Soul Junction (An Idiomatic Experiment)

It is one second
it is eternity
that perfect moment
twixt you and me

touching minds
words connecting
hesitant hands
fingertips intersecting

exchanging glances
childhood stories
intermittent pauses
heart beats skipping.

Annals of The Keeper (The Misplaced Volume)

It is a beautiful vista. One that stretches far and wide. Across what remains of existence. The boundary fields that separates what is still left of what earth was and the wasteland that is the outside. The empty acres that lie beyond the grey hued yonder.

It is a greenish blue sea of verdant grasses from which dreams and tales comes and beckons. It is a sight that calls for many but only answers to some.

I am one of those chosen, one of those born into service. I am a Keeper. One who watches and waits. Whose cluttered mind and weighty hand lie ever so slightly upon the thermonuclear trigger.

You see, the frontier is not a safe place. It hides dangers and signs. Way beyond norms and dictates. Where the rules and reality may not matter as much as belief and faith.

It is a quirky paradox of fate and the greatest joke ever played that ones who understood less about life are those destined to be the keepers and guardians of what life is.

It is a difficult existence, that I must admit. But to be the bulwarks that we are requires great sacrifices. It is just another one of many,an echo of how the needs of the many outweighs that of the one an only.

But I am just a man. The boundary knows that and it tries hard to work its way into my defenses. But this is where sometimes I understand the logic and knowledge that goes behind the appointment of Keepers.

We are watchers and observers. Those who know everything but does nothing. And in this way the elders seeks to defuse the boundary. You cannot tempt those who are afraid of that which is their purpose and calling.

For the gift of the boundary is one of dreams and possibilities. Its gift is life itself. Keepers as a rule, myself included. Are afraid of life. Such that we hide from it and may even destroy ourselves and everything and everyone around us, at the very hint of life approaching.

But the one assigned to me from the other side seems not to have it in her to give up. The guerrilla that tries to find a breach in the wall that falls under my watch and charge. The one that is trying to bring the taint of life into the sanctity of the last fortress on earth.

She sang to me again last night, the angel with the long green tresses. Who beckons from beyond the distance just outside of range for my sensor array to deliberate. She sings of many things all beyond the range of my AI Matrices to translate.

"Hope" is her name. A veteran of many battles. A slayer of many keepers. But I swear to remain ever steadfast. I shall soon drench my sector under a hail of nuclear warheads than betray my duty and calling.

I am a KEEPER and I shall remain steadfast. As long as I remain, the boundary shall remain sealed. I would rather die than be alive and tainted with 'life'.

Gibberish Vol. 1

It is electrifying, scary and confusing all at once. Like getting hit with a particularly difficult exam question, being splashed with cold water and seeing Freddy Kruger appear from your bathroom mirror in the same moment.

Opportunities, possibilities and unlooked for paths begging to be traveled. Waiting to be discovered and explored. Uncertainties waiting to be quantified and permutations asking to be calculated.

The minimap is getting too crowded. I need to calm down and chart my course carefully. Don't get too excited. It is all just symbols anyway. Most of them nothing but derelicts. Life is often full of that emptiness anyway.

The compass heading is not the true north. Sometimes it is a few degrees off. Time to recharge and recalibrate the GPS. Maybe update the maps too.

Its all in the stars. Need to find Deneb and Sirius.

It Irks Me

It irks me
when your gentle chiming
vocabulary of words
and speech's timing

seeks often to perjure
injuriously deconstructing
what to me is noblest
in a human being

it is not trivial
not even unbecoming
but the highest expression
of two souls meeting

it is not the rut
that you are accusing
nor is it an excuse
for casual copulating

it is sweet nectar
two lives touching
shared moments
two halves linking

it is also pain
tender hearts hurting
both hope and loss
a lifelong learning

it is a journey
quite worth experiencing
when you find the one
that complicates everything.

of Pockets And Sunshine

Among cloud bursts
clear blue skies

brimming currents
fresh cool sighs

tender pockets
soft warm shy

angel's gift
pockets full of sun.

The Tell Tale Malaysian

You might laugh
at what I speak
or look at
what I write

I know well
that in you lies
that common streak
tell tale signs

you always ask
for cili sos
or extra chillies
even at a five star
Italian place

your stomach grumbles
your palate cries
for a plate
of hot steaming
Maggi goreng

your throat thirst
for Milo Ais
Ais Kacang,
and Teh Tarik

your eyes water
missing the haze
your ears yearns
to hear
the "lahs"

you rush around
to foreign clocks
sorely missing
laid back
Malaysian timing

they say O God!
New York traffic
haiya its nothing
like the jams
of Tun Razak Street

No Notes

No notes
No nothing
to balm the worst
your passing

No tears
no mourning
dry eyes
heart numbing

cold hands
pit sinking
boy stands
head spinning

empty vacuum
shrink wrapping
raw emotions
words congealing

body lies
still unmoving
silent reminder
a father's passing

final kiss
brows freezing
unanswered grief
lips unmoving

hands beat
constant tattooing
uneasy shoulders
fragile scaffolding

sudden weight
unready unwilling
bearing duties
body coffin

final moments
grave yawning
deep dark
scary daunting

chasm empty
life's ending
burying comfort
certainty's entombing

coffin closed
slow descending
a boy's end
a man's becoming.

