Tag Archives: scene

see no evil, fear no evil

i counted seventeen vultures

circling above to rend my spoiled flesh apart

and feed me to their starving children

.

i thought i saw a raven

mocking my unfortunate fate

perched solemnly on a chiseled granite bust

weeping with plutonian pondering

.

as the foolish crows

sang me a heartless elegy

the epistles crumbled to ashes in my palms

and my fountain pen dried out

into blotted shadows

.

if only heaven were to open up

and save me from the ominous darkness

but there’s no room for another soul

to save; no vacancy to give

.

so i huddle beneath the branches

of the dying willow tree

and waited for them to take me alive.

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somniloquy

pastel laughter, petals of umber

lip-gloss stains and sweet december

.

brick wall steps, stepping stones

withering glares, i contemplate alone

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seven mysteries i don’t dare speak

magicians fleet in magic tricks

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intervals lead to cyanide infinity

trapped in a loop of tangible vanity

.

tasting alcohol and numbing smiles

maybe i’ll stay here for a while

.

midnight calm and oceans deep

i’ll keep my thoughts in the morning

and talk in my sleep.

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Dear Divine Angel

In the morning, hear all the birds sing
It never stops, then, with tears in your eyes
You smiled dressed in coppertone tan lines
Oh, oh, I hope you don’t regret me…

~*~

The faint blush of the morning presents itself

In throes of sunlight and distant reverie

Clouds faltering against the cerulean horizons

Blots of floral spectres, a firmament fantasy

Where were your wings hiding in that fated summer?

Cotton feathers beating against the misted dusk

Hazy in dryads and skirls of falling zephyr

Precipitation from your eyelids ascending from rust

My divine angel, are you bedless yet again?

Gravity defying stars, constellation against heaven

Blooming victims of your violent delights

Splashing around scarlet blood within the snow

The shattered pieces of the diamond-writ sky

Burning out the match between my fingertips glow

Living in a digital galaxy that doesn’t exist

Of our never-ending anthems drowning to transmit

Coppertone static, your veil and mercury ring

Pens of neon twinkle moons accentuate your ‘darling’

Let’s pretend the clocks aren’t stricken with asthma

A heart attack to wake me up under comatosed dysthymia

Enigmatic and mysterious in worn-out outlines

Starlings swoop lost over the desert, but perhaps we’ll be fine

Pink pills under my pillow, sugar against bitter chemicals

Cynical affinity, please save me from their withdrawals

Sing me a piercing melody of pastel red and washed-out white

And paint intertwining chalcedony roses on my graphite ceiling tonight

Darling, I’m aware that I shall never be your personal admission

Your darker brushstroke version, your jacaranda circulation

But as midnight appears to coalesce in dawn’s daybreak gloom

Your twilight lips are mine, dear divine angel, don’t fly away too soon.

~*~

And it won’t be long till we drop this match
When I burn to your fingertips, you can throw what’s left
So long, let’s go and play those games you like
Let’s go and play those games you like…

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Ravine Scenes

An intercepted reverie

Caught in gales of grey

Clamour of laburnum sea

Falters, fades, and frays

Candour of a cold caprice

With dryads of alacrity

Meadowlark lost in pleas

Deigning prosaic coterie

An interactive doxology

Folds of a sporadic play

Somnolent ocean fantasy

Clashes, collides, set in clay.

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Sleepless in San Diego

Splash over your body while you drown on me
You ain’t seen nothin’ yet
Enter the galaxy of our sober demise
To the young and without type…

~*~

Just slow my breath

With drowsy whispers

That seek nightmares

And wayward kisses

Intertwining graceful

With my quiet jinxes

The ocean steals you

From a painted coast

I’ll retrieve the wind

Tasting your incense

And count the sonatas

In pastels of past tense

Listen to cold promises

Making us both shiver

But don’t hold the rope

Bullets suspended over

Misdirected phantoms

Of our faithless prayers

Arsonist hearts burning

Kerosene in full colours

Dear, don’t be ashamed

Of these tinderbox stars

Ash on your cinder skin

A paper town from afar

Froths of sea-foam teal

Alcohol in warm blood

Confessions and candy

Nonexistent rest flawed

Sundays spent revolving

Match stricken in water

Clocks in a slow motion

In a misleading summer

I won’t lose you this time

As my dreams begin to fall

You’re making me worse

And I don’t mind it at all.

