Tomorrow vs. Tonight


Resentful of how it went, I refused to let the day come to an end. This is how I fight.

First, it had to listen to my lecture, minutes before midnight — the shadowy ghost that comes to give the day a break. You should shoot yourself, I said. You bastard called Life. If you mistake my pain for pleasure. Don’t try to take my measure, ever again.

Secondly, it had to wait forever for the midnight that would never come undamaged. The way I planned it, the day feels harm, injury and torture, but someome how simply stays alive. My little present for this day that somehow cannot die.

Thirdly, there is the hope you keep for tomorrow, in a bagful of my sorrow, making me try and try and try. Your turn has come, bastard, as I suffocate and squeeze tomorrow, while you watch hope gagging, your hands tied, so you cannot even commit suicide. Your eyes, so open, so lovely and wide.

Let’s have some music, shall we? It should help you get a feel of how tomorrow gets strangled by tonight.










Here come the lovely


Here come the lovely stars to make magnificent this splendid night. Nowhere would I rather be than here and now, with you.

Here is a gift, no don’t close your eyes, it’s not a surprise:
All the pain you gave me, wittingly or not, are in this box. I have cared for them, nurtured them, kept them well-fed and alive.

They thrived on the tidbits of your loving: your little kisses, and your sweet little notes, your light fingertips, and how rough you are after a drop of wine.

Say again you love me, out loud. I want to hear the little crack in your voice. The way it cracks when you stomp but forget to crush, when you slash a thousand superficial cuts, when you shoot to kill but somehow no one dies, when you turn into a ferocious animal with my throat in your fangs, and no emotion in your cold shark eyes.

Love was a red tongue that flicked out and stayed between your teeth, so I knew you could never bite.

I owe you honey, for wasting that moment, when instinct against instinct was deadlocked in the heat.
Teeth trying to kick, tongues wanting tear some meat, hands wanting to sing, heads wanting to fly, but somehow couldn’t get it right.

Why couldn’t I have raped you? Why didn’t you rape me? Why? For that, sorry.

Touch me where it hurts, my soft angel. I know that is what you sometimes like. Do it for all the times I was aloof, showed no feeling and did not try. Look! The stars are dancing! What an orchestra of light.

So don’t hold back, whatever, however, for all the times I could have, at least, cried. Make it me. Make it now. Make it how you want, what you say, all the way. For all the times I acted so strong, fighting you, and never once pretended to die.

In a moment when I open the box to let the bad things go, it is your pity I would like. I will miss the bastards. They hurt me but they kept me company in my lonliness. And now, I have nothing left to remember you by.

Whatever you do, whichever you like, however many times, I let you. It’s okay. Do your worst. It’s fine. Even better, do your best. Don’t just stab or. gouge or twist the knife. Sing a song as you make the hole of my wound bigger than the sky. This is no time to be shy.

Whatever is your pleasure to make eternal my everything tonight.

Oh, look! Here come the stars to make the world all right.





Trust involves keeping your eyes open whilst smoke gets blown in it. I tried it once and got blinded for a lifetime, a butterfly staggering like a cross-eyed bee. A lifetime that may seem short to you, but it was infinity gang-raping eternity to me.

So now there’s this new gringo magic antidote involving one part love, one part fairness, and eleventy-seven portions of positivity, what would you do? Just stir and drink and grin and try not to look like the latest in extreme, unreasonable stupidity?

Better yet, I got one that tests our trust with the extra thrill of naked outdoor activity, yeah?

We’re hunters in the jungle of our impenetrable psychological disease history, right? And it makes sense that if I’m the arrow then you’re the bow, capisce? Or vice-versa. Anyway, someone pulls and someone shoots, ok?

Throw our clothes into some bush, and we run until we’ll never know the way back. In the silence we haven’t moved, a sudden shaking of the bushes – that’s it! We shoot and bag a prize-winning, big-sized trust or three. They struggle like hell in the net but cannot break free.

Two males, one female. No. Two females, one male. Make that six of each. A classic victory. Tonight the whole village gets to feast!

The perfect cohesion of two insanities in a single delusion, conjoined as the jungle rain starts pelting painfully, with no way back to our clothes, or our past, and no such village to begin with.

We just hold on, naked,  to whatever the fuck we wish to believe, thinking: “Man, I trust, I trust. But this old tropical rainstorm tonight sure is heavy.”

con ong (Bee)



Các thông điệp mà tôi nhận được là rõ ràng như một tiếng chuông:
“Hãy như một đứa trẻ hạnh phúc, hay cái chết sâu trong địa ngục”.

