One of those places


The sobbing you hear is a lady ghost, whose husband left as she lay there dying. Out at the back, that’s the cat, and that’s the baby, fighting in the garbage bin. Some time back, a man lost all his children gambling in this kitchen. Don’t play cards. The pots and pans go mad, and the crockery completely crazy.

The loud knock-knock coming from the cupboard is only a hand, from fingertip to about halfway up the elbow. If you keep the door shut, it won’t come out, but keeps knocking politely. The creaking on the ceiling, was a broken man with no experience with suicidal hanging. He watched his sweetheart, as she packed and left, like a fish on a hook, still alive and dangling. His grandma slipped on what he dripped, halfway up the stairs. She fell too hard, all the way down, that’s her head forever thumping.

Attracted by something, vampires often come to party. Spitting, slobbering, pissing on the floor, yelling, singing. breaking things. When vampires get drunk, vampires keep on drinking. Outside, the werewolves howl nonstop. Zombies bang the front door constantly. When Mummies break in, they turn the hi fi on and off, and on and off and on.

Souls from Hell turn up, mistaking you for dead, trying to take your body.

Why would you want to live in a place like this? Find another place, pack your bags and move.

You heard it yourself. This is a place where every sound – the cursing, screaming, moaning, crying – and every story – the hurting, beating, killing, dying –  is for real. No smoke, no mirrors, no hallucinations.

This is a place where no one needs to lie to you.

This is a place where every word you hear is true.

There must be a million places safer.



What’s another candle?



I lit a candle and chanted my thanks to all the angels and devils in my mind, swearing to pay back all I ever received, in favours, cash or kind.

Before I finished chanting, already there was chattering and mumbling in voices low and high. Soon, things became heated up. An angel pushed, a devil shoved. And someone started spilling someone else’s blood.

Before long, karate chops and kung fu kicks were flying. The whole place had broken into an open-season free-for-all multi-martial arts cage fight.

Expectedly, blood, guts, feathers, scales were splattering left and right. At first I was only thankful. Then my thankfulness turned humble. But now, my gratitude became divine.

When the candle dimmed, I swiftly lit another, appreciative of this rumble, a clash of Good against Evil, Evil against Good, Evil against Evil, Good against Good, winner against loser, to find the one last hero standing, a sure thing, a clear-cut winner, the one who will get me safely through the night.

On the days I wish to hurt you



On the days I wish to hurt you,

to make you feel the pain,
to want you to suffer a little,
just a little, a little more,
to twist your mind, to jumble up your brain.

On the days that evil takes me over,
when I need to break you down to build me up,
when I have to tear you up to patch me together,
when I would very much like to show you who’s the boss,
that I am right and you are wrong,
to hurt you quickly, maybe slowly.
Uh oh. Here I go again.

Com’ere baby.
You know I will remember all of this

on the days you wish to hurt me too.

Dismembered for the Night



Disarmed, I could’ve let the politics catch and pull me down.

The who and what and why,

and where and when and how.

Lots of long and sensuous poetry.

On the other hand.


Better tongue your eyeball straight away, and chew my way around.

And harmonize your moaning with all my grunting sounds.

Mashing together day and night, swallowing what we cannot bite,

Until, until, tbere’s no until, we’re fused, can’t unravel now: mind on meat, organs in heat just pound and pound and pound.

Until, until, bits of it begin to fall right off: Leeches that look like body parts panting on the ground.

Then go. Just leave. Don’t bother to keep count.

We’ll sort out which bit belongs to who, the next time you’re in town.

The parts you think are ugly.

In every fault you find, lies your beauty.
In every weakness you think you have, you are thinking like the strong.
On every spot you feel I might have hurt you, there was really nothing to hurt at all.
When you love so much,  that everything can scare you, then you remember what it is to love. Go ahead and feel it. It is an exciting thing to do.
Fear is the weapon in battles like this, where no weapons were meant to be used.
Calm is my only answer, since panic will lose me the war.
If nothing but nothing is ever over, and every wrong wlll have its turn to be right, will you just hold back for a brilliant morning, instead of rushing, stumbling in the dark of night?
If you’re sure that your heart, pounding so madly, cannot possibly be mistaken this time, then mark every spot you call ugly, and I will nibble them, one at a time.
Keep your best. Leave me the parts you call ugly. It’s worth the wait to me.
…Often, those are the most delicious of all.



People You May Know


Google+ just emailed me from one of my accounts, asking me if I know myself? And do I want to add me as my friend?

I clicked and saw a blurry pic from 20 years ago, which was enhanced in pencil because photo apps and even Google itself wasn’t even around.

I was sure because I am the only one who knows. Of course I blocked my friend request, because in my data I was lying all the way through.

Luckily it was only me trying to hookup with myself, and not someone else.

That photo of mine sure looked cute with the long hair, tight dress and super trendy boobs.

Wonder what the Buddha does?


Wonder what the Buddha does – when things are kinda wobbly?

I wonder how the Buddha feels on a super low, low day?

I wonder how the Buddha copes when he stands at the brink of his Buddhahood, with thoughts of wafting gently down the karmic ladder?

I wonder too much, about too much wondering.

Oh my. Trying to remember. buddha
Trying to remember where a Buddha goes, when Buddha wants to cry?

If I revealed to you


If I revealed to you the passion of my thoughts, will you send me back to hell, if I say please, pretty,  please?

If I confide in you and only you, myself, will you know that I am this me, the only me I could be here, created only through you?

All the other versions I was, and could have become, said goodbye to me last night, knowing I would never go with them.

Perhaps they were angry that I betrayed my group of wanderers – from feeling a little tired, became disloyal, from feeling disloyal, became bad. Perhaps they were sad.

I watched myself packing up and leaving myself in the morning haze, and looked back to see myself, smaller and smaller on the dock, waving my tiny wave of desperation.

As I turned around to see your door still closed, I knew.

But the wind was high, and seagulls were calling to the wanderers, gone already, who really didn’t want to go.

And like all troubadours who sell their backsides for a song, the minstrels and the mendicants, from a thousand places and a million times ago, they can only hum a little tune to feed the wind, to help it move along:

The one about a piece of them I had to cut, and leave behind for you.


Now We’re Standing And


So we meet at the starting line of some serious Olympic final track and field event.

Noticing the wriggle in your tight sprinting pants, I wandered over in my swimsuit, forgetting the way to the swimming pool.

There, in the midst of all these beautiful athletes – weighing and fondling the spears and balls and discussions in their hands, limbering up, getting ready for whatever was about to – then the whistle blew.

What the-? Hey-?

Smack in the middle of some glorious competition which neither you nor I wanted to join or win. On your mark, get set, the starter’s pistol exploded with a bang!

Now we’re standing and looking high up at the javelins, like heat-seeking missiles, arc slowly through the air.


Knowing the Tango



He loved her and he didn’t know it.

She loved him and she didn’t know it.

So they both got married to other people and enjoyed it.

Occasionally, they would meet at parties.

They would sit and talk and drink and talk

dying to dance a slow jazz number with each other.

Sometimes she or he would ask: “Care to dance?”

Sometimes he or she would answer: “Do you know The Tango?”

And they would both laugh

and clink glasses

and drink and talk

and then go home

and secretly practise

every step of

the Tango.