~*~

Don’t believe it’s a never-ending summer
‘Cause they don’t exist
Tied around your tongue in all the rage and spit
So why am I the one falling apart?

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The Waltz of the Mercury Brides and Cyanide Grooms

The mercury brides dance, gliding upon the hardwood ballroom

Their billowing ruffled gowns fluttering soft, like paraffin wings

Attached to surreptitious sensibilities, quite devilish to the touch

And solemn eyes vigil behind an iridescent veil, languidly hiding

.

Lithe spines bending like black dahlias caught in a hurricane’s breeze

Elegant silken regalia classic cascading, colliding with haunting music

Four by four rhythm hypnotising, alluring deep with symphonic spells

Ladies spun around like barefoot ballerina dolls, rendered quite static

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The instrumental calls for one brief yet somnolent interlude circulating

As bare puppets and painted marionettes adjust their entangled strings

Sips of blood-red wine are taken and bubbly champagne denied politely

As the crestfallen tones reignite into an opera allegro of soprano valkyrie

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The idling midnight scene is palpably vivacious and ebullient once more

And porcelain hands are pulled to join the remorseless energy of the beat

Lively cheers punctuating each syllable striking of the commanding violin

Shoulders grazing faintly as harmonious bodies serenade moonlight sweet

.

The cyanide grooms cease to a slowing halt, as ritardando replaces cantabile

Waistcoats nearly strewn away; neckties, gloves, partners, barely hanging on

Disguises are scorned and pasquinade masks are removed to reveal the truth

Finally, the last of the party dissipates along with the nascent coda of the song.

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6:00 AM.

Faint incandescence of blue

Against the blurry windows

The sunrise junes yet accrue

On the startled horizon glow

Watercolour brushes of blue

Up starry ceilings they show

Sweet breeze of hope, it flew

Through the trees, they blow.

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Falling Stars and Balcony Scenes

When the light means nothing to you
Then no one would know the sound of a ghost
And I might be perfect with you, but
No one would know, so tell me, tell me…
Have you ever really danced on the edge?

~*~

A painful universe of blood and ash

Painting a ceiling over the horizon

Of a rare paradise the angels whitewashed

Rippling with sorrowfulness notions

You stood by the sharp edges, oscillating

Underwater heart affairs cold and drowning

Eating thumbtacks for breakfast last night

I’m sorry I wasn’t there to say you’ll be alright

Splendour of sunset, pink oceans on fire

Hitch rendezvous on a streetcar named desire

Rehearsing bland lines for your soliloquy

Dancing down aisles, our waltz of catastrophe

No, no, oh no, you can’t just throw me away

And I just can’t allow you to prolong your stay

This queen sized bed used to be so warm

Now your jokes are as funny as a broken arm

But I loved the mistakes you always made

And the teethmarks on my skin will never fade

A synthesised humility, surrogate sanctuary

I’ve memorised the sound of your voice, honey

Now you stand by the sharp edge, my lone star falling

While I dislocate my shoulders, your little prince catching

Interlocked in a fierce maelstrom, the calm of your flight

But this time around, I’ll be here to tell you that you’ll be alright.

~*~

Is something still scaring you?
(Have you ever really danced on the edge?)
The count of three is up
(Have you ever really danced on the edge?)
Alright then, tell me so
(Have you ever really danced on the edge?)
Just hold my hand and jump…

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Cosmic Band-Aids

The coalescing Seattle twilight was an interplaying illusion of dusk and haze, warm colours replacing the pastel skylines, only to be painted over by the deep indigo eventide. The local rustic town café was already closing up, and they barely had time to finish the last bites of their chocolate bonbons and sip the remaining drops of their hazelnut vanilla frappé, before the intermittent barista ushered them out—quite literally, with a tremulous hand and an apologetic jilted demeanour. Now they stood outside the establishment in introspective reverie, dimmed bronze sodium streetlight the only solitary light source that resiliently pierced through the caliginous melancholy.

