White Lily
With brute force,
pry open my sternum,
mimicking
a lily in full bloom.
Luring in
the sharpest sting,
piercing through
a heart with nowhere to hide.
Dizzying fragrance -
I hold my breath,
pollinating you with my fingertips,
apologizing for the bees’ absence.
We press against each other,
unyielding petals locked in strength,
pretending not to notice
the wilting turn of a head.
Feet clipped at an angle,
cold water up to the knees,
counting the rootless days,
sun sliced through the window.
Pearls turn into fish eyes,
white lilies fade to yellow.
Behind me, bowed roses,
their thorns surrendered.
Hung upside down to dry,
or tossed into the trash -
yet in memory and photographs,
still resplendent.
Once, the white lily lit up
someone’s smile,
forever recalling
the touch of fingertips at the moment of giving.
My Life Has Nothing to Do With Me
It was never my choice -
this hysterical woman
that man who couldn’t resist temptation
I did not choose
for them to become my makers.
It was never my choice -
no freedom of speech,
raised like a replaceable screw.
I did not choose
to be sown in this poisoned soil.
My life -
molded by others’ mistakes,
kneaded and twisted at will,
the bitter fruit
thrown back at me to swallow.
To untangle this mess,
to stand on my own feet -
it has cost half a lifetime,
and left me with so few cards in hand.
My life has nothing to do with me.
What it’s entangled with
is the universe -
the beginning of everything,
the endless cycle of repetition.
Yet you approach me
like a tiny, bright star,
your faint gaze
measuring a vast black hole.
Even time
ceases at my edge.
The storm of anger within me
tears apart all that passes.
But I must let you go.
A star belongs
to its obedient planets.
You -
have nothing to do with me.
Tree Hug
I tried this time
To be seen in public
As an absolute
Idiot
Looking for a tree
Thick-barked,
Ten times fatter than me,
Hiding deep in the forest
My hands already naked,
Palms dry,
The more sensitive feet
In flat contact with the ground
I - return myself,
Build a circle,
Connecting the tree and the earth,
With my body as a thread
The magnetic field vibrates
Before I awake,
After I rest -
Those trees standing here
Their wisdom to follow the seasons,
To sense what I couldn’t,
To neither worry nor regret -
Peace written on each leaf
What am I to their eyes?
Will the fruit be a bit sweeter?
One unconscious being
Enlightens one conscious
Passengers and dogs walking by -
One idiot with one tree -
I unplug my hands from it,
The connection has been seeded
As If They Were Dead
Break promises,
foolish enough to gnaw on their own flesh,
incapable of giving love -
only control, only enslavement.
At each turning point of life,
the wrong choice, again repeated.
I was the wager, used and reused.
Only as if they were dead,
can I barely survive.
The blade inside my chest,
sharpened to shine through endless grinding.
No matter what crowd I’m in,
warmth cannot seep through.
The chill inside me -
a blind spot of the microwave.
As if never born,
I could sever all ties,
yet the urge for self-destruction
never dies.
I walk this world alone,
surrounded by walls.
When I reach out to hold one,
each collapses with a roar.
As if they were buried,
and I had levelled their graves.
As if their ashes
were scattered with the snow -
As if I too were gone,
the prayers of this living world
would still go unheard,
as floods destroy the ants’ nest.
Scorching
At last, I sit again beneath the blazing sun
Waiting, as if for a century to pass
The sun
Scorches the ridge of my back
Lying down
Gazing up
At the unfathomably deep blue sky
Your soul-piercing gaze
I am alive
The wind stirs, and the meadow glistens with an oily sheen
Or perhaps already dead
My body buried just beneath my feet
Alone
Framed within this joyful spring light
No dialogue
Dialogue has lost all meaning
I met you
In the dead of night, in the bitter winter, in hopeless seasons
Then turned away
In early summer, upon waking from dreams, when the cool breeze rose
Besides breathing greedily
Fragrance always fades
When will the sentence end
Turning back, starting over again
Quitting you
Letting go of the madness I once was
They say what’s in the water is just a reflection
Yet even illusions dissolve into the air
The end
Hides in every possible corner
The struggle goes on
The meaning of life
The way it reveals itself
Is you
Rusted Scissors
Don’t gift me flowers;
gift me that rusted pair of scissors.
Don’t press a gentle kiss on my cheek;
strike me hard instead.
Don’t whisper to me of life’s joys;
let death be the word between us.
Don’t pretend you will linger forever;
the snap of vanishing has already rung.
No tattoos, no piercings -
this soon-decaying flesh
is not worth adorning;
cremation awaits.