The Diversion; A Classic PU Adventure!

"We need more guns!" thunders Captain George's hoary voice as his hands move about in their usual, wild manner punctuating his point. His unlit pipe resting precariously in his gesticulating right hand. In his left, a faded red soft velvet apothecary's cap threatens to fly off in all directions. Both remnants from his Shakepearan Theatre days.

"Not to mention ammo!" he adds, his tone and gestures settling down, taking a more sombre hue as if to reflect his resignation with their present conundrum, he silently looks at each member of the crew in the eye, one by one.

"Hmmmm...." Hazlan the security Chief scratches the stubble that marks his tree day old growth of beard and looks at First Mate Mooza. "I thought I ordered more ammo and guns in our last supply stop at Port Seksans?"

First mate Mooza wiggled her generous nose and sighed. "Look! I forwarded those requests to the quartermaster, its not my fault that she decided that a consignment of sea monkeys is more important than guns and ammo."

All eyes turns to scrutinize Quartermaster Kathleen as she begins to uncomfortably shuffle her feet upon the floorboards of the wardroom and wiggle her bottom in the suddenly hot seat that she is in.

Ship's Physician, Doc Reza folds his massive arms across his barrel chest and fixed a fierce stare upon Kathleen's lowered forehead. "Hmmpppppp....seamonkey?" he enquires.

"Yes! Sea monkeys!" Chimed in Sheena their normally soft spoken and usually imperturbable Chief Engineer. Throwing her hands in the air and shaking her head emphatically.

"What now?" asks Evanna, their sexy and voluptous Ship's Navigator as she turns he body slightly to one side and throws both the question and her head to another.

Thee was silence as each member of the crew withdraws into their personal selves trying to find a way out of their present conundrum.

"What are your instructions...Captain..."
the calm and cool monotone of Pey Pey, the Ship's Computer, breaking the silence of the moment.

From the com screen, the tired face of Admiral Leon of Chronicle Command looks on with despair.

In the bowels of Planet Poetica, Princess Catalina winces as he hands begin to chafe from the shacles that the pirates have placed upon her hands. As she wonders when will Captain George and crew will come to rescue her.

What I Began...

What began
but should not
finds the end
beckon surely

mirrors reflect
choice regrets

tell tale spatters
once reminders
crushed spirits
broken bodies

gouged flesh
dead dry heavy
hollow bones
bleached empty

How Does One Drive To Rizal's

The old Honda lies stranded and idle by the side of the Kota Kemuning road, its driver and passengers locked in titanic battles, shared and personal, diverse and singular, mundane and spectacular...

“Left, left, it’s the second left… after the first right, after the empty field on your left….” Rizal’s disembodied voice continues its tirade of instructions over the mobile phone, tightly clasped to Hamdan’s right ear, by his scrunched right shoulder. Hamdan’s restless hands fidget impatiently on the steering wheel of his old Honda. Clasping and unclasping over the wrapped and circular plastic hollow tubing, which by degree of inclination would tell the two front wheels of his car which way to turn and how far.

The tips of his oft clumsy fingers nervously caress the familiar worn sections of the plastic layers which are already growing thinner, peeling off in some places. Picture perfect depictions of perfectly roasted lamb begin to dance before his mind’s eye, causing his mouth to water and stomach acids to percolate and flutter.

Turning fully towards Hamdan, as much as is possible when one is sitting and strapped by seatbelt unto the front passenger seat of a car, Lawrence leans forward and intently watches the long-distance conversation that is playing out between Rizal and Hamdan. His ears tune in to carefully absorb each and every syllable, soaking every bit and iota of information that he can. His mind works furiously trying to construct a solution to their present conundrum:

How does one drive to Rizal’s?
Lawrence’s brows furrow downwards towards his nose, pushed lower by the decidedly herculean mental effort while his errant right hand unconsciously strokes his three-day old growth of beard. His other hand periodically tips his cap that covers his bare (in more ways than one) head backwards and forwards, see-sawing as if to a melody that only he can hear. Visions of Rizal’s magnificent tower library swim boundlessly in his imagination and threaten to drown his concentration.

Behind the duo, Richard and Albert continue their discussion from their opposite domains upon the Honda’s backseat. Their discussion combs the width and breadth of the literary landscape. Combatants in a friendly academic duel, they exchange quips, insightful critiques and tactful repartees. An unlikely pairing of daggy insomniac academician, with his shock of jet back hair, and the well-groomed literary corporate intellectual, with his closely cropped and neat hair, both fall easily into each other’s argumentative company during that evening’s drive.

