Tag Archives: city

Solus

i miss the solitude of comfort

the breathless etudes that waltzed

around my bruised wrists and

made me think of distal vagaries—

beyond the thought of epiphany

none so vague, fallen anechoic sigh

brackish, your ocean salt, i elude

without objection, spinning starlings

and maxims that barely touched

the very tip of your aquiline outlines

nostalgia for months long passed

though, it seems centuries, impaling

my wit’s ends and ensconcing me

in linen funeral wear; wary sunshine

stains the blinds as my lungs take

a convulsive hiatus, scheming against

better company, scant afterglows

and that abstract sensation of leaving

the confines of my home after all

the stars had long burned out and the

city has long moved away from me,

from beckoning me, call my siren song

my swan song, epoch of resolution…

breathing, i miss the comfort of solitude.

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somewhere in balington drive

you’re every

city street

i picked tender

flowers out from

the ones that

bloomed from

the footsteps

you left behind

on rough pavement

as sodium lights

slept and doors

closed to the rhythm

of a hypnogogic

reverie—hush

but not quite still

silhouettes shifted

bodies left imprints

some alleyways

left a window open

for latecomers

and lost stragglers

and outsiders

i being one of them

but there are no

open anythings for me

only the bitter taste

of neon grey and

a last-minute wave

as you held your breath

and the flowers fell

from my shaky grasp

but there was no one

else around to pick

them back up

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Cityscape

“You take delight not in a city’s seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours.” –Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities


cities crawl with small plastic cars

and termites heading home after a long day

nevermores cast off to sycamore roots

with the darling of knowing nothing else

only the headlights in front of them

transient light guiding wornout concrete

in this merciless grid stuffed with shadows

they crawl without knowing why

and the city skin is beginning to itch

with the burden of perhaps one too many

small feet pitter pattering on their veins

right into the chambers of an ancient heart

that’s starting to slow down

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Asteroseismology

I see no stars in the sky anymore, darling

That’s because they’ve all fallen to the ground now

And lodged their nebulous shards in between

Those tiny beating hearts and empty restless souls

And names and cities and sidewalks no one will ever know

And these stars are long damaged with love

But they look just as exquisitely pretty as when they

Were once strung up in that infinite tapestry

We call the universe—the same universe where

I wonder why I’m still so caught up in you and I

When we’re only stripped-down parts of a woeful quintillion

An unknown number with hydrogen in our breaths

And I want enough pieces for a constellation, darling

Just like you and them and us and the rest of this galaxy

Will you have slowly mended everything together for me

Or are you just another faded light I will soon have to bury?

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27 – musings on gil puyat station

oh, she’s like this cardboard city, with the subtle way she’s barely holding herself together.

she’s an anachronism, of late-night guilt and freshly-brewed coffee; no sugar, no cream, barely sipped. she intertwines her deepest confessions inside my vulnerable chest cavity and suddenly constricts without warning, completely sucking me dry of resentful consciences and clever second thoughts.

though i talk with corroded shackles beneath my tongue, i care not for the sharp tang of rust. while she solemnly weeps for fictional infinities on the other side of the country, i impatiently await that impending reply as i absently gaze outside the window of a clattering train, basking at this city, built upon centuries of dusty grey smog and busy promises—of fragile bodies barely touching, barely stopping to breathe, barely existing.

she has an irrational need, that insensible girl, to save what can no longer be saved, to control what is far beyond her means, to create as it destroys her. the pleading words on the dull glow of my screen are a tangible whisper, tasting of colliding tears and bitter shame. “i want to help you, like they always did for me, but—i fear…i fear i cannot.”

can you not, indeed? my ulterior rejection is swift and bordering on impolite; but i still listen, and descry for mutual understanding. for though i shall never admit it out loud, your blithe persistence undoubtedly plagues me; to the very throes of my lavender dreams—resting beneath the stars as i turn my back upon that flimsy conversation and that paper metropolis, and allow myself to think clearly again.

