the peaceable reed
the peaceable reed
(of their ilk),
like the bountiful
rice variety
so nice to look at
—those slender
stalks
like the idylls
of European creativity
in this case,
any person that talks
all conversations
that have that potential
for explosive eruption
the friction is everywhere,
a gruelling task
normal life's allusion
now, may i ask
how she
managed to endure
such horridity?
(answering the plea—)
boy, it's not love..
but
just affinity!
calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)
it's as if they know—
how to lift their wings
to fly
only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky
it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high
yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?
tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
somehow
we still have
fallen apart, as you joked
again..and..again
—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)
that's how we
pass the blame to reality
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word
for perfect love
unconsciously—
misunderstanding
mere affinity—
untitled (former working title: true music)
as if one have
all the value judgements
in this—
tribulation period,
if only wind
instruments were
invented to share
a message, —
would souls
truly speak
in the present moment?
time & its insignificance
like metanoia
—a paradigm shift—
suddenly, anxiety
changing one's drift
from kabbalah
to phonetics
linguistics, semantics
hermeneutics of the Torah
from ancient
to the renaissance
what more can
one presage?
neither—
if a believer
prays to a false God
[of an othered religion]
permitted but
wronged sainthood
senile syllogisms & oblivion
candy tears
in the dead of the night
she whispers
again while
singing
i knew she was
the music
that she listens
to
dreaming—
it is the unfoldment
that scares
us mortals
because of
our undistinguished
petals
longing—
we long for
the perfect honeyed
world
to
unfold—
—like a moonless twilight
the dead of winter
make things
not right
not all countries
dusted by snow
to their heads alight
it does speak
through our fallacies
and biases alike
our dreariness,
longstanding,
dreaminess,
like a moonless twilight
An Active Volcano
& Homesteads
He wants to visit
a Mitsukoshi somewhere
but, instead, they
visited Harajuku in Japan
It's like a Resident Evil
film sequel during
that silver afternoon
just because every big
city needs one
But the tremendous
beauty of a volcano
and a mountain simply
cannot be denied
Its mysteries even
symbolized the island
country, her homeland
Without that sad part of
the past (Alas, now it's over!)
they could not
have walked past each other
It seems everything
happens for a reason
I say everytime this
was the case,
it happens each season
And so we question time,
biology and our biography,
and blame the universe for our
subjective and objective reality
—to one's own company
(original working title: the music you play)
are these leaves pure green tea,
to steep in a cup
designed so quaintly?
i know a type of
music, but not all things
jazzy
because there
could be drill rap music
which they—call—
classy
it's not a pretty picture
anymore for a degenerate
generation,
i think transnationalism
somehow creates a
nation
i just hope we don't fall
victim to this wake of
insanity—
to be foisted, with gradual
influence—to one's own
company—
—silhouettes for their perch
as if songbirds have
nowhere to stay for the
winter
the malcontents, too,
in the dizzying streets
stagger
if a forlorn hope is all
there is in my palm,
I figured birds can die,
yet while still alive and warm
the heat in the skin
would subside
but the pain is something
we never could hide
and if birdhouses are
for them—with feathers
fighters, rebels, our own
brothers can't be
perchers
because I live only—
to see them left in the lurch
and all those tree branches
—silhouettes for their perch