Sparks fly and hammers fall - figuratively, of course - as the two rain blows upon the anvil of their discourse, highlighting tales such as the perfect job for insomniac writers, favourite authors, alternative literary works, as well as publishing and marketing tips for those aspiring to the title of “published authors.”

There are raunchier stuff, of course, notably the actual reading, listening and viewing habits of certain literary figures. It is almost an exposé of sorts, which includes the likes of Britney Spears music videos and Japanese Anime and Manga. Identities and names, though, are withheld, as Richard has been sworn to absolute secrecy and total silence, or… not quite as it would seem ... if one considers the irony of absolute and total as opposed to just unnamed.

As all the above continue, the Honda’s left signal light patiently blinks, keeping perfect time with its gentle ticking - tik, tik, tik, tik - its repeating rhythm punctuating the question that is beating a tattoo in everyone’s heads:

How does one drive to Rizal’s?
But the fifth passenger sits patiently. Insubstantial as she is. She floats around the confines of the car, rubbing against the four individuals. Touching them, feeling them, feeding on them, feasting on their physical and mental energies, as she sustains herself on her journey.

It has taken some time and a bit of work to get there, in the car with these four individuals. Insidiously, she plays upon their individual hopes, dreams and fears, to engineer this trip to Rizal’s. Be it visions of perfectly roasted lamb, a magnificent tower library, or even the rousing camaraderie and jolly good cheer of a seemingly spontaneous intellectual discourse.

But it was well worth the effort, for soon she will be truly at home.

Soon she will be with her intended.

Soon she will be with Rizal.

It is a journey which began long ago, at her former home and resting place, at the Lubuk Puteri Waterfall in Sungai Buloh, that gorgeous confluence of natural wonders which so captured her heart so long ago, when she was alive, and, later on, even after she was dead.

She spent her life at the waterfall, she was buried there and she has been haunting it for decades past.

But now she has another to share a home, another soul to call her own and someone to share her sojourn. And that person is Rizal, who understands the depths of her soul: someone who shares her loves and joys.

Her journey began with a chance meeting months ago. She was playing at the waterfall, as always, when the unsuspecting Rizal came to the waterfall, her home, for a picnic and to spend some time writing his poetry.

At first she just wanted him gone, and was preparing to play a few tricks on him. She was used to artists and poets invading her home. Mainly she just had fun playing tricks on them.

That was her plan with Rizal, until he began to write his poem about the “Waterfall Princess”. It was uncanny, in that the poem mirrored exactly who she was and what she felt.

She knew then that she had found the soul to share her eternity with. She wanted to take him then and there. But after the hours wasted of simply watching him, she forgot the time, and then morning broke and the cock’s crow signaled the end of her time in the living realms.

But she was patient and she had time. So she schemed and planned. This brought her into the car today - after countless possessions of many hosts and the careful influence she exerted unto them.

How does one drive to Rizal’s?

One doesn’t, one just schemes and patiently waits.

A Plea From A Heartsick Malaysian

In ancient Greece
a hero is
one who rids
the world of tyrants

who distresses
the population

one who stops
at nothing
to claim his grasp
on power

one who stubbornly
holds on
no matter
whatever the ire

in both
the people
and tires

the selfish ambition of one
the stupid ego of another
do we need a hero?

or loads
of common sense
in the psyche
of "so called" leaders

the besieged
office holder
the upstart
de facto whatever

grow up Malaysia!

What is Democratic Space?

What is
democratic space?

to me
it lies
within my head
between the ears
where imagination
dreams and fears
take flight

to Sheena
its a silken scarf
a head cover
she put on
and take off
she wants
and prefers

to Reza
its in Hartamas
a townhouse
and done up
an artistic
creative space
where thoughts
and rest converge

to George
its within a can
of fermented wheat
barley, yeast
and hops
a gentle sultry
from internetless
Batu Arang
the rigours
of Lostgen Artspace

How I Found Truth

I seek a bed of solace,
after all the tell tale deeds.
The grueling nights that kept pace,
with the gentle rolling dreams.

I sought for a branch,
of an olive hue.
To strike a balance,
from both the bitter and the crude.

All I found are handles,
on which to grip and hold same.
In the unending battle between the poetic,
and the reality of the sane.

I turn to ideals,
values and precepts,
ancient codes
that present values intercept.

But found only shadows,
sadness and despair,
amidst the truth
that I can never accept.

I look for God,
and the put on vestments of faith.
But found naught,
of His virtues still in place.

Then I found you,
and I knew the true measure of grace.
The truth is out there,
in your beauty, touch and gait.

The Chronicles of Professor Merdeka

Part I : The Mission

It is as if the universe herself is weeping, and the steady rain her frequent teardrops. All around the dead city resounds a torrential downpour - it is raining cats and dogs. If there are still cats and dogs around anymore.

