top of a mountain—afterward repeating it from the bottom is a sad, pathetic, hopeless, and useless curse. Nonetheless, Camus saw this curse was almost the same as the fate of humans in the world.

Just like a human being who is born, then grows old, then sleeps, then wakes up, in endless repetition of joy and sorrow, meaningless, purposeless, unclear—then dies without knowing why and how the hell he/she becomes a human being, without ever being asked by god or our parents: "hey sweetheart, do you want to be born?"—in short, absurd.

One side of Sisyphus, which we are seldom aware of, is his unconditional acceptance and rebellion at the same time. With grace, he accepted his curse even though it caused resentment and so annoying—when he had to start again from the beginning. Armed with the fire of rebellion—that continues to burn in his left chest—he burns his spirit to carry out his curse without complaining, giving up, let alone committing suicide.

After all, in essence, life is one package with death. We're all going to die, and if Sisyphus could die by suicide to escape his curse, then he wouldn't. The plot twist is that Sisyphus knows that suicide, both physically and philosophically, is suicide—which only an escapist does.

So it is fitting that Sisyphus was bestowed the title of an Absurd Hero (embraces the struggle and the contradiction of living without purpose). Sisyphus has fused with everything that is absurd, even cope with his goddamn boulder (burden, problem, conflict, etc.)—that he faithfully pushes continuously (accepting and rebelling).

Philosophically, Sisyphus gave precious lessons to us. No matter how bastards, brutal, difficult, scoundrel, rotter, damned, godforsaken, shoddy, or absurd our lives are—we can still be happy; so giving up (suicide) is not the right choice.

"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

—Albert Camus

On Suicide

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest—whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories—comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer." Camus states in his essay—The Myth of Sisyphus.

So is this absurd life worth living? It depends on what we are looking for. If we seek certainty, order, and clarity—life will never seem to make us comfortable, let alone happy.

For most people, a life without meaning is not a life worth living. This is why so many of us end our lives on purpose, take one’s life, aka suicide. Camus understood this, then responded directly to it. He advises us to ask ourselves whether this life is worth living or not. But Camus concludes, that suicide doesn't really help us much.

On account of that, there is no more meaning in death in absurd life. Suicide is only a transition, from questions about what makes life worth living. However, in terms of what meaning we might find—it also doesn't really help much.

Our life is absurd, but our courage to live the absurdity is certainly more than enough. We and Sisyphus, may indeed be condemned to living in an absurd world—but the usual search for meaning -- open ten billion opportunities making it more difficult for us to be happy—undoubtedly more pathetic and terrible than the absurdity itself.

The bad news is (physical and philosophical) suicide will never fill the void of human hearts. Regarding good-bad and right-wrong physical suicide, it seems we must agree with Jean-Paul Sartre: "the good-bad and right-wrong of suicide—can only be judged by the perpetrator himself."

Perhaps fortunately, many of us have bad dreams when we are asleep. Unfortunately, some of us have nightmares when awake.

On Hope and Leap of Faith

"You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life." —Albert Camus

Camus wrote several well-known works such as L'Étranger/The Stranger (1942), La Peste/The Plague (1947), Le Mythe de Sisyphe/The Myth of Sisyphus (1942), La Chute/The Fall (1956), and L'Homme révolté/The Rebel (1951). His philosophies is filled with the idea of Absurdism—which has a plot about humans seeking meaning.

Inasmuch as we are rational beings & conscious beings, who are improbable can live without meaning, we need to invent our own meaning, devise our own values, live by our own significance.

Absurdism is also about certainty in an uncertain world. The certainty that nothing is certain—in a reality that never offers an explanation and a universe which seems not to give a fuck. But what if we hope for something, for example, for tomorrow? This is even more absurd.

The absurdity lies in the fact that if we use the Linear Concept of Time (or Western Concept of Time), the line of life always points to the future. Meanwhile, on the other hand, the future brings us one step closer to death. The past leads us to the present, and the present will lead us to the future (towards death).

German philosopher and Phenomenology expert, Martin Heidegger, in his book—Being and Time (1927)—has a better term to explain why it is more absurd if we are hoping more to the time—to portray our beings who are trapped in absurdness space-time ... on the puzzling third dimensional world we called reality—he named it Sein-zum-Tode: in a nutshell, a being who realized that he was walking towards a completely unavoidable death; humans who realize that they are in a 'frame' called time.

What lies in the future or tomorrow? Yes, absurdity, also an unpredictable and unavoidable death.

Therefore, we must dare to reject the Leap of Faith. In short, Leap of Faith is an act of believing in or attempting something whose existence or outcome cannot be proved—is same as philosophical suicide (adhering to Religion, Science, Ideology, Philosophy, and so on)—as well as physical suicide (including Euthanasia). Not pretending to be the strongest, but Camus thought, Leap of Faith doesn't seem like the right solution.

It would be better if we carry out insurrection, revolt, and rebel—against a life that is never clear. Embrace an odd life with the even. Beat the establishment with the acceptance of gloom. If it's useless, it doesn't matter. The most important thing is that we keep our passion alive.

Indirectly, Camus wants us to keep the passion of Carpe Diem melting to our bones. Carpe Diem is about living the day, boldly without fear. Fearless to face the tomorrow that may be conducive but conceive death.

So should we hope? Probably not.

"The absurd hero's refusal to hope becomes his singular ability to live in the present with passion." —Albert Camus

On His Death

Camus is a rebel, he bravely lives an absurd life sincerely. He did not commit suicide, physically or philosophically. He may indeed be the ultimate absurdist who live the absurdity and die absurdly.

And the pinnacle of his absurdity? The story of his own death. Camus had a lifelong fear of automobiles. When he started writing about the Philosophy of Absurdism, he wrote: "the most absurd way to die is in a car crash". Later on, in the absurd afternoon of January 4, 1960—a powerful Facel Vega sports car skidded off an icy road in Burgundy (French Region), hit an idle tree, and ploughed into another. Camus was inside that car. He died instantly in that terrible car crash.

God must be like joking, is it?

There are many conspiracies behind his death, including the hypothesis that Albert Camus might have been killed by the KGB—for criticising the Soviet Union. But the most interesting thing is that Camus's friend-turned-rival, Jean-Paul Sartre, writes a comical tribute: "there is an unbearable absurdity in his death."

Camus kicked the bucket three years after receiving one of the most prestigious awards—the Nobel Prize in Literature. But Camus didn't stop there, he would be immortal. Since he was the key to understanding the mind of absurdity of the world. As long as this world is absurd, Camus will stay alive. He will live in the hearts of us—who are confused in the midst of the labyrinth of reality.

Camus and Sisyphus are one entity. They both teach: the absurdity of life that we experience almost every moment, every second, should not make us unhappy. Even the cursed Sisyphus can still be happy, even with the absurd punishment that renders his life meaningless.


"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?" —Albert Camus

Absurdist embrace the conflict between our desire of finding meaning and the universe inherently devoid of it. An absurdist is a rebel who will not allow the lack of meaning to stop him/her from living and facing that conflict on a daily basis.

Perhaps, sometimes, we forget to appreciate the little things that makes life worth living.

We should sit under Sisyphus: in living a life with a sincere and total acceptance, in other words, unconditionally for its absurdity. Lastly, a meaningless life doesn't mean it doesn't contain happiness. Live, enjoy, and revolt. Forget about tomorrow, which hasn't happened yet, and perhaps never will. Process and present are the key, results and tomorrow are just a bonus. The path is the main, the goal is only the initial combination—which is called the end.

