I have prayed to the heavens
So that he may endow me
With his love
A word or three might suffice
And I will turn my face
to the light
Of paradise.
Love me
Even if I might drown in misery
Save me
If I seem to trot on the edge of being
(Do not) Abandon me
If I seem to be too intruding
In my brooding
Truth less
Troth less
Mouth less
Rest less
I am no goddess
boohoo.
engagement ring.
side wings.
summer flings.
guitar picks.
arcade ticks.
wayang kulits.
bird cages.
burnt plates.
crack track
the metal tacks.
strewn about the lawn.
she bawls.
how grand her fall.
i am never going to write that novel.
tick him off, and move on to someone else. we carry on, intermittently, without haste, and salvage every piece of our hearts scattered and throw them to…..
to no one.
if this was an array of arrays
no need to be on the defensive. my position is as ever neutral as it first started out to be, unmoved by your tattering emotions. i unfettered, you, dismembered, there is no end to this.
for all your wits.
i try to imagine that
you are insinuating
behind all of this
cacophony
symphony
poetry
or simply
anything that fleets
that spills onto the streets
apart
from the glamour
of you clamour
the magnanimity
of your fancies
i would like to believe
that i am not just
a paraphernalia
a mere idea
i am to give you up entirely
and head over to my only
source of hope
who else reads the prolegomena?
the others the only show that they do
shout spout mouthful of
regurgitating fools,
i gloat while i float
he blooms while he grooms
at the cafe
after our morning ritual of
oversized donuts and simmered down tea
we spoke of the elusive country
and the beheading of our sons to be.
rendra?
suspend him
his ghost lingers in the air
the great seer
in us he sees nothing
but the discards of a
tortured soul
so this is it;
a minimum of three fiction a month.
next would be;
1. Norwegian Wood Volume 2 (Murakami)
2. Steppenwolf (Herman Hesse)
3. Dead Souls (Nikolai Gogol)
no more. that seems universal enough. we don’t really need to read murakami, it’s just merely a matter of finishing him off (so as to tick him off the list). kundera can wait. (hei dah berkurun dah buku Immortality tu). things like Plath or Pessoa can wait until i really am in the mood to brood. (so it resonates or whatever). Fragments are best to be read, in fragments.
no more borrowing from the library, either.
and then just short articles, or lectures by people, i suppose. (i don’t have much time).
1. Self Reliance (Emerson)
2. whatever scrap of Shariati I haven’t read
Try to finish Man and Nature, Hussein Nasr. Can’t seem to engage me well enough, that book. (Is it boring? I don’t know.)
read and understand the tafsir (first by Qutb, but i think i shall venture out to see what Asad has to says, then Lings or Yusuf Ali)/
then we can proceed to, Ilmu Syaraf untuk Pemula, once i have gained more grasp/understanding (or vocabulary) of the language.
i need a good notebook to write it all down.
the green one is missing.
ambitious, eh?
sore throat
midnight gloat
winter coat
chocolate mud-cake
and a peach pud-ding.
he remains aloof.
see him go, poof.
nothing to be seen.
nothing to be seen
this scene is bloodless.
heartless.
emotionless.
nothing is brought
in between
i am to
give you up
entirely.
boring,
all of this.
we lament,
on everything.
almost every waking day.
we peer through,
to see,
if he was preparing,
for a grand showdown.
it never comes,
it never will.
how much deeper must we scalp, into his faculties,
how much further must we lose ourselves, into his being.
how much longer must i dance before you, i am tired.
i give up.
perkaraperkara 