She was a blushing rose, liquid and pale, every infinitesimal detail somehow magnified to be remarkably interesting. Fragrance of baby’s breath and frankincense, posture of a regal and sophisticated monarch, delicate face as that of an angel’s glimpse of paradise, personality of an intricate vintage lock and a million exploding suns. Her companion, admittedly, was a person of less enigma, yet was still a character of significance, an oakwood branch, roughly-hewn and intense, simple yet charismatic. That svelte and cheeky-looking fellow had untidy coffee-tint hair, a discursive ironic smirk, an insouciant slouch, and a steely glint that, more often than not, signalled trouble.

As the fog and the regent shadows further intensified, the pauses and discomfited silence between them further attenuated. Moments passed. Her candyfloss-pink sundress fluttered like a jaded butterfly as she tucked a frayed bookmark behind her seashell ear, and her taciturn companion watched her intently, like an engrossed pawnbroker. Without permission, he began to remove his worn tan overcoat and gingerly placed the article over her cool shoulders, still warm and cosy by his own body heat. Flustered by the uncalled attention, she turned away to brush a stray raven hair back into her gossamer tufted bun, and lost grip of her book of poems, fragile pages yellowed and dogeared with age. Sylvia Plath’s ancient anthology dropped with a soft thump right side up, opening uncannily on the centre page containing Mad Girl’s Love Song, and both bent down and fumbled clumsily to pick it up in haste.

Fingers tangled. Glances exchanged. Blue eyes collided with green. Hands clenched. Throats choked. Hearts skipped. Breaths hitched. Souls shattered. Their blueberry-strawberry swirl ice cream melted absently like calligraphy on the pavement. The book now lay abandoned and forgotten, its unspoken poetry dancing alongside the breeze. No words were whispered. None were necessary. Overhead, the last of the brimstone shades faded away, and incandescent stars splashed the darkness of the falling sky. Below, firework eyes showered sparks, and skins intertwined. Witnessing it all, hiding behind the wisps of pewter clouds and overlooking the nocturnal planet, the glowing moon quaintly smiled.

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Stargirl and the Rocket Lights

You are a curiosity, or a mental case, as some called it rather crudely and dismissively, and you knew everyone noticed. But they didn’t care, and neither should you. One day, you impulsively proclaimed, whilst balancing on the top of a redwood tree branch, that disappearing acts never got old, so you said goodbye to your squirrel friend, clambered down the tree hurriedly, and dashed home. You burst into your room with a loud door slam, gathered up your paraphernalia, grabbed your half-full rucksack dotted with strange pins and souvenir keychains, which was patiently waiting by your ramshackle oakwood cabinet, and began haphazardly shoving various motley things inside. Once you were finished cleaning up and made even more of a mess in the process, you quickly plastered a teddy bear print band-aid on your cheek from where the rough wood accidentally scratched and left a thin red mark, clumsily tied your DIY pinstriped Keds’ purple and green shoelaces, stretched out—as if competing in a marathon—on an abandoned Twister board on your carpeted floor, and finally you left the house, chasing your dissolution without so much as a backward glance. The first part was easy. The next part was easier.

The nightwalking horizon was tinted virtually the same colour as your ripped stonewashed denim overalls, the reticulated stars were in implausible full burst and clearly visible, a myriad riot like the splattered black inkstains on your bohemian tie-dyed shirt, and the moon was shaded exactly and uncannily like your ivory silk flower leggings, the number of the craters perfectly aligned with the number of the frayed holes by your knees, the ones you tore yourself with zigzag safety scissors. The dreamy air tasted faintly like bubblegum ice cream, and the astral bodies were softly clicking into their designated places, a marvellous tableaux of God’s fanciful ethereal jigsaw puzzle. Nothing more was to be prepared; all you had to do was pass against the serendipitous turn of time. That particular task in itself was no difficult feat for your whimsical affinity. The other factor to consider was your destination. Invariably, it didn’t matter which bus you got on, if you were even waiting for a bus at all, for you have an overpowering ominous sensation within your heart that you’ll always inevitably end up on a wayward road, diverging on the intersection to nowhere. And in your own quote unquote words, as that one cliché that nobody says goes, signal for the universe and the galaxy will come.