"But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself." —Albert Camus

May all beings be happy.

Friday 15 July 2022

Give Poems A Chance

Deep down in our hearts, not only are we all tired of conflicts and wars, we fear and hate them. From Russia's aggression into Ukraine to Yemen's bloody civil war, from Myanmar coup d'état against the civilian government to the Taliban's takeover of Afghanistan. People around the world need to do something. We need to be echoing peace, but at first, frankly, we need to see and absorb sadness and agony from the war victims, from endlessly conflicts that claim millions of lives, from real suffering that has the same tone—from east to west, south to north.

Such tragedies create a womb for magnum opus literary works—poetry of human suffering, anger, frustration but also hopes. And no doubt, we can interpret peace by poetry, by poems as have been created by young people in the Southeast Asian region.

The ASEAN Institute for Peace and Reconciliation organized last year a poetry competition for ASEAN's young citizens, and asked the region's renowned writers and poets: Okky Madasari (Indonesia), Melizarani T. Selva (Malaysia), and Hariz Fadhilah (Brunei Darussalam), to review and select the best poems.

The Institute then published a book of these best poems on Jan. 13, with Okky Madasari becoming the editor of this 56-page book titled "ASEAN Peace Poems".

Calm before the storm

Yizhi Ria Riangmi (Indonesia)

When peace comes,
you will not find her on the edge of an olive branch,
or a ceasefire;
she will not be in the silence of the Tabernacle
or in the gentle waves lapping against your calves at the beaches;
only remnants of her remain in the temples,
not even on quiet hills overlooking sleeping skyscrapers.

If peace comes,
you will feel her on the brims of tidal waves just as they cascade
across the shore,
after a fire, when the walls are dampened, blackened with
lingering soot, ash thickening the air,
in hospitals, during a doctor's long shift; they always say silent
hallways are a bad omen;
in the thick of a protest, voices reverberating across the streets,
the aftermath of a break-up, when the lovers leave;

When peace comes,
you will not find her serene.
she courts chaos
like Saturn yearning for Jupiter's kiss,
long awaiting his passing
for her moment of bliss.


This anthology flows quite smoothly from every poem to another poem, making it difficult to simply stick with just reading a few poems from it and exit. Each poem is like walking together, gathering in the midst of a cold square, and sue things that must be voiced with the pureness sound of children inside their beings. The metaphors are done in vibrant colors. They range from strong-lined imaginary filled with a piece of agony to obscure scenes of a tropic beauty.

The contexture of words that we construct and formulate in such a way, which we call poetry—was an intellectual and creative medium to explore the many forms of duality, for instance, peace and conflict: from simple moments of tranquility, to complex arrangements of harmony; from ordinary restlessness of consciousness, to knotty composition of despondence.

In this collection of close and warm poetry, there is a kind of personal nerve-racking that is nicely conjured by the magic of language—into a collective urgency related to the climate crisis, global peace, unto the future of this world. Turning the pages of this anthology poems is a voyage of sounds, color, odour, and heterogeneous forms of psychological expression through the medium of text.

The Formula of Peace

Dani (Indonesia)

A little girl asked Einstein, "What is the formula of peace?" She
thought it would be the most challenging question and the
most serious scientific problem Einstein had ever encoun-
tered. "The greatest physicist in the world, can we really have
perpetual peace?" She wondered why war happened.
She could not accept, if humans were longing for peace, why
they still committed violence from time to time.
"Is it the universal theorem of physics, the absolute law of
the universe?" She was severely disturbed, why people could
conduct heinous crimes against humanity in the name of
peace. Thus, the little girl asked Einstein again, "What is the
formula of peace?"
Empathy, Mindfulness, Critical Inquiry and Compassion."


Beneath the ASEAN Peace Poems, there is an ancient longing for peace, of home, of past, of present, of future, of nature. There is a kind of utopia that is the antithesis of violence, anger, and war. It is heartwarming when read every poem by using conscience. Like attending a monumental campaign—which invites the reader to linger, consider, to stop talking, and start listening.

With poetry we can muse our reality, devise our existence, and redefine our collective values such as peace. And sorrowful worlds are gasoline for artistic or poetic inspiration. The poets or artists would go into furor poeticus (ecstasy), poetic madness, mystic experience, or divine frenzy—when they are feeling blue.

No Place Like Zamboanga

Earl Carlo Guevarra (Philippines)

I say that there's no place like my hometown
Where the sun sets over the Sulu Sea
Yet I can't go back now to my own town

The crabs and lobsters are fresh in my town There are pink sand
beaches for all to see
I say that there's no place like my hometown

My loved ones all wait for me to come down home and have a
party under the tree
Yet I can't go back now to my own town

These pure islands have palm trees as their crown with fine sand
beaches for all to roam free
I say that there's no place like my hometown
There are rivers and falls just outside town Inside virgin woods
that would make one glee Yet I can't go back now to my own town

Everyone's taking selfies in another town and post on Instagram
of the great sights they see
I say that there's no place like my hometown
Yet I can't go back now to my own town


Lattermost, poetry can't change the world instantly, poetry just slowly changes the way we see the world. Poetry causes us to question our perception, interpretation of everyday reality, and in the end raises global awareness to jointly make the world a million times better place to live in.

As John Lennon screamed to the world to give peace a chance in 1969 as a protest against US involvement in the Vietnam War, now it's time for us to give poems a chance to touch the hearts of the war gods, leaders, and people from all walks of life.

May all beings be happy.

Link to download the book:

Thursday 9 June 2022

Friedrich Nietzsche and So On and So On


"I'm not a man, I'm dynamite."

—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Throughout the history of western philosophy, no philosopher has been as crazy, brave, frontal, iconic, enigmatic or as eccentric as Nietzsche. No philosopher has ever been as 'edgy' as Nietzsche. As a philosopher, philologist who researches ancient texts, theologist, cultural critics, litterateur, and composers—his muses and insight into human civilization is possibly unquestionable.

With his authentic style, he spit in the face of a world that relies heavily on money, state, politics, religion, and science. As a featherless biped, Nietzsche is like a lunatic rooster who is possessed by a question mark. He was really insane—in the positive connotation: at the age of 24, Nietzsche was awarded a doctorate degree, became a professor of classical philology and was the youngest German professor up to that time.

From a young age, he questioned everything that had been taught to him, and something that was taught to everyone. Nietzsche was born and raised in a religious family. In fact, his father was a devout priest, but young Nietzsche valiantly declared: "God is dead ... and we have killed Him!"

Nietzsche also once said that religion is escapist, dogmatic, and narcissistic. He thought, religion is like looking in the mirror and saying: "my religion is good, my religion is right, other religions are bad and wrong." In a broader perspective, this is certainly dangerous, if belief system in existence and self-identity is not supported by tolerance and empathy.

In other words, it equates to the binary opposition of modernity: "If it is not one, it must be zero. If I am right, then what is outside of me must be wrong. If I am good, then the other must be evil." And unfortunately, this precisely depicts the tendency of some religious people that are still attached to puritanism (rigid religiosity).

According to Nietzsche, the reason why people believe in God or the singular truth is their indecision and fear in facing reality, which has one core, namely self-deception. It would be better if we faced, and truly lived, the transience of existence and the real meaninglessness of life—he added.

Sketchily, Nietzsche simply calls for us to stand on our own feet without the aid of obedience—any form of doctrines, dogmas or status quo. Therefore, Nietzsche not only jumps on adherence of religion, but also belief in values or objective truth such as science.

On Idée Fixe

"There are two different types of people in the world, those who want to know, and those who want to believe."

