My Facebook liked your Facebook too.


My Facebook liked your Facebook, tanning on the beach.

Inside, I felt you drowning, but you were out of reach.

By the time I read reviews, and grabbed the life-saver app, and installed,

registered, signed-up, entered all my preferences, and got my password set,

no matter how I kept on liking you,

you were so, so dead.

One of those online disappointments, that made me feel so blue.

I feel a whole lot better now,

to know you like me too.

My Facebook met your Facebook

My Facebook met your Facebook quietly in the night.
First, they had coffee, and then, 
a bottle of wine.

It was after midnight, 
and both were feeling fine.
When it came to 3am, they had forgotten every warning.

They kissed and touched and grabbed and tweaked,
and got married in the morning.

The priest who read the wedding vows, 
was praying true and deep,
for Facebooks gone on honeymoon, 
while we were sound asleep.

Another brownout hits the fan.


Some day when you are no longer around,

and life is harder,

when days get hot, and nights a little colder,

I want to be in another place too.

Another place where it is not as dim,

and the lights do not lose so much power.
You may not wish to tell anyone where you went,

and I may not have the will left to ask either.
The road can be long and crooked,

when the ones you seek might not wish to be found.

It may be time to stop, just stop,

and no longer be around.

I Wish My Spiritual Guru


Some days I still feel like living when the pulse in my wrist is strong,
reliving our buried days in heaven,

and the nights, y’know, hot, long.

You may have already decided, before I turned to fall asleep,
how you needed to cut: how sharp, how jagged, how deep.

Hence, my suicide was self-planned for the crack of dawn,
when I softly said goodbye: sentimental, apologetic, bittersweet –
pretending not to catch the razor sharp aclarity of your one open eye,
as you pretended to be asleep.

There, I left my only chance to ever claim forgiveness,
because your heart left my heart, because my heart had left you then.

My spiritual guru already warned me long ago
that bad things like this could happen —
the who and what and how and why.

How come I didn’t ask him when?



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




有歌放聲唱。 愛似沙, 情似浪。


Endings from which none may escape…

Hangmans Noose

Hangmans Noose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

when the way gets twisted
and scrunched into
a narrower and
narrower and
path so
gotta tear
your way out
not even thinking
of who might be on
the driveway when you- two secs, the jury will be arriving unanimously
at the verdict that your sick, sorry ass is so guilty
you will hang high - so help me - for even tryin'
to end it all - kickin', screamin', beggin', cryin


A NaPoWriMo 2013 Production
never planned to cancel out the evil of the past,
nor worried much about dead sailors on shore-leave for the night,
from the seas of eternal misery.
Of loyal friends and lovers I have run from,
leaving them to die, bitterly poisoned and withered-up inside –
some sad-faced old-child kinda vaguely back in Year 4, earlier even —
kindergarten ruined, childhood crippled, youth destroyed, followed by an adulthood only worse,
back to settle a little score with the messer-upper of his life.
Why me?
Everyone was in on it,
if you trace the cause back to its root of roots.
I just wanna be some guy's midlife crisis

I just wanna be some guy’s midlife crisis (Photo credit: id-iom)

Afraid I have no plan for folks who come home one night to scrape-up all that gore.
no choice, no means, no guts, not a shred of malice,
nor power to shoot out dark, lethal thoughts,
nor- conversely – send out rays of hope and redemption
through cleverly performed remorse.
In other words: No self-defense at all.
I’m ready now, finally, to erupt into my universal state of letting go.
Everything melts away when your meditation attains this magnitude of urgency
and, goodness gracious, can’t – absolutely just can’t- no matter what –
hold it back no more.
Just a note in the suggestion box:
They might look at upgrading the public restrooms
in the Afterlife.
Nuthin’ fancy.
Make ’em, maybe, a little wider next time around?
Maybe add, like, a few more
hundred thousand stalls?

Empathy with a non-bankable, “C-list” affliction, no budget nor promotion, hence misunderstood.

A NaPoWriMo 2013 Production


Got me a real doozy. A classic, set-piece fairy tale:

 “Drunk White Rabbit Crashes Black Grizzly Meth-Party Deep in Woods, cussing “N” word.”

 I was only blinking – hey! couple hours, maybe. No more – but I woke up, dudn’t I?

A split second from coiling up for the aggro spring-pounce back into the ring, snorting, shadow-punching…

in but a split second, but one cotton pickin’– Never mind…

…to a future that never happened  quick enough to crowd outwhat had come to crowd it out.


So… kinda’ casually aware of an eternal now.

Tuned, to the rising-falling breath of life and death, plus assorted intermediate heavings of the mother earth.

Sensitized – nay, heightened – passively observing the sunlight as she shifted,

slightly lifting her weight off my thighs.