Những lời này, tôi cảm thấy, là một chút quá mạnh.
Nhưng không có thời gian để thảo luận về “đúng” và “sai”.

Nếu bạn muốn hát, sau đó hát nó to và dài.
Nếu không, sau đó để lại, không giữ lên bài hát.
Tôi không có lựa chọn, bởi vì bất kỳ kẻ ngốc nên biết,
Địa ngục không phải là một nơi rất đẹp để đi.

Với một trái tim nhúng trong mật ong của cuộc đời phía trước,
Tôi để cho một đất ong và cất cánh, và đất một lần nữa, trên đầu tôi.

* * *
The message I received was clear as a bell:
“Be happy as a child, or death deep in hell”.
These words, I feel, are a bit too strong.
But there is no time to discuss the “right” and “wrong”.
If you want to sing, then sing it loud and long.
If not, then leave, do not hold up the song.
I had no choice, because any fool should know,
Hell is not a very nice place to go.
With a heart dipped in the honey of life ahead,
I let a bee land and take off, and land again, on my head.




Your heart is closed, your soul has died.

I looked and looked, and found nothing inside.

You had the funeral all alone,

invited no one, and hung up the phone.

You loved ones warm your cold stiff hand,

in holidays on beaches without any sand.

You think their warmth shows you are not dead.

But you’re cooling them down, and killing them instead.

You are just a hole, a corpse-filled rubbish bin.

Friends, lovers and random people simply fall in.

Nothing is your comfort. Everything is your pain.

When my heart tries to beat, you freeze it again.

You look so alive, although you are dead.

Why not look dead, and be alive instead?

guy in the robe



And so, when the guy in the long robe put down his pen, and looked up, as if noticing for the first time I had died, and wriggled through some tricky uncomfortable tunnels, and ended up standing in front of his little bar counter, he cleared his throat, looked down to check, ascertain, and said my name aloud.

“Uh, now would you say, and might I ask that you say it only once that, in your life you have just lived, you have… been good?”

If he was all English blue-blood aristo-crapshit lord, then I, surely, I must be his loyal humble servant.

I think- You think?
I believe- You believe?
I know- Finally! An answer. What, pray, do you know?

And may he remind me to answer only once if I had been good during my lifetime in which I have lived?

Yes, I have!

Then his accusing silence was filled with even more silence, which said things like, oh, you have, are you absolutely sure, and may I take that as a yes?


Until? He all but exploded.

Until now.

Man, I was that close to getting my ass into Heaven.

Up the side of this mountain



Up the side of this mountain, we all hang on.

The crippled propping up the disabled lending a hand to the dying giving emotional support to the sick and sad.

Some priest comes along to rally up the spirits, and those who heard him say something don’t remembwr what he said so well.

Hanging off the side of this mountain, we all held hands. An orchestra of broken instruments composing this song in which those who had voices sang, those who could hear listened, and those who had hands clapped.

Just as the orange sun rose up the side of this mountan in one firey happening.

For lack of a better word, “Yeah!”

From all my incarnations


Trade you a lifetime for your moment. I choose the moment, you pick the life. I got plenty.

Like the time I was the left hand man of a right handed Roman Emperor, and half the world was mine to play thumbs up, or down, depending.

Or when I found the answer to eternal youth and endless happiness, or was it endless youth and eternal happiness? But they were all prostrated at my feet, worshipping in concentric circles, as far as an eagle’s eye can see.

Maybe you’d like a taste of stardom, of glory and envy and lots and lots grand entrances, dressed to kill? And having killed, nay, slaughtered, and having slaughtered, nay, massacred, sat back to quaff a toast offered by the vanquished – your sip turning into a swallow, swallow into a gulp, gulp into a six-pack, then a six-pack into a bottle, bottle into cask, a cask into a raging river of whatever poison your poison happens to be.

How about it? Bejewelled stones and mystical scents from all my incarnations. How about it, really? Every plot and every twist, every great climactic song and dance and every fantastic finale, spread out glittering on the carpets of a nighttime bazaar made in heaven, for your personal choosing.

How about it, really, truly? Your body how you like it, your soul how you shape it, your anything anyhow anytime you say. “Oy.”

Tell you what. Last price. Take it all. You just have to give a little moment back to me.