—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

To understand Nietzsche, firstly, we need to know that he detested the idée fixe (psychological term: the belief that someone refuses to change their mind even though it might be wrong). For him, this can lead to the death of interpretation (or in a more crude language; the death of God)—it is a logical consequence of the concept of truth which has been final. When something is in the state of idée fixe or in the form of finality, it will die in a certain shroud. There are no new interpretations; static, frigid, and rigid.

By means of idée fixe, the Supreme God will be buried in the dwarf of human conception. It even raises a wild hypothesis: that illogical God is forced into the contents of the logical human mind. And has been final, so The Will for the Truth has become a deadly thing. For example, eight Crusade warfare, endless Middle East wars, eternal Gaza conflict, or Bosnian genocide in 1995, and so on—and so on.

Nietzsche also launched a scathing critique of idée fixe in his book, The Gay Science—first published in 1882—which sometimes translated as The Joyful Wisdom or The Joyous Science:

"... It is further stated that the madman made his way into different churches on the same day, and there intoned his Requiem æternam Deo. When led out and called to account, he always gave the reply: "What are these churches now, if they are not the tombs and monuments of God?"

On Atheism and Binary Oppositions

But Nietzsche did not only criticize the religion and their clergy, he also did not hesitate to criticize atheism. At the root of its essence, atheism itself is a reflection of Radical Aufklärung (Age of Enlightenment centered in Europe) that is too confident in science. And in fact, scientism has become an absolute belief and almost become a new religion who is worshipped by scientists. Perhaps, we cannot run from The Will to Believe, as William James said and named his book.

This idée fixe's model of thinking has actually been reflected in the Modern Age— which was marked by advances in science and technology. To assume that this massive progress can bring enlightenment and become a single field in understanding reality.

That is, one, absolute, and unshakable. Later, a French contemporary philosopher, Jacques Derrida, called this Western culture in the name of logocentrism—which is trapped in binary oppositions (right-wrong, good-bad, etc.)—so that one will defeat the other.

In the context of that Western progress, whether intentionally or not, Nietzsche prophesied the arrival of nihilism. In a nutshell, nihilism became a philosophical school that marked the beginning of the inevitable cultural crisis in which the highest values lost their meaning and led to a loss of purpose.

On Dynamite

"He who cannot obey himself will be commanded. That is the nature of living creatures."

—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Nietzsche argues that behind every belief whatsoever, there must be a purpose. Thus Nietzsche chose to remain skeptical of widely held beliefs, because he did not fundamentally believe in their cause. Perhaps, that is why Nietzsche is often referred to as 'The Dynamite'—on account of—he is the one who will detonate that belief to pieces.

On January 1st 2004, British anarchist author, teacher, and organizer—John Moore—published 147 pages books namely I Am Not a Man, I Am Dynamite: Friedrich Nietzsche and the Anarchist Tradition.

In essence, Nietzsche was born and destined to surpass man and madman. In fact, he is already very controversial just by the statement, "God is Dead" (German: Got is Tott)—which has shaken dogmas, and truths that have been deemed established as well as absolute. So it is no exaggeration indeed, if Nietzsche refers to himself as 'The Dynamite'.

On Persian Prophet

To study Nietzsche, of course to study about his magnum opus, namely Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None (German: Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen)—which contains the famous phrase "God is Dead", although the phrase has previously appeared in The Gay Science.

Objectively, Thus Spoke Zarathustra is a magical, poetic, philosophical, and genius book. The influence was also immense on 20th century writers, such as Franz Kafka, Bernard Shaw, Jean-Paul Sartre, unto Albert Camus.

However, the question is ... why Zarathustra? Why did Nietzsche choose (even tends to sanctify?) the Persian prophet of Zoroastrianism? How important was Zarathustra in Nietzsche's life?

To answer this, perhaps, we should read directly from Nietzsche's own autobiography, Ecce Homo. To be precise, a quote from the chapter Why I am a Fatality:

"I have not been asked, as I should have been asked, what the name 'Zarathustra' means in precisely my mouth, in the mouth of the first immoralist: for what constitutes the tremendous uniqueness of that Persian in history is precisely the opposite of this. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle between good and evil the actual wheel in the working of things: the translation of morality into the realm of metaphysics, as force, cause, end-in-itself, is his work. But this question is itself at the bottom of its own answer. Zarathustra created this most fateful of errors, morality: consequently he must also be the first to recognize it. Not only has he had longer and greater experience here than any other thinker … what is more important is that Zarathustra is more truthful than any other thinker. His teaching, and his alone, upholds truthfulness as the supreme virtue … To tell the truth and to shoot well with arrows: that is Persian virtue—Have I been understood? The self-overcoming of morality through truthfulness, the self-overcoming of the moralist into his opposite—into me—that is what the name Zarathustra means in my mouth."

On Apollonian and Dionysian

As a philosopher, Nietzsche used to express his philosophical ideas in poems, short stories, & novels—with the most poetical form of language. And as a philologist, cultural critic, and litterateur—he muse Greece, which was so famous for its Greek Tragedy—then inspired to dichotomy the two main streams of Greek Art (theatre, literature, etc.) in his book—The Birth of Tragedy. Become the two great poles or duality, namely Apollonian and Dionysian.

Philosophically, Apollo symbolizes light, thinking, self-controlled, logical, utopia, order, sane, and consciousness. While Dionysius represents the dark world, or the opposites such as feeling, antiquity desire, insanity, intoxication, unconsciousness, dystopia, irrationality, and even possessed. In sum, Apollo represents order, science, and rationality—while Dionysius represents music, ecstasy, and passion.

As Nietzsche said, "Without music, life would be a mistake."

Nietzsche views that the elegy of heartbreak: sad artworks, the melancholic poetry, the minor music—seem to provide an orchestra for the grief that many people experience. Its energy is not just limp, but allows us to absorb sadness with the deepest meaning.

So that, in the end, sadness (and suffering) is no longer treated as something that is burdensome, lamented or cursed, and avoided. Anyhow, we must face it, be grateful, absorb it, and enjoy it. Nietzsche assesses how great it means if we can imagine, make friends, and enjoy sadness with courage that burns our left chest.

On Übermensch and Nazism

Frankly, that's why an Übermensch or superman, superhuman, or overman was once echoed by Nietzsche—at first, must be amor (love) the fati (fate) that often brutum (brutal). No wonder, to keep in mind, Nietzsche views that reality is chaos, chaotic, completely formless, messy, mess up, contradictory, disorderly, disorganized, and jumbled.

Nietzsche wanted humankind to grow, reach out, pull out, and go up. But not out of morality nor immorality, but because we live, and life is about The Will to Rule (and The Will to Power too). Therefore, we must be honest with ourselves, and always be creative and innovative.

But over time, it seems that it has become a habit for common people to judge Nietzsche haphazardly (and arbitrarily). Either as a pioneer of irrational ideologies about power, or slander him which indirectly gave birth to fascism and Nazism, especially in Germany.

On this matter, in fact, there are many aspects of Nietzsche's philosophy that are clearly different with Nazism. Thus, he should not be scapegoated for all the hatred, sins, and blood shed by Nazism around the world.

Briefly, Übermensch is ... the ideal superior man of the future who could rise above conventional religion morality to create and impose his own values. We must see that what Nietzsche aspires to, Übermensch is more like an ultra-creative human or a housebreaker of spiritual order—not a man behind the genocide of Jews in the Auschwitz concentration camp ... because he was rejected twice by an art school in Vienna ... who is run by a Jewish rector, nor supreme leader with wacky mustaches ... like a comedian named Charlie Chaplin ... who truly believes in Aryan supremacy, nor imperious empire founder of the Third Reich, nor a screwy Führer (a dictatorial leader), nor a person who thirsts for power to conquer 5 of 5 parts of earth such as Adolf Hitler.