to her, i am the eternal glue that holds her together. to me, i am the stranger who mercilessly ripped her apart in an attempt to reconstruct her to my own selfish beliefs.

who is right? what is the relative concept; of wrongness, of forgiveness, of sudden change and reconciliation, of the flismy trust that you broke, and the tested faith that broke you?

and who am i to tell?

the verdant landscape of laguna finally greets my wandering eyes and thankfully pulls me away from the echoing cries of that city, that poster past of a coalescing city that fills up my thoughts with a charcoal haze and renders everything else an unfamiliar slate of grey. my sighs are comforting once again, and she no longer appears to be just another one of the million impostors i came across today.

she means well. she meant well.

though—call it nihilism if you may—at the very least, she should be tolerable to her qualms and fear not the fortunate reality of losing me; arms unfolding, heart reaching, mind forgetting.

and fade away, i will. a plastic boy like me has no place in a cardboard world like this.

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Wrong Weekend

03.10.18. Saturday, 3:02 AM. Manhattan, New York.


He woke up from dreaming and put on his shoes
Started making his way past 2 in the morning
He hasn’t been sober for days
Leaning now into the breeze
Remembering Sunday, he falls to his knees…


It’s three in the morning when I lock my heart behind the closet doors

And then I take another drink so I could forget what it was fighting for

Everything is louder when the sounds of a life once held are long gone

I’m crashing and cresting like the tidal waves of this bathroom tantrum

I’m looking for someone that has disappeared from newspaper tragedies

Hey mister, have you seen this person in the photo that was never taken?

It’s another hazy day wasted, but I guess I’ll go home just to burn it down

Write a song on my six-stringed guitar, and I wonder where you are again.


Forgive me, I’m trying to find
My calling, I’m calling at night
I don’t mean to be a bother
But have you seen this girl?
She’s been running through my dreams
And it’s driving me crazy, it seems…



07.16.18. Saturday, 3:57 AM. Manchester, England.


I’m not coming back (forgive me)
I’ve done something so terrible
I’m terrified to speak (I’m not calling, I’m not calling)
But you’d expect that from me
I’m mixed up, I’ll be blunt, now the rain is just…


It’s three in the morning when I put on my coat and slipped past the doors

After an evening of drinks so I could forget that I’m even fighting anymore

Everything is louder when the sounds of a life once held begins to fall apart

I’m collapsing and colliding just trying to get you out of that bathroom stunt

I’m losing myself and slowly disappearing under a pile of newspaper eulogies

Hey miss, can we delete ourselves, to pretend that this photo was never taken?

It’s another hazy day spent, so I guess I’ll go home in a place where I don’t burn

Right by the six-windowed room, and I won’t ever wonder where you are again.


You’re driving me crazy, I’m—
Washing you out of my hair and out of my mind
Keeping an eye on the world, from so many thousands
Of feet off the ground, I’m over you now
I’m at home in the clouds, and towering over your head
Well I guess I’ll go home now. I guess I’ll go home…


 

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Travel Thoughts

I’m not a fortune teller, I won’t be bringing news
Of what tomorrow brings, I’ll leave that up to you
I’m not a fortune teller, don’t have a crystal ball
I can’t predict the future, can’t see nothing at all…

~*~

I wonder sometimes, about fleeting things.

Sitting calmly and musing over tranquil thoughts on the top floor of a double-decker bus, watching tall foliage and even taller skyscrapers rush past my awe-stricken eyes, I’m basking in the excited beating of a foreign heart, a dearly beloved stranger, familiar yet unknown, warm blood palpitating fervently in a buzz of amalgamated emotions and hundreds of footsteps on the worn-down pavement. Yet I feel for my chest with a fluttering hand and find that mine seems to be dulled down into a quiet languor.

I dream of the future. And I dream of returning.