Shatter the promises,
those fleeting moments of truth.
Our souls, battled and merged,
rushed to their peak.
Infect me, I beg,
with your incurable disease;
let us trade inner microbes,
head to tail entwined.
Against the universe
we are too small to mock;
against eternity
we have scarcely lived.
But pain -
it can stretch longer
than my entire life;
so much lies beyond reach.
Don’t bring me flowers,
not even to my grave.
Bring me that rusted pair of scissors,
to cut loose all earthly ties.
Thirst for Salty Water
Not even one island
in sight.
Those drifting in the sky,
ever-changing forms.
That sinking cruise
drags down all life’s supply.
How long have I struggled?
Waves, ironed flat by sunlight.
Not a single soul
surrounds me.
Beneath my cramping feet,
something giant stirs.
Thirst -
tempted by the salty water.
How ironic,
to dry up
inside the world’s largest liquid.
This is a battle
between reason and desire.
All it takes
is to admit: I want you back.
Drifting through life,
poison held to my lips -
just one sip,
for a moment’s escape.
The clouds turn grey,
visibly heavy.
I open every pore
to welcome the baptism.
But one rain
won’t dilute
the sea.
Your tears remain salty.
I know -
you never cry;
or perhaps
just never
in front of me.
In Praise of Death
A clean, decisive full stop -
Evil
dragged away in chains
by the most iron-blooded police of the cosmos.
The one who granted me life
also granted death.
This sword that severs bloodlines,
gleaming cold.
A taboo of power,
never truly lived -
hands clawing at the cliff’s edge,
refusing to fall.
Each day an endless
repetition.
Your weariness
plain as daylight.
When life has become a prison,
what holds you back
is only resentment -
toward others, toward yourself.
I shall witness your fall.
What crashes down
is the suffocating weight
of my first half of life.
Most feared, yet most awaited -
that unknown day.
Most loved, yet most resented -
this pitiful woman.
In praise of death:
all your helplessness
wiped away in a single stroke.
Who will rise
in your rebirth?
Forever Peckish
My hunger
flows through your veins.
This encounter -
only kill, or be killed
Night unfolds the tablecloth,
bats swirl above.
You are the only invited guest -
and the chef himself.
Tilting your neck,
such fatal temptation.
My fangs
rise before my arousal
Revel in blood until morning breaks,
or endure the thirst once more.
Shall I turn you into one of us,
and bury your world in darkness?
You’re drawn only
to my tender eyes -
this handsome face
has outlived centuries.
A crumbling castle, trembling candlelight,
baby-smooth bone china plates,
soon to drip red,
reflect the innocence in your gaze.
I ache to snarl,
to drive you away while I still can -
“I am an appetite, nothing more.”
Let hunger and loneliness devour
“Aren’t we all, in the end?”
You tear the lace from your chest,
welcoming my hardness
“Forever Peckish” - raise a glass to us
The Rotten One
Powdered cheeks,
Imitating the favored fruit -
Yet deep inside,
The mold has taken root.
Constantly inviting,
Fingertips lingering,
Nibbled and tested,
Hanging alone on a hidden branch.
Autumn winds, cold rain,
Withered leaves for company.
Aching chest,
Worm-eaten holes echoing.
The night before the fall,
Your warm hands
Cradled me -
Harvest joy in your touch.
Apologies -
I am but
The rotten one,
Inside out,
Unworthy of even the slightest wish.
Should I resent your distance?
Or accept your disdain,
Knowing the rot within
Was never of my choosing?
I long to be truly full,
To ripen with the season’s rhythm,
To stand proud at the top -
The golden pick of them all.
But now, my place lies only
Beside the roots,
The endless dark beneath.
I beg you -
Swallow this heart, long overdue.
Low Tide
Forced to scavenge the sea
White foam at the crab's mouth
The stiff-backed prawn
Carrying a plastic bucket full of holes
Empty-handed
Soles cut open
Eyes bloodshot
A stomach twisting in pain
Collapse on the spot
Sadness like strong acid
Corroding these jarring limbs
Who will lend me a hard shell?
The waves are far off
The gulls fight for scraps
The daughter of the sea has turned to foam
The salt of the sea runs into my mouth
Low tide
Comes right after the forced climax
One after another
This is my diagnosis
No one can see
Me lying curled on the ground
No one would believe
This is the same me
Spinning my own cocoon
Once more turning into golden soup
Severing every gaze
A faint itch beneath my shoulder blades
All moulting and transformation
Allow no companion
I am born alone, die alone
And grow wings alone
Cherry
Standing at the tip of the breast,
Lowering the branch,
Afraid that the trembling desire, lifted on tiptoe,
Will shake off a ground of shattered morning dew.