Simply put, Übermensch is a human who loves life, lives life in totality, due to Nietzsche, sees humans as creatures that must continue to exist, and have high aspirations to become super, beyond normality. "To infinity and beyond!" as Buzz Lightyear said in the Toy Story movie (1995).

Later, Übermensch became one of the most philosophical ways to value oneself without turning away from the brutal world—and looking across another world. Since valuing brutal reality or meaning the meaningless of life can only be achieved through Übermensch.

Lattermost, Übermensch is a human being who sees himself as a source of value. One who has reached the level of Übermensch—are who always faces the darkness of reality and fate, and Übermensch is impossible to achieve without understanding Nietzsche's legendary phrase: "Fatum Brutum Amor Fati".

On Fatum Brutum Amor Fati

"Live! Your life!"

The quote could be a small part on the representation of Fatum Brutum Amor Fati. We only live once and, of course, we cannot revise what we have done in the past. That was the perspective of Fatum Brutum Amor Fati: a kind of unconditional affirmation to reconcile with fate. Thus, we are required not to condemn reality. We should live in the present and stand up in the presence of chaotic realities.

Fatum Brutum Amor Fati came as a philosophy or at the same time became a main narrative in living a mortal life. That's the only genuine way, to be able, to reach the end of a good life whenever death comes.

We should admit without the hypocrisy that nearly all of us must have planted hope. We all invest in the future, and as investors, we too often allow temporary emotions to enslave us. Nietzsche may be an anomaly (exception), because he dissociates himself from investing hope in the future.

But clearly, Nietzsche is just an ordinary person who has a different vision from most of us. The difference, perhaps, also from his courage to articulate chaotic-reality beautifully in his outbursts of aphorisms.

On Nietzschean

But life is a choice, to be a normies (one whose tastes, lifestyle, habits, and attitude are mainstream and far from the cutting edge, or a person who is otherwise not notable or remarkable) or a Nietzschean (one who follows the philosophy of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche). But what needs to be underlined first is we need to know that the true meaning of Nietzschean is: a person who follows himself. So, being a Nietzschean is about being ourselves.

Being a Nietzschean means walking against the herd, and going out alone to the wilderness. Being a Nietzschean is about being honest, like Zarathustra—even if it almost certainly will be labeled as edgy, madman, bizarre, or annoying.

Nietzsche encouraged us to become the martyr of ourselves. To be like the most renowned philosopher in Greece, Socrates, who dared to defend his thought—even though, in the end, he was eventually executed by consuming a deadly potion of the poisonous plant hemlock—in account of poisoning the minds of young Athenians, or be accused by questioning the doctrine of Gods/Goddess (belief system) in Ancient Athens.

Once again, Nietzsche is a lone wolf who cannot be domesticated by the common mind. He has melted into solitude. The only love in his life, Lou Salome, even left him. Nietzsche was willing to become estranged from his family and friends, just to defend his beliefs.

Perhaps in reality, loneliness can destroy many people, but Nietzsche faced loneliness through his choices. He obeyed himself. And his exile from people who like to be in herd, actually gave him more awareness of seeing the world with eagle eyes.


Despite the cynicism of Nietzsche who said that "God is Dead", we should rather acknowledge the fact that The Dynamite didn't mean it literally. He only intended to vent his disgust on people on his eras—who were already so corrupt, cruel, and dumb as to kill the God within themselves.

Perhaps, in his contemplation, Nietzsche did see God being buried. God died in the fight against human ferocity. It is also possible that Nietzsche wants to say: "God has died in the heart of man ... and we are all His/Her murderers."

After all, the God in our reverie, or the real God at all—is indeed not able to be calculated by narrow logic. His/Her almighty looks unreal, like ocean waves crashing against the shoreline. Or a slap to the cheek, or like electricity turning on a light, or like money which can buy a handful of sweet candy.

The mysteriousness of God is also what makes many of us turn atheists or agnostics. Personally, I believe that we can prove God and feel it with our conscience. Seeking God using brain, logic, and rationality is like looking for a Wi-Fi signal with an archaic cell phone that most certainly doesn't have the specifications to connect to Wi-Fi.

Lastly, between the labels like amoral, atheist, agnostic, crazy, or whatever we have attached to Nietzsche, I just want to say that Nietzsche is one of the most religious philosophers ever.

"There are no facts, only interpretations."

—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

May all beings be happy.

Saturday 28 August 2021

Genrifinaldy's Poetry

One Season Into Man

Yes. Yesterday, the clock soaked a flock
of birds that sang the most noisy song
of silence. Sounds euphonic, but pathetic. Because those tunes; soon be words
in the world like raindrops fell, then echoed in the wells of nonsense. Fate always doesn't give a damn: like when I was born, thereupon condemned to be a cage—who yearns lifelong for a bird. Just in case, just to answer the question of essence.


Loneliest Loneliness

When a loner at loneliest loneliness,
they leave a void noise and choice—
so it tends to be easier: to speak lessness,
to feel nothingness, to smell meaningless,
to hear and see nothing but essence that disappears in everything that appears in
the face of burned petals; to hide and seek
inside every verse on the brightest poems
in vasty, darkest, random, absurdly and cold-hearted of this transitory universe.


The Pinata

"Are you a broken pinata? Cause you used to be filled with so much sweetness—but now you broke by unknown bitterness. You've taught me to laugh. Have you forgotten or tried amnesia? That you give me a trace to spell grace. To forgive all fate with no regret. To live every inch of life in every sight. Won't give up without a fight. Like the brightest sun in the solar system. The loudest anthem in this noisy world. Oh my word. But look, take a look: on the outside you're the greatest guy, now you are just empty inside. Who slowly turns into the worst of remorse." said the stick that bangs the pinata merciless and the worst part, without even realizing it.


Existential Crisis

In the morning, a rotten table patiently waits for a chair in the dining room. During the day, a hammer prepares to meet the presence of a rusty nail. In the afternoon, a shabby curtain shielded the windows before the night set the doom.
At night, just as the day wanted to change the sail, I was suddenly pulled out of my mother's womb—without having a chance to ask her brain: "Mom, what comes first, essence or existence?"

(Bogor, March 27th 2000)

Existential Nihilism

Everything that we don't care about, again, slowly turns into just a meaningless thing: smelly cabbage in the garbage; crumble can in trash can; new style that already old-fashioned; fashion plate who can't find another doorbell; fracture door in the midst of broken home; doormat based on shoddy cloth; noble lie in the table of time; time bomb that already exploded; passer-by who pass away yesterday; road map that map out a walk out; wallflower who suicide as like withered flowers by the roadside; my wonderwall that turn into the wall in a little fable of Kafka.


Eternal Recurrence

We lie then gaze at the constellation.
But no, the stars that look at us. We
know we suffer more in imagination
than in reality. So we leave the past
alone with memories. But we're
too often in a long distance
relationship with reality. Like a star,
we are too distant from actuality.
When we look at the stars,
we're actually looking at a
star tomb; a long time ago.
So we will go toward the future. To
be sure, we will use a time travel
machine. But baby, we only found
each other's skin. Letter at our funeral, another burial, drifted into an
endless void of misery. Stagnant;
recurring again, again and again.
Without end, cyclical. Dead stars
cynically tell us a dreadful thing:
Both of you need Amor Fati!