And through all this, through the wet haze and curtain, through this tableau of man-made madness and nature's wrath, a solitary figure can be seen flitting in and out of the ruins, gingerly making his way through the long dead monuments of the city once known as Kuala Lumpur.

His name is Chong, a Baba Mercenary operating out of Bastion Penang, one of the few remaining strongholds of humanity upon this peninsular that was once called Malaysia.

A sparse and spare man, Chong seems to blend into the background as he carefully picks his way across the city, his form, colour and feature fading into whatever background that he happens to be upon. This is as much a virtue of the visual dispersion field projected by his Bayang-Bayang Scout Harness, or as most who know him feel, stems from his silent and spare personality. Admittedly, it is this minutiae about his person that makes him one of the most sought after mercenary scouts in the 14 Bastions. Silent on and off the wasteland, he can be trusted to get to places most people can't and to keep his mouth shut about those adventures thereafter - one of the reasons why he was chosen by Professor Merdeka for his often strange, exotic and nigh unexplainable missions.

Orphaned after the Great Evacuation, Chong was raised in an Orphanage in Bastion Penang. After he reached his majority, he served his compulsory time in the Defense Forces and then freelanced his services as a mercenary. Handpicked during his Defense Forces training to serve with the elite Bastion Scouts, Chong possessed unique abilities, which were recognized early, and were augmented with the grueling Bastion Scouts training regimen. He was one of three recruits to survive the training from the original number of 60, and he was top of his class.

Chong has been spending his early mercenary days flitting in and out of the wasteland on missions for clients. Missions large and small, legal or extra legal, they all meant naught but another job to Chong. Now though, he mostly spends his time running wasteland missions for the eccentric Professor Merdeka.

The two hit it off after an escort mission which saw Chong chaperoning the good professor on one of his outdoor trips. No one knows what bond lies between the two, but most would guess that the professor appreciates Chong's discretion and exceptional ability; while Chong simply likes the fact that the Professor, a silent and often thoughtful man himself, never bothers him with any questions nor frivolous conversation.

Chong pauses a moment from his arduous trek, and seeks shelter under a ruined structure which lies opposite an empty expanse in this crowded stretch of ghostly buildings, taking a breather and fixing his bearings. He takes out his PDA and punches up the digital map that Professor Merdeka has provided him. It is, surprisingly, a very detailed street map of old Kuala Lumpur, a dead city that to most lives only in distant memories and historical epics.

Despite his circumspect exterior, even Chong sometimes wonders about Professor Merdeka. How does he get all the extremely accurate information about the time before the Great Evacuation? Some of the things he knows about the wasteland seem impossibly correct and on the dot. Many also question his wealth.

Indeed Chong knows that Professor Merdeka sometimes brings back wealth in precious metals and stones from his treks into the wasteland. He could pinpoint locations in which hoards of treasures can be found, with amazing accuracy. Most times this is based on directions from a collection of mouldy paper printings with simple maps and pictures of gems and jewellery. For some reason many of the buildings that hide these treasures often carry signs proclaiming the names Habib and Poh Kong.

More interestingly no one seems to know whence the professor comes. The earliest records of the professor is of him suddenly turning up at Bastion Putra in what was once the Malaysian State of Selangor - without any point of origin.

This is strange because every living man and woman (children, as well) , and those born thereafter, are carefully recorded in the census after the Great Evacuation. While most would expect chaos and a total collapse of governance after the fall of the old civilization, the opposite actually happened, as the few remaining survivors came together to work for a better future.

The census is important, for it keeps track of population movements and where and how much to channel aid and resources. So everyone would have been on it. But the professor never was... until the day he showed up.

Chong shrugs off his curiosity. He trusts the professor too much for that. Indeed, the man is like a father to him, always with a kind word, asking Chong to his home and spending time with his family.

A sudden gust of wind disturbs the monotony of the rain, dispersing its pattern and creating wrinkles in its normally smooth rhythm. Chong drops his PDA and readies his weapon. Stonily scanning the horizons, he knows that the mutants don’t usually hunt during the day, but you can never be too cautious.

After making sure that all is well, Chong shoulders his weapon and returns his attention to the map on his PDA, taking his bearings: the hill near the clearing and the tall flag pole upon what was once green turf.

It suddenly hit him where he is - he is standing near Dataran Merdeka.

Chong took a moment to breathe in the moment. Even for him, this is a hallowed place.

He no longer remembers what it was that this place stood for in the old land of Malaysia. The significance of which is long lost to the muddy memories of his schooling years. What it was no longer matters now.

What is important is what it is to the survivors living still in the 14 Bastions.

This is Dataran Merdeka. The last stand, where the last Prime Minister of Malaysia and his entire cabinet died to a man (and woman), under arms and side by side with ordinary soldiers, as they fought to hold back the maddening tide of the mutants – merely to buy extra time for the surviving citizens to evacuate the doomed city.