But the future tastes like a distant impossible nowhere—very much like this city that I’m currently traveling past—when the hands of my clock are still stubbornly stuck on the eleventh hour. I’m a broken compass with faded directions, and I’m never sure where the gravity is pulling the pointer towards, until I find myself lost without a second thought. I can’t ever be certain if there was even a north, south, east, or west in the first place. Maybe it’s just me and one big unfathomable plane of existence with no directions, no places to go, only nothing. And nowhere.

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where to go.

I want to carry on despite all my crippling doubts paralysing my broken legs, but the crashing ocean is my tongue is salty and deep, and the nightingale has ceased warbling melodies in my throat. I think of could-have-beens and come-what-may’s, and I try to make it sound comforting instead of terrifying, try to convince myself that I’m going in a path that I intended to cross, and I’ll make it somehow. I attempt to wrap myself around the steady beat beat beating of this stranger they call a city, and I let the static sounds and captivating lights cradle me into its metropolitan lullaby. This is only one of the million strangers I have yet to make acquaintances with. And only a fraction of my time.

And I dream of hope. And I dream that someday, I don’t have to dream anymore.

The future is fleeting. But, perhaps, I might just have one.

~*~

This feeling keeps growing
These rivers keep flowing
How can I have answers
When you drown me in questions?

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Silent Films

For all I know, the best is over
And the worst is yet to come
Is it enough? To keep on hoping
When the rest have given up?
And they go…

~*~

Set the tone to soft sepia and watch me come to life

Like my favourite vintage movies, but silence is optional

I hate to mouth the words but I know that I’m right

And it’s better than to face the music composed in your journal

What you see is what you get, but it’s more than it seems

Amid skylines and downtown fiction, stories of nameless streetcars

I’m waiting under an umbrella, seeing neon signs in rainy grey

Until your clicking red heels arrive to light the pavement up

For the film is never complete without a dazzling star.

~*~

I hate to say I told you so
But they love to say they told me
(Throw me into the fire
Throw me in, pull me out again…)

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eau de cologne

swathes of perfume—

a familiar scent in the storm

bewildered by wonders

and shadows on the dictaphone

renegade tears; again

they surround charlatan hearts

in sounds of scissor envy

the wineglass is fermented sour…

time vanishes into aether.

the threadbare tale of old lovers

bloom on daybreak scorch

akin to an elaborate kaleidoscope

incinerating infinite galaxies.

your anarchy is no longer ghastly

and the oasis of the cityscape

blinks out in a mosaic, one by one

as i quell my febrile miasma

and twist sullen on my empty bed

your form outline is long gone—

but your lingering fragrance remains.

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insignificance

You’re losing your light
Everything that was yours
Just does not exist

So don’t even try to say
Sorry for the things in life that
You might have missed…

~*~

i quietly wonder

if i had done anything

wrong to reclaim

another faultful star

.

as i stare outside the window

cascading past endless stretches

of worn paved-roads

and vast fertile landscapes

.

and everything looks transiently gargantuan

.

but i momentarily glance

at the empty bus seat next to me

and i feel rather small again

.

flimsy music in my ears

speaking of infinite sentiments

and i’m disenchanted again

these mellisonant voices are enough

they have to be enough

.

to keep my wandering mind

company against the ephemeral madness

.

i flick my red lighter open

and hold it close—but not too close

to my dying pen; wondering, for

a moment, if the same trick could revive

my spirits like the stuttering ink,

tempted to burn my flesh back to life

.

but i merely stare into the flame—

flickering unsteady still—and blow it out

so it doesn’t have to be lonely

as my heart is right now

.

as i travel from small city

to smaller town, i wonder where

all my friends are right now

how they are all doing

what they are doing

.

and if they’re all having fun

without me.

~*~

Sometimes they say this should
Feel something like fire
‘Til it burns you and you can’t
No, you can’t remain the same
Stay the same, although you know
They say this should feel something like fire
No, I can’t change…

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