The Encounter with Nietzsche

You may feel empty,
at least you still have space inside
: half for the bitter tears of the god,
half for the fallen fate of the devil,
entirely for your gravity to fall in love
with destiny—create undefeated
significance for yourself.


Fatum Brutum Amorfati

He pushes his stone from stone age—until stone-cold. Old and desolate; while his thoughts only for happiness. Down with absurdity, through alpha to omega. O pathetic fate who can't fade by death. Season changes, but Sisyphus always ends up dead end. Changeless; no matter how, like a Sigma Notation. No exit or without time out. Time after time, time is up. He was up in his arms. Arm in arm with give up.
Up in the air, he was still down and out. Suddenly there was a little knock inside his heart—he found a mighty god that smiled at him, then he wanted to push on his stone again and again because finally he knew: the struggle to the top in itself is enough to fill the void in his heart and the pressure to be happy is too unhappy than to push a goddamn stone more, more and evermore in eternity.


Word; World

There is no world without words
But when I see another world; yours
I lost my words; wordless
I thought about your word
Even though that is tough
Through every syllable: thorough.
I found every word has a world;
And I love every world in your word
And so every word in your world.
Now, you make my tongue so fragile—
Don't know the tenses if it is past,
present, or future, and forget
what language to speak in.


The Sun & The Moon

In the sun, on the moon. Now or coming soon. I will take you to the noisy colosseum, the serenity of the mausoleum, muses at the museum, then kiss upon your brow in every comely place. O I'm the mess: I will hunt you in the most beautiful way; Hunt you down like a prey. Then die inside your head. Cause upon your brow are the sun
and my lips are the moon. Sounds brainless—but someday, you'll finally understand why sometimes time and reality feel so timeless.


Under The Sun

I want your passion
But, don’t ask questions
you don’t want the answers to.
Too twinge, to be or not to be
In the long run that last long.
Like a longing; ringing so long
When it makes me stoned
Or makes you strange.
O baby, thinking about you
You're inside my head
Even being a king, I feel so dead.
O look, I creep till I overslept
Oversee the moon and their crap.
Who misses the good old days
that were mostly coated with gold.
Remind me how dark the night was.
How does your touch make me alive?
How bright the sun fades into crush—
when life slowly bursting out of dust.


Skinny Love?

The world misses the boat.
Wordsmith is going to be afloat.
Time flies really fast;
The red throne brings the past.
The rose is red, the violet’s blue;
Blue whales are shy, and so are you.
A stone's throw himself, dregs!
We had butterflies in our stomach.
I thought we were going to fail—
but you pulled a rabbit out of the hat.
The sailor set his sail;
The sunrise turns into sunset.
Bon Iver sings a Skinny Love:
"My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my"
My longing sinking in doubt;
Even you are the apple of my eye.


The Devil Smile, With the Angel Eye

Suddenly, flames came out.
Paralysed, but a fire shout;
Can a water suddenly lame?
Can a blue speak your name?
Have we discovered purple?
In this sand, full of gravel.
Have you ever loved my red?
Or just tread the water, oh wait...
Out of date, or out of breath?
Out of doors, or out of remorse?
Out of the box, or out of the blue?
Out of control, or out of you? Oh, baby!
Damn, which of us was to blame?
Time after time;
Your devil smiles kill-time.
At the end of the war, you cried...
Then stab my veins with heavenly
touch and angelic eye.


Linguistics on Your Lips

There are more than 127.000 words in the Indonesian Language, approximately 1.022.000 words in the English Language, 5.000.021 words and 70.000.000 word types in the Greek Language—but I could never string enough words together to properly address, to perfectly express: how much I weep at this version of imperfection, how many these improperly miss every inch of your lips. That's all my language felt when you left my lips; is like all of Langage, Langue, and Parole perfection in our last kiss suddenly go to pieces.


Tense of Your Veins

You're far away, time was so insane,
and I am parable of madman.
Where is present tense?
Did a voice that sounds tense make the hearers feel tense?
What happens in present tense?
Does it die just like future tense?
Melt solitude eternally, just like your name,
Sempiternal in my bastard brain.
Yesterday as much as yesterday and the day-before,
Crept into the past, to your veins.
To the last syllable of your lips,
while all my tomorrows were lighting more
To now, perhaps, this multi-diverse present tense is a damned apocalypse.
This madman is an utopian afloat in your universe:
That does not have past, present or future tense,
I'm a madman, who always going reverse to your veins, even though my pain was so insane.
V60 Coffee, Me and Thee

Shall I serve you v60 coffee?
And won't you give away, a day with me?
For there are billions, of coffee-grounds in just one filter paper
For the first time since you let every drips, bliss, guttered to a cup of frigid shelter
When the wind, wound and hiraeth blew in the breeze
I said with a desperate, won't you come home, please?
When you asked for a cup of desolate,
I always said hell no
This time, time flies, as butterflies, oh heavenly if the answer isn't as so
So, shall I serve you v60 coffee?
While waiting you to bloom, then boom, a moment of you and me
Or shall I brew myself, sold my abandoned soul to instant coffee
Than have a cup of v60 coffee, who always sifted my agony by guarantee
Baby, you need to know that caffeine needs more
Courage to live his duties, than to kill himself, living his bore
But I'll always remember our memories, glory, fantasy and felicity
A fully moment with thee, a bit of me and a far cry of v60 coffee
Cause I Love You Without Cause

I love you, like I love the flowers in the spring.
I love you, like I love the sunrise in the morning.
I love you, like I love the milk in the mammary gland.
I love you, like I love honey in the honeycomb and their hexagonal saint.
And I love you like I love flowers in the winter, summer, autumn or bloom.
And I love you like I love the sunset in the afternoon, also the moon and his doom.
And I love you like I love milk in the holy grail that slowly faded by wine.
And I love you like I love honey, that never expired by the mortality of time and his vine.
Cause I love you to the vase, soil, muck and the root.
Cause I love you to the moon and his darkside ruth.
Cause I love you to the milk, grass, cows and the cattleman.
Cause I don't need a cause to fall in love with you, such as becoming a honeybee or being your man.
Myth of Word, Sword, and His Eyes

We sat on the top of our blood and his petals.
I said: 'Have you ever seen a combination of skinny skin, hefty bones, or flesh metal?'
Like rusty anvil and austere hammer at the blacksmith,
You amuse: 'That I fused a muse, paper and pen, word and their shroud to a keen sword without myth.'
But I'm not your world, I'm just a word, fuze in your picturesque eyes;
Scribble, wriggle and wiggle in a nasty, naughty, mischievous way.
Praising with a script containing tone, sign, signifier, signified the verses
And set light to your bones, while paying your attention and intention as a curse.
And you know what, I want to be buried, in your divine winkers.
Like a lonely philosopher, that endeavour wintry in blister.
So don't doubt the past and future of my freaky fidelity.
Furthermore, never treat my sentences with a touch of sultry, sweaty, and salty blasphemy.
But baby, pardon my prickly Langue and Parole,
Cause I've come with: 'A pack of envious haters, their troll and his role,
Jealous menstruational bitches, hypocritical two-faced, disgusting overacting man,
Innocent copy cat thieves, and lots of wordless, speechless, cause I was your swordman.'
Tide of Lithium

