I Raise a Glass to the Amputated Hands

I didn’t mind the beer or the gin or both

Its bitterness is sweet

It is happiness and bliss

a cocktail of euphoria drowned in sadness

a roundabout of stories and seconds

of life, philosophy and flamboyant tongues.

I don’t mind the cash and consequent credits

I don’t even mind whether I gulp alone or not

It’s fine, doing things by yourself, swallowing your bile,

Yet finer, counting empty bottles of beer with people

laughing of zombie memories and looking at the stars

or the polluted city lights and noise. We all feel

We all have felt that. Like grasping the cotton clouds

with a beggar’s hands, and the mist showing

the visions of your mind.

I do not mind getting drunk.

As long as I can still breathe and haven’t yet passed out.

It seems too unnatural to me.

That an empty bottle cannot match the empty soul.

Or the compulsion wouldn’t be satisfying

If this empty room couldn’t equal the empty space

of this table, and the filled ashtray it holds

It’s a shame for the eerie ashes to be disemboweled

without tribute to the fading spirit that I have.

I raise a glass to the pleasured emptiness

to the fullness of pasts in an empty coffin.

Tonight, I celebrate the paradox of my life.

I Need Help

Dear Oscar,

I am stuck in confusion and self-criticism. What happened to me? The sudden disgust for the usual conversations we had has been constantly nagging my brain. The talk of people. The talk of people especially related to you and how you talk about them. The talk of the things you had. The talk of your experiences or even your dramas. I feel sad. I feel sad that I cannot empathize and feel sad for you. I don’t even want to hear them. You know what I want? I wanted to be left alone. For you not to talk to me. Again, life tires me or our talks tire me. Sometimes I feel guilty for my coldness. I feel so cold inside. I don’t even want to hear how miserable you are. When I was young, I prayed that I could touch lives. Yet here I am. I don’t talk to people. I don’t care about people’s lives. I don’t even want to be bothered by the petty nor deep problems they had. It bores me. I guess I’m evil huh? I wonder, when have I started to be this? Or have I been this person all along. A jealous, critical, uncaring non-sympathizing bastard.

Ahh… this must be the deeper side of hell. Somebody should help me.


This goes for the shitty days

and the beer I couldn’t drink till three am

for the pains and tears

and the organ that left my wardrobed gut

but a cheers to a new day

of a new year

of a brighter

well whatever.

rest in peace to the food I couldn’t eat today

and the lipids that couldn’t come my way

away away away with life

and daylight is still as bright

to those i lost, to the more i gained

i dedicate this ode

to the welcome game

i alone at thirty eight.

and this shit is my piece of music.

The Madness That I Became in a Fucked Up Poem

What if I wanted to break? Would god let me?

What would you do god?

Do you even hear that you should have taken me awhile back

You should have buried me into quick sand and mud of dusts

Why did you ever let me go?

From the bondage of pathetic innocence

And dissipated pretences

The hypocrisy is so naïve and so wonderful, to feel chastity

And become thus what I hear I am

They don’t know, they never knew

They were fucking blind

That I am an evil grounded on clouds

A burst of darkness in starless skies

How sore, how irrevocable

To be or to be is a burden I bear

For the world do not understand

That I don’t fucking care,

And if they try to make me feel like

A cherub of eternity, then fuck off

Happiness is a back-up plan

For the people who cannot tolerate the beauty of dying

Slowly while walking, alive and hating.

This hateful poem, you should have known.

Nothing goes right in this world.


My past is intolerable.

My life is unbearable.

I can’t stand looking at the old pictures

Without missing who I was.

Without hating who I have become.

Life was simple then.

Fuck the people who stained me.

Fuck the people who provoked the evil in me

For it sounded good

For it seems not too rude

To love this eloquent façade

Of joy while the heart placates

At the sound of this yet hollow morgue

And the feel of this cold, cold world.


There is No Meaning in Finding One

The lost finds meaning aimlessly
As if stars aren’t born to shine
Some went dead unknown
And some pig out on farce
And so it feels meaningless
To find worth living for
For we are originally dead
We are nothing from the beginning
Fuck meaning, been chasing for my dreams
And they pile up like the bills I gotta pay
At three am
The holy hour, when ghosts are supposed to be stronger.
Damn, this ghost must be greater than my will
Tearing up my intestines for food
Neither satisfies my thirst nor water for my hunger.
I deem to return to my loneliness
People gets me sick
Makes me throw up
In anxiety
For what would I say
There is no meaning to them
What has in mine
We’re different you and I
Isn’t amazing?
That I cannot be like you.
And I am my evil eye.