Chong remembers...

He shall never forget...

He can never forget...

For he was one of the last of the children whisked away to safety by helicopters that were meant for the Prime Minister and his Cabinet.

The Prime Minister was already on board and so were the members of his cabinet, when the last of the EUROCOPTER Dauphin choppers that were meant for the evacuation was shot down before they could land.

The evacuation ground to a halt and all the refugees would have died, along with the soldiers that manned the last stand.

The Prime Minister had looked at Chong and the bunch of refugees with him, and smiled. He then jumped off the chopper and signaled for his cabinet to do the same. He had ordered the pilots to take the refugees instead.

As the refugees were boarding the chopper, the Prime Minister had looked on gravely. Looking up at the sky with clear eyes, he laughed a bitter laugh and picked up a rifle and cocked it, nodding to his cabinet as they, too, picked up a weapon, each with resignation stoically portrayed on their faces.

Chong, a small child then, the last to board the chopper, had turned and looked at the PM. "Are you coming with us sir?" he asked. The Prime Minister smiled, looked at him kindly and said, "No, you go on, son, we’ll wait for the next one."

Then the Prime Minister uttered words to Chong that as a kid he never understood. Now though he knows what the Prime Minister wanted to say. Indeed, he can still hear those words echoing in this hallowed place:

"Remember this day... remember us. We have done a lot of wrongs. Heck, we are the ones that started the mutant plague. Even if not directly, we are responsible, I am responsible. But this is all that we can do. This is all that we can give you - a better future. Our time is now, our time is gone. It is yours now... make better use of it than we did. Good luck!"

And then the roar of the choppers lifting off obscured the rest. That was the last Chong or anyone else saw of them and everyone with them.

Path of The Seeker

I seek to find perfection
but found only flaws
within without the mention
circular metaphors

I sought different horizons
to draft a whole new plan
but fell to familiar patterns
functions and programs.

The Maiden

Its all those rounded curves
that sashays in unison
those titillating globes
that cleaves into my vision

the most sweetest smile
to have ever adorned a face
the most seductive voice
that a seductive body breathe

the warm and sultry eyes
that melts both heart and soul
those gentle tender touches
that warms me to the toes

Its hard to say for sure
the maiden that bears the gist
her bounteous face obscured
as ephemeral as any myth

she would stand before mine eyes
inviting and yet demure
but just as my arms reach hers
she would poof and disappear

JAW (Just Another Writer's Block)

Fuck this
fecund gist
fickle breeze
flip-flop fit

irised moment
inked concrete

ideas idling
above reach
words waiting
finger tips

keyboard kissed
pages pouts
virgin white

hymen crisp
tout unbroken
idiom phrase
trite unspoken

love's labours
venusian vale

imminent thoughts
curbed curtailed
great foreplay
sans the sex.

I See Colours

I see colours
dead alive
smiling truth
naked unstylized

beside history
astride time
stripped bare
essential complete

black yellow
brown white
beneath the blue
underneath it red

running riot
pumped by beats
that same pigmented
ironed liquid

all under one
red, white, blue, yellow
fluttering freely
as in the breeze, it echoes.

Irama Perjuangan

Bukan hanya kata-kata
kuluahkan penuh makna
bukan hanya sandiwara
tinta luhur yang membara

perjuangan pentas pena
merentasi tabir masa
anak bangsa warga waja
tegap gagah di arena

bukan hanya keringatku
darah merah yang berderu
buat tekad azimatku
hidup daulat ampuh jitu

nan irama serta lagu
jadi sumpah dari kalbu
biar nyawa bagai salju
jadi wadah perjuanganku.

A Pixie's Parlay

From afar She came
beyond the borders
cute by fame
exotic demure

coyly parading
smiles and favours
seductive secrets
enticing allure

her raven tresses
lashes that flutter
ticklish humour
flirting laughter

a gentle face
generously warm
a pair of eyes
that paints the dawn

a voice that lilts
in affable American
though when poetic
decidedly Britain

school girl crushes
fox-fairy smiles
funfair choices
womanly wiles

sacred stories
tell all tales
the gist and magic
a Pixie's parlay.

The Throne of Stone

I sat watching
upon my stony bench
as she skims the water
skipping the lake's confines
carefully balancing
from one shore to the next
gingerly touching
and then gracefully sat
upon the throne of stone
a solemn and angry monarch.

Text Porn

Rolling rhythm thump of thumbs
Sweaty words soft-screen canvas
fingers caressing familiar palms
ejaculating tips and taps

tracing tales impassioned moments
skin to skin curve to curve
steamy sentences caressing diction
a vocabulary of grunts and sighs

breath to breath mouth to mouth
evoking both soft and hard
delicious rods pliant mounds
pearly gates Venusian Deltas

upon a single shared moment
that foretold coming of ecstasy
one paints upon the keyboard
the other's mind interprets to see.


