Tegunk

Kerja intelektual menggoreng pisang: seperti memesan iced chocolate dalam tetekmu. Aku tidak pernah bisa merasakan, sendal menggantung dari tali rafia di pohon jati tempat ojex mangkal. Tidak bisa teler kemudian menulis puisi. Maupun bertemu brondong kemudian coli. Begitu banyak sop aneka juice campur. Menenun benang wol di boncengan paman. Bagaimana mentransfer tubuh ke dalam tulisan? Biar pun pake tumblr app tanpa konekshun? Segera dibuka Hotel Syariah Al-Marwah Warrakhmah Wassalam. He wouldn’t have put this in since darrr! Suku dinas kebakaran minum kopi dulu di tatakan emas. All cute and menggetarkan. FIRE GHOST: Love Jakarta.

scrabbling

i need an extra n to spell out yr name on wordfeud

i know u like me too by yr nervousness as we walk along the pavement for what seemed like centuries

and a nanosecond

i can feel the quiver in yr voice

as u regale the coolish night air with stories of repressed urges (not yours)

i want desperately to embrace you

but both of us rely on the reliability of love

to extinguish itself when it has run its course

do not swap tiles, u’ll lose yr turn

pyar

It was something I carried everywhere

It is something I carry everywhere

A kind of displacement from the world

A manufactured loneliness despite of you

A flick of anger would precipitate it

A manicured sense of injustice

Like a golf course blown by a storm

I don’t know what to do with it

Or what good can come out of it

If any

I can’t deal with people blaming me

For something I did do

I want to go to her house

And drink her cunt dry

want

Atau aku ingin jadi pacarnya, atau pembantunya, bagian dari hidupnya sehari-hari. Mungkin tukang ojek langganan yang bisa menanyakannya pertanyaan-pertanyaan yang tidak akan dia jawab juga. Atau dia jawab tapi tidak kedengaran karena udara di saat kita bergerak cepat bisa jadi begitu bising. Aku ingin menontonnya mengeringkan badannya yang kecil telanjang di depan cermin kamar mandi. Mungkin kemudian memeluknya dari belakang. Bilang, you’re just like my wife. I feel like whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. Tell me to become you.

marah

took shower at an abandoned shopfront. stashed my bike for the winter (honda tiger). water ran grey. dust on walls and everything. inside shower head. even. a security guard came, stared at my naked body. i stared back. walked out of the shower into late afternoon at an office. everyone was still there. cornered a colleague. collared him, i said, how long has he worked here huh. nine years, he said. two years longer than me. i’m gonna make him pay, i said.  i looked out of the window. outside the world looked like what it looked like in wall-e.

king sheriff

I’ve been tryin to write poetry and failin. Someone tweeted many moons ago, about being a parent: join the ranks of the vague, disoriented and always tired. I feel like that whenever I try to put digital pen on digital paper. Everything feels like it is made of glass. I had lost a project that I’ve been working on slowly for three years maybe more. I was going so slow the person I was working for decided to do the project himself. I can understand. I was too slow. Of mind, of resolve. But it made me think, I have always felt the need to attach myself to success. Someone else’s. Thinking that basking in someone else’s success is success itself. I have very low self-esteem. I have been thinking since—since I lost that project—that I need to do things I actually want to do. That nobody else but me wants me to do. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. You don’t find yourself in other people. I don’t know if I’ve got the will, the resolve, the power to try to find myself again after all these years. I’ve got a kid and a house to fix (needs a new library and the front door is creaking). I just wanna go home and sleep. I read Afrizal Malna before I go to bed. I dream of his exploding kneecaps. Which makes me think, why do writers like affairs (d’amour)? I know that A once cracked on to R, asking her to be his girlfriend since it’s been a long time since he wrote a novel and he has to have a girlfriend before he can start a new novel. But I wanna understand, not castigate. I want to be me, not replicate. Fuck these womanizing writers, I just wanna go home and jerk off to Eric and Sookehhh.

eto na ang huling el bimbo

this is the last boogie

this is the last cha cha

this is the last burial of childhood memories

make compost out of burning leaves

the symbolism of a death chorus

euripides apos mekhanos

this is the last boogie

this is the last cha cha

this is the last burial of childhoodgood memories

veste de perang kemerdekaan in guyanan ticking linen

moving in slowed motion

your white gown hot on my palm

this is the last boogie

this is the last cha cha

this is the last burial of childgoodhood memories

i heard the news today oh boy

you had slit your wrist in the sink in Ermita

how do you expect me to go on dreaming of you?

this is the last boogie

this is the last cha cha

eto na ang huling burial of the dead