Archive | March 2013


There were times in movies where you point towards the big screen and shout, “this is my favorite scene! It’s one of the best there is!” or anything along the line. There were times in books where you highlight a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph – whatever – or place your favorite bookmark in between two pages that contain your favorite, most adored scene (or scenes).

There were times when people would look at you and say,

“I like it when you laugh”
“I like it when you behave this way, that way, so on so forth”
“I like it when you do this, that, so on so forth”


It happens, only certainly for some.

Maybe I’m blind or stupid or naïve, however, I like everything there is about you. No cut out parts, no fragment. I like everything about you and that is only the truth I will ever speak of.



curtains drawn
and drenched in maroon
the color of a classic story
they churn in voices
filled with enthusiasm

face smeared in awe
the smile a frenzy
hands clasped
and they clap
a standing ovation

the stage moves
a fright of spotlight
a taste of victory
and they clap once more

The art of falling

People fall in love
with everything
and anything
of every day
in every year

People fall in love
with words on paper
with lyrics in a song
with moves in a dance
of every day
in every year

People fall in love
for each other
in the least expected
turn of event

When you stood
I was a caught victim
in the least expected
turn of event
after 1283749seconds


Heat against cheek
the fire that kisses
with force that burns
a strength that kills
when a scream breaks
the entire wall shakes

Forces of evil that pulls
the fierce gravity who insists
“come here this instant or else-“
a threat that drives her
mad and numb to the core
the entire wall stares
in sympathy they can never say

Bellow the beast of anger
a monster of unforgiving cruelty
who pulls and attacks
a power crawls and erupts
from the tip of his soul

Fire burns
from the edge of her gum
the tremor an earthquake
that she tries to pin down
a forsaken figure who
chose to keep it low profile

Jukebox street

People breathe different things all the time.

Some would say they live for knowledge, others would say they live for entertainment. As for her, she breathes music; of ringing melodies and beating rhythm, the churn of dancing instruments and revered voices like a CD that continues to spin at the back of her mind, one copy after another. And when one record has finally reached its last note, she could have sworn it is the automatic switch that allows her to hum another and another and another. It’s an endless cycle and without it, she is just a girl in the midst of London crowd.

She pulls her scarf closer to her lips, blocking away the solid keen chill from penetrating her facial skin. Her fingers have trembled enough for all the organs in her system and still the Siberian sky continues to pour down its arctic children of ivory down onto her winter coat. The snow beneath her feet supple and genuine a platform bathed in a group of anxious footprints of her Vans, so slippery and one careless move could lead to a fall of embarrassment. But falling, perhaps she had fallen far before she realized it. The blanket of snow doesn’t – cannot – win against her. There’s a bigger force, a harder threat that works far more effectively than the unsteady ground.

Like Denmark Street, for example. 

The short, narrow road of turbulent central London is calling; come, young lady, come, a magic spell from an unknown witch but there’s no time to ask. Five more minutes til the clock strikes seven, five more minutes til it starts, five more minutes til he starts. Breath hitching, she leans against the nearest lamp post, counting heartbeats of rapid excitement – thud, thud, thud – with eyes the color of clear ice closed, dark and waiting, naked pink lips murmuring – counting backward, 10, 9, 8, 7

6, 5, 4, 3, 2–

The bulbs flicker on, including the one inside the lamppost she’s currently leaning against, radiating every corner of the street. Hands curled into nervous twin knuckles, she stares at a young man dressed in crumpled winter suit, face shielded from the world who speaks of evil and lies, hidden underneath a plaid, grey flat cap. His fingers, skeletal thin and smokey charcoal-like smeared in calluses, begin to touch his acoustic guitar in a way she couldn’t really describe in words. She’s curious, eager...intrigued – of music, the British Tin Pan Alley, his music, his corner. He doesn’t speak, he never did. In contrast to other street musicians along the road, he spews words in blackout against his notes; little by little, day by day, second by second.

He’s an oddball, everyone said. He’s probably mute, others deduced.

Or maybe, she whispers, maybe they don’t – refuse – to understand. He’s delivering a message, he’s saying something and all this time she has been watching his performance from afar, he is absolutely far beyond mute. If she were to spill an answer, it is to listen; don’t ask, just listen for his notes articulate words inscribed in one long invisible script and unless you listen to it, you’d never hear him declare anything.

You see, people breathe different things all the time.
Some breathe books, while others breathe art.

She, on the other hand though, breathes the magic in this street, the continuous rhythm and everlasting musical deity. This place is hers, she belongs here and she will, no matter how many times work is going to scream from inside her apartment, go back – again and again – to this place, to the same spot for his performance.

Let the show begin.

Castle of glass

A soul covered
in novice north pole
a container made of ice
a shield from the outside world

Solid ground
and tall ceiling
blue covers the atmosphere
a simple frozen kiss
of the sleeping hollow

I am but an existence
locked and trapped
lost in trance
a poison of touch
that’s all it takes
to break through

Bones crack
and skin burns
but you can’t kill it
a poison that will break through
but not strong
never enough
to break me to pieces

Don’t wake me up
don’t wake my house
of icebound lake

The dancer

Scarlet paints

a few strand of her hair

curls the golden locks

that dance and sway

a flickering bulb

her judgmental spotlight

Black casts

a shadow of figure

underneath her feet

ballet shoes a friction

against the cold,cold floor

her most loyal companion