Daydreams cold, while the blizzard hit summer pray,
To all the golden sunflower that spring nocturnal ray;
Cause my insomnia turns into dyslexia,
Lead autumn, dreams about nightmare of euthanasia.
So, don't let dozy, drowsy become vain;
Sleep but couldn't rest winter tantrum,
That drown our zest, in case farewell verse froze my testament:
That you're cradle of lust, crush, brushed my anxious feelings like lithium
Before drizzle floded pillowtalk, slowly sleepwalk, and dream set his sail
Then stare blankly, says: 'could I still see the sunray in cloudy, murky veil?
Could majestic sorrow, borrow a bunch of dreamy clouds, stormy sea, oh heavenly
If your fairy lullaby clear all the grains of sand that are full of misery'
I just want to dance, cuddle, kiss your forehead, kill my own madness:
Intoxicated by the crescent moon,
Constelation of stars, gorgeous sky, till wake up, soon.
Oh true ecstasy than goddamn lithium who manipulates my sadness.
Cause in the end, I realize, every torn has gone.
Whereas, my desire was born again, I faced the blue throne.
But, will you still be my lullaby?
If all my lithium is already wasted, and hanging in a rope of anxiety?
Starred, Starry-Eyed

We lie on the top of the cosmic and their absurdity.
You said: 'We are stars, star-spangled, at the end of our cynic destiny'
Then I answered: 'To me, we are purely an Astrophile that others can't steal;
As though star signs, star-studded, stand still but irrelevantly real'.
The North Star gazing at us, as Phobos and Deimos dancing;
Alas! Where is Mars, did he tingling?
And why the fuck, why didn't Venus have moons?
Ah, did she think that the milky way is too blunt?
But baby did we ever notice Nebula?
A mass of dust, gas, and plasma by one colossal supernova!
Remnant; of huge, big fucking bang!
Insouciant; of duende, oh really crank!
Ophiuchus blurred, as well as blinded Pluto;
Outcast, out of solar system, in adagio!
While, asteroids are like paradox inside paradox.
Embezzle, merely smash or sucks Earth and the meaning of clocks.
Constellation of time, Zenosyne our hours.
Time after time, star-crossed, endless twinkels;
Astride to trepidation, wandering to hollowness banter.
But baby, if they say we are nothing but dust: 'I just want to be your vacuum cleaner.'

Do You Want to be Born?

The first thing any parent needs to do—on earth—is to apologize to their child. Why? Because they had given birth to him or her without ever asking: "Do you want to be born? Are you sure you want to be born in this bastard world? A world you would hate, even if you were born out of so-called lovemaking—which in the end will always bring out the ironic side of every parent's dream."


Sirens to Parent

O c'mon, Mom, Dad. I'm just a kid who is trapped in an adult's body. Seeking for attention, affection, and love in the midst of my head. And I can't pretend that I just need both of you—to comprehend all of this nonsense reality.

On the other hand, I know the world is huge; too huge till it made me so scared. I accept the dare. Outdare the time, to live without regret. Despite sometimes, my will to die is stronger than my will to live. Grieve: like a kid who can't face the void of night.

I know, life is overrated, while death is so underrated. But, I don't wannabe a sinking ship in the ocean of fate. When I try to conquer those endless dread. So please understand that, Mom, Dad.


Sextet: Old Dread' Tales

I wandered like a cursed devil
Roaming in the darkness of heaven
When all the angeI died, I saw an owl
End up in the womb of a craven;
Beside the brave, beneath the desire,
Dancing with time, so look at the sky

Its over, o its over my mighty god
The last light slowly goes out
Rip a bones then tears a blood
Forgoten in the midst of crowd
Blinded, no cursed soul allowed
Shallow, let destiny throw a sorrow

The hell is other people
The people just build a border
Even Adam and Eve eat an apple
The sins better faster than never
Lose by fate is immortal death
O lonely soul; hunt for a soulmate

Should I? Tell me, should
I kill myself or kill my rage
Or blissfully with solitude;
Burn every wave or a cage
Alas! O who wants to forgive me?
O mighty god, who wants to hug me?



I want to sleep
crawl the owl
slowly, deep.

Then dreamy
a lark: o I feel lonely
in the cold of the dark.

For truth and for shit
I swat a mosquito, offer it
to a clumsy lizard.

A blizzard
under the piled-up snow
now turns into rain.

Night; and once again,
the waves of Kanagawa
can't save our last enigma.


Time and Being

Time after time—
Being and time
take sadness
and sorrow
to know
and borrow
a happiness
that is timeless.


Let's Dance, My Dear...

In the end, the essence of life is not about celebrating birth or condemning life; but dancing with the anxious corpses, over the graves—our own—which are always in the shadow of the fear of death and vanity.


Duck Syndrome

bad luck lark
called duck
seems stuck
in the truck
in a dirt muck
that must suck,
but the duck
has lil luck:
lack of fuck.
be like a duck>
doesn't give a fuck<


Genealogy of Married




Tell Me Why, Baby...

Baby, why do we go to school? obey the rules. Why do we go to university? handing over our creativity to those rubbish educational hierarchy. Why do we work for twenty, thirty, forty, or maybe fifty years? surrendered our soul to those rigid companies.

Baby, why do we get married? drown ourselves to endless responsibility. Why do we breed a few children? raise them to deal with goddamn reality. Why do we fall down to the same rabbit hole? to repeat the whole ceaselessly of our condemned destiny. Baby, why do we want eternity? if this mortality was so weary.

And why do we want to be born again? worn a torn again, again, and again. And why do we think we have freedom? If freedom words indicate that we never have any freedom. And why do we seek for a meaning? if the meaning has no single meaning.

And why do we still live this meaningless life? strive for essence that always hides and seeks inside our breath. And why do we always deceive ourselves? then dying with the worst of regret. Tell me why baby, why we are so naive, and the death was so underrated. And why can't we be bored to death?


Why is Blue So Rare in Nature?

There are no blue tigers. No blue bats, no blue squirrels, blue cats, blue dogs, or blue horses. Even the blue whales aren't that blue. In nature or in the zoo.

Animals come in pretty much every color. But blue seems to be the rarest. So please answer my why or tell me pretty lies?

Whether half of the blue in nature belongs to humans, to poetry, to reality, or to us? If it's true, we need to trust that it is the saddest truth in nature study—who always comes so absurdly, so out of the blue in the deepest phrase of suddenly.


Le Mythe de l'abysse

It's foolish to say that existential crisis has more crises than climate crisis. So we look outside to find the root of the crisis. But deeply we feel the crisis is inside—of ourselves. Sounds crappy. Because we don't know what the heck we miss. We stare into the abyss.

Time flies so fast as fast we are happy then bite the dust. Hence, resistance is a must. Honey, let's gaze at the sky. Thus the darkest the night, the brighter the stars. Look, chaotically—tells us that the core of reality is the most chaotic of chaos.

Now we know one thing, something that hurts us—being able to kill us. And something that kills—makes us invincible. Like a second spring who brings endless lust.

It's brutally true when they say we were lost; long before we were born. But we aren't born and are grown to drown. It doesn't mean we need to say—that life has no intrinsic meaning, so what's the point of living?

Yes, we were born to postpone the biggest loss. It's truly yes that life has no intrinsic meaning, that's why the point is just living. Feel the vibes—or suck the merely of life—before we lose for the nothingness of nothing.


TXT MSG from Your Existentialist

Studying philosophy is a poetic way to find meaning—or lose the meaning. Sounds like the art of thinking. Technically, a war cry to goddamn overthinking. Cynically—a quarrel with what, who, when, why, where, & how. Now and endlessly.

To be the eternal pupil of a question. To take action and responsibility. To picture a civilization. To fulfill our deepest nature. To conquer maturity. To live with aesthetic and ethic. To be a human who humanizes other humans. To use our potency as the most intelligent being—in the continuum illness of space & time.