Stole my blanket – you get my drift? – in a yawny, stretchy mood.

 And in one maxed-out, richly layered, poignant line-drive, photo-finished, round 15, 3-2 split-decision judgement call, I…
 Aah shit, I would’da done the same if I came back a million reincarnations more. 
So what I didn’t want the day to go just yet izat wrong? …And that wuz when it pounced.
Ilustration by Féliciena de Myrbacha (1853 - ?...
Ilustration by Féliciena de Myrbacha (1853 – ?) to Jules Verne fairy-tale (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
 Contrary to public opinion, the prey seldom feels the fear because there’s not enough time to feel, since they get taken down before they know- wha-? f-?
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Originally spelt “High? Cool.”

hey, djew know? the soul,
like a gecko’s tail, regrows
yet, the body? hell no
Turning darker now, and still I couldn’t move,
lifeless on a  bean bag, face-to-face with the tv, one hand still on the remote.
I thought I must look ridiculous to my patron diety, Lord Kumbhakarna,
and prayed for him to come to my rescue, just this once.
He is big, real big – eats Humvees for a snack.
He can protect me, nurture and train me to do good.
Though it’s a marvel how he manages to fit everything in – everything! – on a mere six months of hibernation, and six short months of food.
Kazap! …And it was done.
“Doc, I think we got something! A pulse. A palpitable pulse!”
Thank you, Lord, for saving my soul and butt.
You’re quick, I’ll say, for a big fat dude.
Zat mean I gotta do work on that there body now…?
Moving along….
Dream it then, and draw strength on credit from tomorrow…
when the sun must come back bravely on the dot,
and in every direction these darknessess disperse – yeah? – and skitter-scatter off.
 Courage required only for tonight, Capt’n.
Because I’m still pinned, immobile, to a tactically defenseless, suicide-friendly,
designed-for-sacrificial-altar spot…
 Watch my ass, bro. Don’t let up.
The black and white re-runs are circling like a pack of wolves.
Couch potato. Bed kumbhakarna.

Couch potato. Bed kumbhakarna. (Photo credit: Shalapolia)

The moon, my shadow and the monsters under the bed…

A NaPoWriMo 2013 Production
WLA vanda The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove

WLA vanda The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

…was that poet guy, wasn’t he, who leapt off a boat into the water one night grabbing at the reflection of the moon?

Sappy end to a legend, I thought. Don’t you think?

After all, he was real, supposedly, and talented. Made government official and climbed high too. Ministry of Health or something. The same one who whipped up the eternal line:

“Drew a blade and slashed the water; even more the water flowed.”

Meaning to say he maybe wasn’t such a hot-shot civil servant after all;

or maybe the politics was rather so fluid in those days it just kept coming and coming and coming, and wouldn’t stop.

Others have been designated Poet laureate, and might have received a stipend. But he was so close to deification, they named him ‘immortal’, just like the lines he wrote. And everyone knows immortals don’t eat mortal food or, crucially, drink mortal booze. His hatred of politics was as clear-cut as a blade across a throat.

On one hand, his fame was mainly for the street-cred that pulled him lengths ahead, letting no competition come close: the knack of a delicate, wafting scent, transforming into a raptured expression, at the lilting aroma, discernible on the opening of the day’s first jar of booze.

On the other, he was posthumousy conferred distinguished alumni of the exclusive Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grovet. Pure, unadulterated and distanced from the ugliness of political intrigue and betrayal – playing wine, drinking chess, chillin’ out in the cold, clean heights of Coventry;

Conversely, he was the old mastermind behind the older tapestry, victor of shadowy battles which others fought.

Despite getting it in the ass just like everybody else, he wrote and wrote, unfazed even by some sappy output, such as: “…the tear from the eye of the girl whose heart didn’t know who it hated most.”

No matter how much bulldust you try and drench yourself under, something in your soul just knows.


A NaPoWriMo 2013 Production


Much, much too late. It’s so, so over.

I really truly completely hate you now.

I never doubted it before, but let the world erode my anger

whenever the negativity and cynicism arose.

I let the soft-pedal, feelgood, sweet-talk, inspirational whatever do its thing,

and Gaia me into the few stock corrals sorting out that confusion of human emotional truth into a few neat bundles of clear-cut options guaranteed never to be seen as wrong:

generousity, tolerance, forbearance, environment, minority rights, animal freedom, non-violence, sustainability, niceness to children, universal love, sisterhood of woman, brotherhood of man… one big orgy together in a van.

Well, my people have got each and every one of these, and we’re holding them hostage until you are ready to negotiate. And we will consider this message received and read and clearly understood.

So, no point activating the Call Number Blocker on your phone.