Perhaps it does not matter,
perhaps it really does.
Sometimes things do happen,
without it being asked.
While I am not seeking,
that which is not mine to have.
I do need to to come clean,
and to your inner eyes express.
This constant tugging feel,
a gentle resonance that seeks.
To bind your heart to mine,
and claim your passion's deed.
To your boyfriend's loaded shotgun,
an apology I humbly seek.
But to you this tender tale,
my heart weeps to relate.
Perhaps there's something to it,
or just a dream that wakes.
Shall I have your hand to hold,
as we both gracefully age.
Or just this happy memory,
that my happy memoirs shall keep.
But I bet you are aware,
despite your dense play-acting.
The signals that I send,
are not that hard to be missing.

The Encounter

It was a dream of charcoal tresses,
flowing freely upon the breeze,
of lightly pale and green sun dresses,
the promise of flesh that runs so deep.

Lustrous skin as smooth as silk,
smiles that shines strawberry red,
a voice that speaks to hearts that skip,
laughter that breaks into cold cold sweat.

Seated across the Foundry table,
thoughts distracted mind a-spinning,
eyes re-focusing staying level
coyly sneaking shy-like glancing.


"I am done, I have had enough
of coy little games, and riddles that talk
it shall work, or it shall not
so be it, its all I 've got."


Head buried pillows squashed
curled in goose down 'Toto' covers
tornadoes roam unsettled stomach
sinking feel temperature-less heart

within the vacuumed eye of storm
tick-tock beats and cringed up fear
hopeful dreamt-up schoolboy smiles
coyly glancing shy yet sly

spin rhythm dizzy go round
light headed no echoes no sound
fingers slick sweat off keypad
old "Nokia" grins nervous, anticipating

heart laid out digital slices
broadcasted words tapped out emotions
Maxis SMS gmail confessions
neck chopping block and love's guillotine

"yes" "no" "you're just a friend"
"I love you too" "come take my hand"
"I care for you" "but not like that"
"I have been waiting" "for just those words"

words! words! words! come kill me now
tear off my head or break my heart
or save me hold me through all this toil
your porcelain hands my rough hewed paws

I cannot bear this tell tale heart
these fretful days awake at night
come rescue me or let me fall
don't leave me waiting for your call.

The Welcoming

"Hail to thee my fellow traveler,
may your journeys lead always to your home as ever.
I bid thee welcome to this here my website,
my personal space within the web.
Here shall my online domain be,
the cradle of my thoughts, opinions and memory.
A plot that I shall garden and tender well,
instill it with my wit, character and poetic wiles.
Adieu my friends, good journeys hereafter,
may the winds of fate be always in your favour."

Dua Sejoli

"Lenggok irama,
berpaut lagu,
tari dan pencak,
liuk dan liku,
resmi merpati,
rumah dan tangga,
dua sejoli,
hati dan jiwa."

Patung Kaku

Terpasung kaku
berdiri kelu
terpasak sayu
dibumi moyangku

Telinga merah
bahang membara
tersirap darah
dendam bergema

keramat bangsa
darah budaya
luhur agama
tutur bahasa

didolak dalih
diheret sepi
dicantas sisih
dicampak tepi

meluru lonjak
diundang getir
hati berolak
berderu desir

dicapai tombak
pena dan tinta
diatur pencak
syair seloka

amukan rasa
aturan bicara
hati dan minda
Melayu Muda!


"Gah negara
dek mercutanda,
Gahnya bangsa
sastera budaya."


Bercanda di ibu kota
suka... leka...
remang remang kota raya

kelambu putih jerebu jelaga
luka rimba yang dijarah diteroka

hembusan asap debu jalanraya
tangisan alam bumi menderita

runtuh batu banjir bencana
goresan pembangunan tanpa rencana

Kabur... kabur... kabur...

Berlegar-legar di pasar budaya
tidur... lena...
liuk tari pentas media

kebenaran diperguna
dibelenggu dusta
diolah diperca

Dicarik-carik tangan cela
rakus harta
rakus kuasa

arahan, polisi, agenda
mengasah tumpul tinta berita
mencakup sayup lensa warta
menerjah sepi cetusan karya

Kabur... kabur... kabur...

Kebenaran takkan lena
jangan lena...
bak mentari senjakala
biar luput seketika
kembali terang bercahaya

Kebenaran takkan leka
jangan leka...
ibarat sekam nan membara
tercetus marak lantang menyala
sinar obor hati dan minda

Bangun... bangun... bangunlah

Angel Song

"The lovely Karen Kong
singing a beautiful beautiful song
my heart melts away
tender rivulets
encasing me in dreams."

