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.


one of us



One of us is crazy.
Usually, that”s me.

Yeah, I’m the one who shifts the rift valley of the earthquake, so the landslide wouldn’t hit the tree, where we may happen to be having a nice picnic under.

Yeah, I admit I like it. I like saying and doing anything to make it wonderful. And you get to surrender without feeling you have disobeyed.

I confess to waiting for the right moment to do what I need to do, whatever it was that I needed to do to make you do it, the moment you were just about to shake your head, pushing me away, saying no, no, no!

Yes, yes, yes. It is for the best. We’ve done extensive studies to prove that this will hurt me more than it hurts you. Pinned down and faced with no other option, the only thing you hear is the whole world telling you, yes, this is the only way you can go. And you are not guilty. Let’s go!

Never mind that one of us is crazy, stark, raving mad, mentally unable to comprehend the rules that govern this universe, emotionally so scrambled and spiritually so decomposed.

Usually, I accept this madman’s role. Made mad because, so lucidly, I know, that in the moment of my most craziest of craziness, nothing is to say you were not completely insane too.

G9 daddy


good night daddy, the stakes are high. you don’t wanna be the one to heave and sigh. you don’t have to hold nobody’s hand, in this kind of cold hearted warm hearted land cold hearted land

daddy daddy run, they’re coming for a hug. they think you were a bear who became a rug. they’ll roll on your back and they’ll pull your hair, they’ll pick on your whisker and give it a tug

catch the keys, daddy, take my car. go north-east till you hit a bar. if you miss it, just keep on going. if you hit it just keep on hitting till someone, or something, says its time to stop or you‘re gonna really get it now.

if you‘re getting it already, really, why, just keep on doin‘ that too

trust me daddy, just do exactly what I tell you to do. give or take a broken bottle, or shoulder bone, or nose job or two. just trust. trust. give all you got.

you won‘t remember her name in the morning























before the world


It happens when you’re looking fer no one. To do nuthin. Nowhere at no time. Never mind. Ninety miles near you. Straight as a black crow flies.

Before you know it you’re on your way to a meeting. Words like fate and destiny pop onto your windscreen like bugs and birds as you kill and drive.

When you get there, what do you say? I didn’t plan this, but what the heck, I came to play, now open up and don’t struggle too little and not too much?

We’ll skip the trivia like how many insects you hadda off, and how many motorcycles you hadda scare the living ball-bearings out of as you passed.

One second, before we start to fuck, lets thank the universe for this mysterious evening of incredibly good or incredibly lousy luck.

Let’s look back at every plan we made and failed without exception, no matter great or small. When we fell short whilst thinking we were walking tall. When we kept on breathing after we thought we were already buried alive. When we, ah shit, died when we should have lived, and laughed when we should have cried.

Ah ah. No need to be shy. I‘m just opening the curtains a little to let the stars come in. See? There are too many tonight, crowding up the sky.

For all the mistakes about to be made, by people looking for something (any shape, any colour, any style, any price, any type of) kind, let’s make some love, however gentle or hard. With the starlight swirling in, let’s not be selfish for a start. Let’s forget about satisfying you and me for now.

This one is for the world, before the world goes out of it‘s mind.


The Moon, my shadow and monsters under the bed.

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 Home 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, a raptured expression, a lilting aroma, on opening the day’s first jar of booze.

On the other, he was posthumousy conferred distinguished alumni of the exclusive Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. 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 in 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.

Moonlight on a sea ghost



Yeah yeah, I know. You tell me already. Night time I see lady, long long hair, sexy sexy, call name you, don’t go. Maybe she not so much lady. Maybe not so much anybody anymore.

But then you know me. How I like the moonlight on the sea. You know I listen you always. I  listen 99 times out of 100 times. Sometimes 9,999 times out of 10,000. Sometime, my Sweet Little Papaya, I even listen more.

So, lady with long red fingernails say “Come, hamsome, come,” in sign-language same-same all long-hair scary ladies use. So I go, man, go, same-same like all hamsome men with no brain do. She say her name Phi. For Phi Talay. I say my name Raoul.

Yeah yeah, I know, you say already, I know. She say “Phi” means Sea. Or “Talay” means Sea. I can’t remember now. But I know for sure the other word means Ghost. I fight so hard until the sun come up, stop for rest, and she pulled open the two halves of my head. “Where your brain? Why you no have brain? Then what I eat?” Her long red tongue, like snake, licked around inside my skull.

Yeah yeah, you said already, dear. I always always listen, but sometimes I no hear. “Haha. Maybe I got no brain, you Sea Ghost, or Ghost Sea, but still I smart, I know. The Sea no die. It never dies. So how can Sea become Ghost?”

One time in this universe, the brain defeats the heart. But the pain, I think about same-same. No matter how the Phi Talay try to eat whichever part.

Yeah, I know you told me so, but then, sometines it’s nice to catch some seaweed, put in the blender set to ‘high,’ pour onto the broken canvas of your life, and turn her into abstract art.

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?

Now you come to eat me

At last it comes to this. My manhood laid out on the kitchen table. You hunch a little closer, corpses on your breath. You spread a little wider, scooping up my death. I wonder why I love you? You wonder if I won’t? But you smile. It doesn’t matter if I really do or don’t. Time I started mounting you. Or is it you on me? I get confused. But let me just say “Thank You” before I get distracted by the passion of your poison, restrained by the shackles of your nest.
Let’s go mama, I was born to do this. I wanna be your best. Even if you didn’t pin me down spread-eagled. Even if you couldn‘t numb me with your breath. I know you get so hungry, there is no way you can wait. Alhough the wine was incomparable, and the music set the mood. Your charming dancer, and romancer, must turn into your food. I understand your hunger. To prove my support I took an extra shower, to make sure I taste good.
But baby baby, honey, sweetheart, darling, dear. Yes, keep on doing what you’re doing, it’s nice, it’s nice, it’s nice. Ow. It really hurts now that you start to bite. No no, go ahead I won’t fight. Indeed, haha, how the hell can I? But, quickly, there is one little thing, I’d really like to know. It is the answer every man must ask of every woman, yet she will never ever tell her man the truth. But it is the thing, the very thing, the only thing that matters. (I see you enjoy a bit of ketchup with my foot.)
Very quickly, darling, baby, honeybun, won’t you say it once? Honestly, truthfully, don’t worry about my feelings being hurt. This is it, as it were, I’ve come down to the crunch. Tell me puh-leeze: Which way do I excite you more – as your nookie, or as lunch?


R.I.P. Robert Arumugam. Best Goalie in P.J.



When suddenly he drops into the hole that opens up below, and no hands grab for him, he hangs on the edge by the fingers.

And if when his shin hits hard on some hard profusion hard, mama, one hand lets go without thinking to massage the incredible pain, more than once already.

When his other fingers give in, one by one, and surrender, he finds he is already choosing:

Rub this ache? Or hang on to that aching?

So comes the next hole opening day, when both choices just don’t much seem too terribly amusing. Let go the edge, forget the shin. But no hands come to grab and pull at him. Neither up nor down – either will do, but – none. Can’t go yet, party’s not over, it seems.

Pretty much, too much, of some kind of debris, bobbing seductively on the cosmic surface, keeps him floating. Poetically, you might say, an overmuch of deepshit destiny, darn it, is messing up his gravity.