Your vintage analogue Hello Kitty clock ticked sluggishly second by second, and the small candy floss pink lights by the side came to life and began to glow fervently as the hands struck exactly 8 PM. You had a lot of time to spend thereon and then, sitting prim and taciturn on the graffitied wooden bench, waiting for the longest forever. You intertwined scarlet camellias on your plaited geranium hair and held it in place with a gargantuan leopard-print scrunchie. You tapped your hands, plucked a few sweet and sour notes on your marmalade-orange ukulele, and hummed a Joy Division song melodically, and you laughed quietly when you flubbed the chorus with a splintered squeak. You counted the cheap glittery stars you stuck on your plastic journal even though you knew the number by heart, some microscopic yellow speckles transferring to your skin as you absentmindedly peeled one at the side with a polkadotted fingernail. You scribbled lines of guitar keys, and doodled literal intricate keys without paired locks, onto the slightly-torn cover page with a blueblooded space pen, and used the same pen to trace the wiry butterfly outline on your right ankle. You observed with childish wonder and twinkling heterochromatic dandelion eyes as prams, automobiles, taxis, and tallyho’s passed by you in an amicable whirlwind breeze and friendly engine revving. There were a billion tangible stars in this side of the dimension, just a little more than the glamorous stars shining on your notebook, and you can pluck each and every single one off their orbit. You had a lot of fun little preoccupations, and the time on your hands seemed almost eternal.

Time was up. When it seemed like the aberrant clocks hitched their breaths and you’ve done a thousand and one tasks to fill such a lacuna, finally, Hello Kitty’s spinning hour hand gingerly moved into its designated place. The moment it touched the notch and exactly as the pink lights began their little show, you tilted your chin until it was higher than your freckled button nose, and stared enthusiastically at the empty tranquil sky. As if on cue, your implausible carpool vehicle hurtled imperceptibly from beneath the atmosphere, burning the crepuscular firmament’s concrete shadows at light-year speed, and arrived with a dissuaded thump, to take you away from such a bland and diluted planet. Tucking a stray highlighted neon hair back in your pierced and heavily-ornamented ears, you cautiously replaced the overflowing tatterdemalion notebook back in your bag, bounced on your heels and stood up with lilting sneakered toes, and ceremoniously stepped into that rocketship invention calmly, without any nuance of surprise or astonishment. It seemed you would simply walk straight and be swallowed whole by the blinding flash, but at the last moment, you turned back at the dominating darkness and sent a quaint, fragile, almost palpable air-kiss flying from your painted ruby lips and painted dainty fingers onto the open space. The entire population of the world must have felt a faint zephyr graze their cheek softly at that very moment, but they were too naïve to even bother with noticing it. Yet you said your polite goodbyes, so it didn’t matter. You grandiosely waved a final farewell, the tattooed patterns on your arms spinning and dancing with pastel motion, and you smiled lazily, quite cryptically, as the metallic-gold doors closed in dénouement with a sibilant hiss and a burst of flourishing steam. The metaphysical vessel roared as it propelled into ignition again, shooting up into the sky immediately and billowing into evanescence out of peripheral view, and you were gone with it. Your wish was granted, and you permanently left behind the life you always tolerated with distaste, into a more interesting place with a better yesterday, and no one cared…except for one.

Stargirl, when you ran away and stole the cornflower moon with you from the midnight sky to elope, did you think no one would be interested? When you vanished and charmingly serenaded the sun into a retrograde motion, did you think no one would find out? Did you ever think, for a single heartbeat, that when your star, hiding in plan sight among millions of the other specks in the star-freckled sky, was quietly extinguished, I wouldn’t even notice?

I out of all people would hate to admit such a fact, but for once in your extraordinary yet ephemeral existence, Stargirl, you were wrong.

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