To learn how to die—without the worst of remorse. To accept fate: that the only things we know are nothing. And to love the unpleasant truth—that the more we know, the sorrow we get. Even in the end; it doesn't really matter at all.


A Lesson in the Alphabet

did i miss something?
i think i don't miss anything.
o i miss you, but
that is impromptu.
& unplanned.


Lose One's Nerves

when i lose my mind,
i lose nothing.
when i lose my soul,
i lose something.
when i lose you—
what the hell am i doing?
i fuckin' lose everything.

o please, i can fuck losing
everything but not you—o
not you. alas! i can't lose you.


Twas Always Thus & Always Thus will Be

twas true love only hails from the mess of you. like messing up your unawareness—thus now you are aware that fake love mostly hails from the best of you; whereas, all the time you try to be the best to find out where true love hails from.

but what if the point of love affair, maybe hails from the middle of nowhere—an awareness and formulation which will always be unawares & formless?


Love is Love

it doesn't matter whether race disconnected us, religion separates us, politics divides us, language bordered us, or wealth obstructs us.

at the end of the day—love only says it's evening and i love you without any reason; because love can't be imprisoned in a man-made conception.


Odes to u(rsa maryana royani)

i said i love artworks by michaelangelo, botticelli, leonardo, kandinsky, picasso, & dalí. but, if we were in an art gallery, i'd love to waste my time staring at u. & stand still staring at u—its u, o u, only u, its me, o me—i'm going nuts, o frankly; u are the pureblood work of art.



perhaps, there is always a reason behind all madness; except in the homesickness and love of a man who's already been mad for a woman.

perhaps that's why there is no stronger creature than a woman; for there is nothing more mad and frail than a man who is under spell by a woman.

perhaps that's why madman only refers to a man. perhaps that's why i'm still a madman who is under your spell. perhaps that's why there is no other love, it's only you; never sound too insane.


My Dear, How Long is Longing?

sure, nobody can precisely measure how long is forever. never. some people may say, forever is forevermore. furthermore, and more. evermore. more and more.

the others say, sometimes, forever may be just one second. brief like a temporary grief, like a seasonal fever, like the bright of the sunrise, as the moon at darkest night, or such as love at first sight.

how long is forever? in reality, it doesn't even matter, ever since one realizes that everyone is silent when being asked: how long is longing?

one must dare to ask and answer how long is longing. because no one knows how ugly the unforeseen sorrow when somebody suddenly says:

"someday in someplace, somehow, someone will try to stance then say something bad about the distance-time between first hi & the last goodbye."



If you tell me to write a book about why I love you, then it's about 1002 pages with 1000 blank pages.

Opened with a foreword saying that I don't know why, somehow, the goddamn language had managed to escape from my head. Ended with a bibliography of honesty about how I will never be able to write a book like this—unable.

But I will gather the feeble of all my courage together to say: "I'm sorry"—thence kiss upon your brow. Whereupon stare blankly at those magical eyes.


If What I Wrote in Life Echoes an Eternity

Once upon a time, or once in a while—you will finally try to read my poetry. Then find it's not too lengthy. Because it has 3 things only: how cold the world of this shitty-reality; the brainless of the language when expressing your beauty; & me who hide the sins of our futility underneath my insanity.


How Can?

You are beautiful. Unfortunately, I'm in the writer's block. But you are still beautiful. A flock of clock locks on the wistful. But you are still beautiful. The rhyme looks confused until confusedly confuse by confusion. But you are still beautiful.

I soberly sobered up from a sobering hangover. But you are still beautiful. Our head had a rough night to right off through. But you are still beautiful too.

I'm done with writer's blocks when I finish this ugly poetry. But what I found is the world whichsoever beautifies their nasty & you who beautifully never finishes your beauty.


What is Beauty?

Beauty is when we try to express on tone in music, it fabulously becomes melodious. When we attempt to describe it in words, it poetically becomes poetic. When we try to paint that in painting or art, it marvellously becomes artsy.

Beauty is when we visualize what beauty is; afterwards suddenly we clearly see the invisible—those in the midst of ugliness lay invincible loveliness. Or maybe beauty is soundless, languageless, formless, & unspokenly.

Beauty is when we close our eyes & feel our lips crash; that causes all of conception about what beauty is—crush instantaneously.


Portmanteau > Intertext of Cigarettes After Sex

<web + log> = blog
<chill + relax> = chillax
<electronic + mail> = email
<friend + enemy> = frenemy
<man + explain> = mansplain
<mock + cocktail> = mocktail
<emotion + icon> = emoticon
<stay + vacation> = staycation
<drama + comedy> = dramedy
<costume + roleplay> = cosplay
<your lips + my lips> = apocalypse


Life is a Tragicomedy

What if we're just a tragedian who is caught in the heart of space-time—or between the illusion of heaven & hell—that is tragically becoming tragical, gradually feels tragic; because we never know the hidden mystery of tragedies—inside every tragedy—before we finally die & mysteriously realize ... we're god's failure to create a funniest comedy.


No Fucking Way

There are only two ways to cope with a broken heart. Reject it and commit suicide; or accepting it, then became a poet who wrote tragedies on endless destiny—for life, o life! entire life!


& So on, Life Must Goes on

Astronomers say there are 100 billion to 200 billion galaxies in the universe. For more than 3 trillion planets on each galaxies. Revolve among a vast bizarre-universe.

& we're still vibing—on this tiny blue planet covered by seas. Drowning our ignorance, within hope inside enigmatic-sacred verse. & we struggle to death—to fill the void that we can't even see. Sown our own dread: buried by all of nonsense—vanity.

& we can't run, we can't hide either. & the bad news is, in the end it doesn't really matter at all. & the good news is, in the end, it doesn't really matter at all. & I'll be your Sisyphus; thus you could be my absurdity—who says: "fuck 'em all!"


Rhyme at 2 AM

I was skeptical—
before the big bang,
god filled the human heart
with void ...

sounds pathetic, huh?
thus, after all of this shit—
o goddammit,
one must dare to live,
not try to avoid it;

albeit they had
more courage
to take one’s life,
than to resist the voidable
—from being born
& get torn by forlorn.


Slaves of Certainty

frankly, human consciousness
is a heavy burden.
that's why some of us—
consciously, choose uncosciousness
& be a junkie: religion, philosophy,
ideology, political party,
or other shit to retreat
from the bitterness of reality—
such a coward, who can't live forward
to shone the darkside of time—
in the face of presently.

: o life! are humans
the closest metaphor
for the most pathetic slaves
of certainty—on the dead planet
who enclose uncertainty?


Gravestone Reverie

one must live to life. to strive. to defy that existence precedes essence—isn't a human first problem. in spite of being in vain. to paint the pain. one must redeem the condemned. come after godot in Beckett's head. despite—if the cost while struggling was loss of meaning, & disconsolate. while too late to solace those goddamn gods;

perhaps, first human problem—feel endless agony on the death bed—without knowing what the fuck is going on & when being buried.


Thought of the Night

"what comes first,
essence or existence?"

an endless howl of abyss
on humans heart—who can't
create the meaning
of his meaningless life.


On Success

success was the lump of nickel I saw sinking at the bottom of the clear gutter—reflecting the light of the late afternoon sun. it represents nothing at all, except as a sign of something that has long been revered, worshiped, but had been lost, drowned, and forgotten.

in relation to the object as a work of art, the nickel lump has been transformed in such a way with carvings, into currency: a hot object that regulates the exchange of value in the eyes of modern society—& divinity.