Labour Day Morning

Woke up early shower dress realize its Labour day
slap water cold struck face no more employed
Yesterday last final paycheck backward memory glance
farewell breakfast boss co-worker work station fun
mental picture memory echo keyboard click-clack PC hum
smoke break banter lunch time laughter pretty "amoi" hunt
top up candy mineral water its visit Watson time
pretty ladies MAS Stewardess easy falls right into... line
ele--vator creaky wobbly eleven floor high strung
Mark whining Meriza smiling Azrul's feared IM
third floor "Pekedil" ground floor "Mamak" month end ATM
monday meeting "Eden Cafe" breakfast "La Bo--dega"
support ticket pre-sales question dot "t" cross "i"
slap water cold struck face no more employed.

The Arabian Princess

Amidst days,
of humid balmy nature,
and nights cooled,
by gentle calming breeze,
a perfectly poised,
and subtle creature,
seductive wily,
in essence complete.

Clothed in finest satin,
wrapped with best of silk
eyes beckons inviting,
hints of smiles all veiled
curves fully rounded,
delicious swaying sighs
lips coyly puckered,
sibilant sultry voice.

Heart wildly spirited,
intellect quiet and keen,
beautiful lovely gentle,
more than what is seen,
graceful sweet and kindly,
ruling both hearts and minds,
in dreams dancing nightly,
an angel in disguise.

The Green

Green is your colour,
"green" is your name,
green are the eyes,
which beheld your fame.

Rectangular pieces,
cut-out paper,
all soiled with ink,
and the stink of sin.

Yet, we seek you out,
yes, and even I,
these weightless tokens,
that weighs more than gold!

We don't eat you,
we don't drink you,
We certainly do not breathe you,
and yet we crave you more than life itself.

We fight for you,
struggle with you,
wish for you,
kill and die for you.

Why? An oft asked question,
an enigma to many minds,
the cause and claimant,
to many deaths and of many lives.

What secret,
behind you textured surface lies,
of diagrammed designs,
and sinister gleams.

I can only ask,
and beg your answer,
for you as always,
would and shall remain... cold, frail, indifferent.

Immune to censure,
inured to blame,
silent to the ears,
but torrential to the heart.

Perhaps I should ask,
the great John Maynard Keynes,
or the market voices,
to whom thou art tied and weaned.

But I should as well,
give birth to golden eggs,
for the answer would and always be,
take more than you would need.

You are the "fragrant grease",
"the stuff of life",
both the God and Children of men,
the big GREEN, hallelujah the G-R-E-E-N!

No matter!
I am just gonna go and get me some...
and more and more.

To Steal From You A Kiss Redux

I have a tale to tell, this story of a man,
obtuse obese, slightly awkward rather shy,
a fashion victim, whose shoes match not his belt,
walking tired alone, unnoticed in each step.

Not me mind you, this guy I knew from work,
who mainly use his time, watching screen typing keyboard,
shares his day with mountain dew, cherry coke mars snickers bars,
accompanied by books, movies computer games sad songs.

He spends his days mourning, dead ideals long lost dreams,
constantly probing, might and could have beens,
lost adrift he was, on a landscape ripe for the picking,
waiting for a ship, long ago has set a sailing.

Until "She" came breaking through all his shields,
leaving him bereft, yearning perturbed incomplete,
for I... no... he have found the lady, that made his heart to beat,
a thundering tempo, that did a thousand times repeat.

But there he was, mute and without sound,
his arms leaden weights unable to wave a hi,
his feet forever rooted, nailed upon the spot,
despite his ardent wish, to chase and walk beside.

His voice once booming, would silence to a whisper,
his gestures once large, now can't even be found,
his eyes would roam and roam, but never ever at her,
his tongue tied-up, when she is next to him and near.

And so his brain did churn, with this brilliant plan,
pay me his friend, to write this poem and rhyme,
I stand here today, ambassador to his heart,
to this lady sweet, this love of mine... no... his be sent.

And now in his words, not mine... shall I pour this raw foundation,
to build upon and paint, this view of his ambition,
where there was one alone, momentary discarded,
now there is another, the promise that hope has plotted.

I shall let him speak, leaving you and "Her" to judge,
if this love of his, does hold a grain of dust,
I am very well paid, already quite satisfied,
in the currency of hope, dreams and love's respite.

In his words...

"all I see is your hair, that the wind so carelessly blew
I wish it were my fingers, in your tresses dancing through
all I see are your eyes, doing that thing that they do
as they dance that special tango, with that special light of you

all I see is your smile, from those lovely lovely lips
for which I would die, to feel the brush of each
all I hear is your voice, which holds me to your sway
such tender melodies, once only angels play

But I stopped at hello, stammered my goodbyes
the lovely lady that was you, always left me tongue-tied
I wish it were now, you are here hearing this
my heart still do yearn, to steal from you a kiss."

Thus goes this little poem, to the lady of his heart,
What now don't know... I leave it to you and "Her" to judge...

Our Voice!

Today I had, a rude awakening,
in the ivory towers, of Selangor Dredging,
I was shell shocked, struck dumb... and left unmoving,
Like a wildly flailing puppet, suddenly... without its string.

