Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. 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 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:

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.