Omnipotence Paradox

if god is almighty,
can he/she create a
stone that can make
sisyphus happy?


Wanderer Above the Sea of Hope



What's the Saddest Words in the English Language?


I once believed I was getting older, wiser enough to tell my father & mother: "I had childish half-naive thoughts. sometimes believed there were shortcuts on every impasse road. often believed that all the suffering had a meaning. usually believed there was always a happy ending."

I knock the desolate sky—ask—talk to God but he/she is never too late to distract myself: with pleasure, with unsatisfactory answer, with theatrical melody, with lullaby, with the melodramatic language of poetry—on scripture whose lost their raptures.

believed. I believed: life is a multiple garbage truck accident—in the body of a human—who had motion sickness. & time is madness. I believed, there was no one from nowhere—came down through the chimney—while I sail the dreams; then mystically paying my tax, paying my bill, paying the price of human existence that lost their essence.

believed. I believe there is always a nonsensical will to believe. & that makes me stay alive. & makes me reverie in every sight, every night, all night.

I believed ... nothing ... to believe ... was ... tangible ... grief.


What Part of an Absurdist Morning Routine Takes the Longest?

to kill
or make
a cup
of coffee.


On Table

a bunch of dumbass who occupied this table—I could guess had just left—dirty surface on the hefty table—like a bouncer, covered with the remaining glasses & splattered water. I told the waiter to wipe the table, then said: "in this city—this goddamn city—many men are willing to be tipsy, to drain their time & money—just to steal the attention of nightfly—who gather in these kinds of places; that could reasonably be the melting points of urbanites."

those dumbass are trying their luck. hoping to make the women's things 'wet'. regrettably, all they always do is wet the table, wet the pack of cigarettes—that I put on this table, wet the beer coasters, wet their despondency—but couldn't wet the entire evidence of how pathetic & lonely they were. so fuckin' silly.


Time when Time Hits Different

: how flimsy the boundary
between space & time

first day school / first day college / first day work / gazing the stars / swim whilst rain / walking alone / in the woodland / in the quiet city / in the mortuary / on empty streets / absently at art-gallery / walk into the museum / muse on mausoleum / discern the sunrise / set eyes on sunset / catch sight of firework / finish up lenghty book / the day before birthday / wake up after get tattoo / attend the lively concert / listening to melodious songs or desolate melody / watching masterpiece movie / it's raining outside / go on night-riding / it's dark outside / but the desire to beyond space-time is too dazzling /


To Win,
We Have to
Think Outside the Box

⌈ x | o | x ⌉
| o │x│x |
⌊ o | x | o ⌋


: but couldn't change the fact—

that mindset & knowledge is a power

which makes their master feels suffer.


Three Things Cannot Be Long Hidden:

the sun, the moon, & some kind of antiquity yearning which slowly murdering me—that unfortunately can't be domesticated—o untamed desire to hug you. right off, right now—to assist me avoid a void who breeds bewilderment beneath my angsts—right off, right now ... o we are so far, yet so close. bound me, crucifix me inside your left lateral or in the midst of your maternal soul—right off, right now. fold the space, bend the time. o hug me, come to me. crawling, shuffling, rolling, walking, running, teleporting, moving, howsoever—at speed of light or speed of sound—no matter how. right off, right now. o baby, hug me.


I'll be ∴ u ∵ I.F.L.Y

Doctor Strange: "I love u in every universe."

Modal Realism: "I love u in every possible world."

Me + Furor Poeticus: "I love u in every universe, in every alphabeth of my verses—in every possibility of gravitational singularity-spacetime singularity: a condition in which my gravity to u is so intense that spacetime itself breaks down catastrophically inside my poetry.


The Myth of Phoenix

in the stomach of time
clock tickling, clock ringing
arouse Phoenix from
his ashes form
as if bringing tidings
on the rustling hourglass
ask for the wind-ask for the past
age of stone turns to copper
in the hall of spiteful sun city
which may unceasingly
spell reincarnation metaphors
& our futility.

500 years, Phoenix
learned nothing except to
end the angst of the flames
squirm then ask for eternality
right in the heart of earth's mortality

o immortality spells
desperately sought, since ancient times
Prometheus steals fire of knowledge
of the gods-goddess on the edge
of Olymphus ascendancy;

Phoenix, fully fell sorrowfully.

Phoenix dies many times, reborn
—was gutted, & scattered
such as speck blown away by typhoon;

& for his death
the umpteenth time, now,
the tongue of fire is trying to
spawn the seeds of language
without a shred of incredulity:
"This evil world, it turns out
more hellish than hell itself.
o when the karmachain was at
death’s door, he wrapped his body
on his face—& built a nest
of wood, then burned it,
let it dissipate until to dust,
& from above the tomb,
Phoenix was born in a new form.
& everything repeats themselves
—would be like that perpetuity."

: o camus, o sisyphus
if every leaf was a flower
—isn't autumn nothing
but the second spring?

"god, why were my reflect designed
like a heavy mace for a flimsy mirror?"
—murmured Phoenix, who was too
tired to live eternally, such as agony.


Let's Play Melancholic Music before Minor Tones from Danzig Knock Our Door

"man is a conscious & intelligent being—they can survive whatever it takes, sacrifice, & endure all the anguish as long as it has a meaning."

but what if the meaning of life is: to see life without eyes—but by means of melancholic music; to hear life without ear—but by means of melancholic music; to smell life without nose—but by means of melancholic music; to savour life without tongue—but by means of melancholic music; to feel life without skin—but by means of melancholic music.

but what if the meaning of life is just to keep alive—thus we can play melancholic music? thus we can dancing—by means of melancholic music; thus we can stop seeking about meaning; thus we can console the endless cycle of joy & sorrow; thus we can forget how grieve the death—how brief life was ... thus we can ... postponed anything, escape time, & just vibing.

: without melancholic music, life inevitably be a sins & the remnant just constant suffering.


Love is A Brightly Colored Poisonous Dart Frog that We Immediately Perceive as Dangerous once We Touch It

yes, it looks interesting, cute, & adorable ... but it has enough chemical compounds—to change ten million color spectrums, so it's only pale blue like western philosophy ... then disrupts the lacrimal system in the eye to transform the grammar of tears into tear;

it was able to kill ten thousand innocent men, then turn them into language-composing machines that fabricated tens of billions of myths, creeds, & odes about how love affairs turn spring into a second fall, turn major notes into minor notes, turn realism into surrealism, turning thoughts & feelings into the center of the archives busiest all night long;

just by touching it—just by touching that damned creature … love is a brightly colored poisonous dart frog that we immediately perceive as dangerous once we touch it.


Odes to Søren Kierkegaard

the most painful state of being is meeting the right person at the wrong time, then realizing you are the wrong person—& the time is still ticking.

loving someone, & we will regret it. not loving someone, we will regret it. loving someone or not loving someone, somehow we will regret it either way. regretting something is an inevitable state.

to stay alive is all about cynic to the naive things—who said by one foolish that is too optimistic. but loving life is an endless war of how to kill regret, which unfortunately can't be dead.

we can stab our arteries
to divert all of the misery &
try to forget—but we can't run
from the inescapable of regret.


امور فاطی

how lovely it means
if we can imagine,
be friends, & love sadness
with sincerity, with madness,
with bravery—till it burns
our left chest, crumbles our bones, excorticates our skin, & tears out
our last flesh—even if ... even if ...
we consciously lean our bodies
& realize ... that life is still a mess.


On Absurdism







little things



worth living.