Oh Northern Lights

16/Sept/2015

23.55

It's been three days,

The coldness of the weather,

The destruction,

Fire on my loin,

Hell flamed skies,

And oh the wicked smiles.

Seven hours have passed,

The desire to hold on,

Raging thoughts to move on,

What's your occupation, darling?

Are you still a starling?

Or is it just me daydreaming?

Minutes to midnight,

Through the depth of the light,

Running wild like a child,

Light my fuse and ignite,

The sparks of our

Fight. 

If love tastes like violence

8/Oct/2014

Darling, we're now speeding at 666 kilometre per hour because devil may care who we are and what we are chasing after. The cheap street light reflected on your razor sharp cheek is shining like a glittery ember. "Where are we heading?" You ask while increasing the pressure of the gas as if you were stomping on this gasoline-fucked city. 

"I'm not going anywhere in life and I don't have to go home now." I mumble. I love the fact that your eyes turn into a couple of red full moons within a minute. I look back at you and set the fire in our silence. If love tastes like violence, then this one must be a war. 

My friends told me that you are no different than any other suburban joylessness with head higher than the clouds. Your friends told me that we would be nothing but lost souls in the wilderness of this megapolis; chameleon hearts and dangerous trust in the words of strangers. But now we are in the middle of the open road. Packed with rolls of cigarette and outdated films in our leather bag. Nostalgic -- but if this is how we are supposed to be in love, then so be it. Let us drown in every single particle of toxic waste and filthy carbon emissions. 

Silence. Top 40 upbeat songs from the record label I used to work in are playing in the radio; their five minute to fame lyrics are our only friend in this endless road trip to nowhere. Your gaze is starting to look empty. It's two in the morning; we all know that this is not the waking hour dedicated to lovers with arms intertwined together. This one is a special gift from the so called creator to self-loathing people like us and million other beings with issues more than any fashion magazines combined. We're starting to see stars in our lips, and the nearest motel is still six kilometres away. It is not the most luxurious guest house, but we believe in the glamour of public bathroom and flat white sheets. 

At night we fall asleep to our invisible vision of dancing nightingales in front of the door. Knocking our heads to realise that we are safe in our eternal winter. 

We breathe each other's breath and numb each other's pain until there is nothing left to taste. We explode in the desert of emptiness and swear to the gods inside our soul that this war must go on. 

Unconscious

I spent my night burning myself in a hot shower wishing it was the time for me to be thrown away.

Nature's order, still life painting, double heart beats. I'm leaning out of time.

Celebrity's death after years of battling his own demon; but what about the undefeated demon who lives inside my head?

Should I turn on the hot shower and let myself soak in through the darkness or should I drown myself in a tub full of everybody's tears in their waking moments?

I wonder how many of them would dance on top of my concrete grave.

Maybe it's better for me to wash my own laundry and save my philosophies of death close to me.

On Dirty Realism

Sunday/3/August/2014

12:18, Witching Hour.

To the poet from 1950s, 

Bat for lashes, mother fucker. I wish I could chug a bottle of vintage red in front of you

And fucking pour it out in fucked up sentences and horrible manner.

But that's not me. I am bad at romanticising bruises and homelessness. The only thing that I'm good at is mourning them to the sound of death metal and imagination of having you yelling at me in front of my desk. (Complete with the cigarette and potty mouth).

Dear poet with various names and aliases, I too have other identities. I like to hide my birth certificate because nobody needs to fucking know that I was small and delicate. The only delicate thing in my current self is of course my brutal honesty. Honestly.

You told me in your notes that it is okay for people like us to dream of walking in Paris with curled up cat in our windowsills. I dream of being on a motorcycle that is heading to the peak of Himalaya, alone. Because who needs friends in the middle of the magnificent beauty of the nature? Not me. 

Last night, I told my father to let me go. At least when I'm done making him happy with a degree. I told him to suck it up if I don't end up wearing suits and Louboutins and walking to a prestigious skyscraper to be a slave of the system. 

Suck it up if I ended up like you, chain smoking in the corner of a cafe with dirty paws, bundled notes and photographs. Riding alone to the next place worth to be called as home.

Suck it up if the one thing that I love the most is being hated and isolated.

Isolation is key.

And freedom is me.

On Insecurity

Friday 11/07/2014

20:52

My loin was born in the wilderness of the ocean

So don't you dare telling me that I won't make it through because

My mind is faster than shark's fins, and my soul is more precious than pearls that can only be found in the deepest hadal of Atlantic.

I was actually born in a hospital, but my heart told me that the bed was made of litres of salinity.

Don't ever think that I would be helpless in a tsunami of violence

I am more powerful than any sirens,

And I have roamed the famous seas.

Don't mention that a dolphin was leading my way because

I have drown in every single waters and there were no sailor nor pirate who tried to fucking save me.

My home is the wilderness of the ocean and I was trained to run it.

And don't fucking push me to stay away from the shore because one day I will make it.