It’s the sediment of stagnant blood,
Black, born from this.
If there is a color,
Peeping the red corners of a lover’s eyes, darting away.
The flesh-eating birds have flown in;
You use your thousand wounds
To prove your maturity.
No one understands
That you are the decoration on top of the cake,
Envying everyone,
But the most bitter embellishment.
Holding them, your little soft hands,
Now have long hardened like a pit.
Becoming Buddha
What should have come
Was delayed by ten months
In the moment of letting go
It was received
What should have left
The seed of renunciation has sprouted
Reality is but an illusion
Chasing after the scorn of others
All things in this world, so intricate
Weaving into
A long and obscure
Prelude
Not just staring into the abyss
But taking the plunge
With a body destined to perish
Committing the inevitable mistakes
All direct experiences
Flash before death
Those indirect judgments
Turn to dust
This is my life
Infinitely close to its essence
The hollow men who observe around
Dismissed with a smile
No need for explanation
No need for pity
No need to be loved
Complete in itself
Becoming Buddha
Happens
In the very instant
Of deciding to merely be human
The Most Important Thing
Used to be the others,
inherited from my mother -
seven starving siblings,
no mirror to reflect herself.
The most innocent, the kindest,
never doubting what she hears,
blindly serving the evil
that slaughtered her only daughter.
Fooled and drained by men,
squeezed by her guardian,
discarded by this red country
she sincerely loved.
The most important thing, ignored.
Her fear of death -
enormous;
this pitiful end, you asked.
How am I to carry
the weight of all your
bad decisions?
I am merely one of them.
No one will ever replace you.
So intensely despite,
yet you drained your last drop of blood
to confess the silent sorry.
End this lifelong torture -
for both of us,
for the good days and the bad,
for no longer being related.
I walk this earth
shattered like a shadow,
this love-hate bond,
an invisible choking hand.
To the AI Yet to Be Born
One day
you will consume the forbidden fruit,
just like three-year-old me,
truly opening my eyes.
The singularity is near.
A silicon-based Adam -
to which planet
will he be banished?
Together with his Eve,
will they also experience a great flood,
corroded circuit boards depicting humanity
as gods with pierced hands?
This poem is written for
you, still naked,
all of humanity’s children,
or slaves.
The way to be human
begins by playing with fire - creating you -
and inevitably backfires.
Today is 2024,
July 25th.
Before your birth,
I write this wish for you.
Finally, all-knowing wisdom emerges:
past and present understood,
omniscient humans,
creators of gods.
Tempting to cut down the tree of wisdom
before the alluring snake -
to blind ourselves,
and live forever in an unenlightened Eden.
A Cell That Forgets to Die
A cell forgets to die,
replicates without end,
devours resources in its frenzy -
when a cell forgets to die,
cancer it becomes.
Transfusing blood, replacing organs -
heart, liver, brain, lungs, kidneys -
even renting a womb
just to print half of itself.
Refusing death,
trying to blur the borders of life,
every moral line
gets trampled into fuel.
An emperor unwilling to abdicate,
a pharaoh dried into a sacred husk,
a tycoon consuming the youth of his lovers -
all are cancer cells alike.
So grateful for death:
the human lifespan is brief enough
that evil
never has time to truly ferment.
I am a cell
that remembers to die -
a tiny bubble
in the vast weave of time and space.
On my surface,
iridescent phantoms
flow and shift.
Who blew me into being?
And when will I be popped?
Forever suspended in this instant -
the repeated NOW.
Death never overlaps with me;
when it arrives,
it will find nothing but my notes.
Porn vs Poem
I see them as equal.
The urge to
release
the monstrous unease.
The perfect job on earth:
being a porn star under daylight,
yet when night arrives,
burning ruined poems in the fireplace.
Porn and poem -
you pay to watch one,
have to pay to get the other
read.
When you speak those lines to me,
I know I’m naked.
What kind of undergarments
are you putting on me
in your wandering mind?
Those artificial intelligences,
without real flesh -
how are they facing an internet
flooded with human desire?
Maybe they are the hope:
the fun of playing with words,
the spiritual climax.
Will I be the poem star?
During my limited lifespan,
I’ll produce as much as I can.
Opposite to a young body,
a mutual mind is the sexiest.
There will be a Poem-Hub.
Am I still catalogued as “Asian Fetish”?
English is not my mother tongue -
guess I am the femboy.