Here was this man, this seasoned poet king,
with dictioned hoof, witty horns and entailed chiding,
exploding white hot, with brimstone... thunder... and lightning,
flashing wicked eyes, sinister smile and a terrible... terrible warning.

"To thee who blindly follow,
and ape the poets of yore,
By God! Shall I strike thee down,
and severely crush... thy bollocks!"

Not in actual words of course, nor absolute in its telling,
but perhaps with a little bit, of my own... paraphrasing,
I do beg your pardon, all those... attending,
do excuse me my practice, of poetic... licensing.

But from his sacred gaping maw, that strophe did sound,
In a voice that lilts, with a pleasingly British accent,
though it starts with a "lovely, lovely", with a pall... it ends,
The blackest of clouds , upon which my parade... did rain.

You must always speak he says, with a voice that is all your own,
and bring to deeper depths, in a voice that seeks your audience,
why do you seek the sun? Which in the twilight has fallen,
when you have a clear blue sky, to shine... enrich and enliven.

Thus so he said, with that aptly... mocking smile,
as I to the mattresses did, sound... the warning bell,
with Smith & Wesson, Winchester and Tommy Gun,
I prepared an oration, with wit and curdled pun.

Then "Bam!" I stopped, as reason came flooding in,
"whoosh" it sounded, calm... gentle... reassuring,
sweeping through the room, like some prodigal son returning,
replacing flaming anger, with calm thoughts and logical thinking,

For even the great Shakespeare, in the plays if not poetry of his time,
used only the language, and prose of the common man,
maybe I should borrow, and ape this aptly stance,
and start to talk and speak, in the language of this... land.

By God! Damn it! Manglish is a real language,
a much used and practiced, Malaysian English,
with all the "alamak", "ayoyo" and "haiya",
and greatest of all, the all encompassing "lah".

along with the occasional "I say" and "Jolly good",
gutten tag and danke schor, au revoir and mon cherie,
and the starving poet's, "Ohhh...more food"
"arigato" "shigata nai", "marhaban" and "ya habibi"

So stand we tall, with cries of "Malaysia boleh",
Straddling this world, like KLCC's towers of Petronas,
shout out loud, clear and well defiined,
We are Malaysian, and this our voice!

Before The Mountain And The Sky

Before the mountain and the sky
one of earth the other air
a perfect picture lullaby
solidified by fate's dare

brought together by words
spoken and performed
heart to heart it lurks
this tale that sprung and bloomed

but the world does not deliberate
upon such things it frowns
instead it seeks to separate
skies are white and mountains brown

I see a beauty
that we seem tragically to waste
two hearts freely beating
across different race and faiths

in a painted frame they shine
side by side entwined
under the gaze of the One
the Constant and most Divine

before the mountain and the sky
beyond thunder and rain
a painted rainbow that I
wish would bridge their skein.

The Gumshoe Poet

Swaggering, slow deliberate
lounging grand piano, muted jazzy quartet
head cocked, fedora swept back
wing tip unpolished, suit rumpled trench-coated

Swirling music, smoking tobacco wisps
stylish cigars, sharp witted cigarettes
face rugged, youthful smooth proper-correct
soulful deep, profound nonchalant relaxed

uncorked whiskey, beer pints liquor bottled
bottom's up, derelict memory picture stifled
scars fresh, gouging wounded cynical
heart heavy, worldly morose and hurt

about town, dames birds skirts
constant party, gin joints drink houses
eyes shining, smile charming alert
voice boyish, engaging friendly honest

revolver six-shot, rapid fire bullets
shouldered holster, notebook pen packet
poetry spoken, word quiet passionate
contours hidden, glasses black mirrored

Sunday Morning!

Woke up at 10
major hangover
pounding heart
last night's echoes,
drunken swagger
word wine
adrenaline liquor
poetry booze,
eyes crusted
spinning head
ringing ears
verse and prose,
arms tired
stanza rhyme
tercet triolet
and sthrope,
legs wobbly
knees weak
mashed together words,
under sunlight
Jacob BC workshop
DRAM image blur,
moonlight SLAM
Mooney Han
loft at Zouk.

Poetic Popinjay

Lo! and behold! man
Mighty Jah Jay
the long foretold
poetic popinjay

loud and lewd, man
cajolingly indecent
brazen and bold
inviting conflagration

strut he about, man
larger than life
prancingly pouts
pragmatically rife

"over here!" he shout
full of life and zest
that's what he about, man
the power of jest

clap you hand sirs
gather around
hide you daughters
listen to the sound

wipe your tears away
turn up that frown
Mighty Jah Jay!
coming to town.

The Voice of Ages

She stands tall
strong, powerful, resolute

a voice for all
both the loud and mute

reverberating echoes
of love and hate

dedicating the credos
of society's dictate

strumming words
laying down the music

truth that spurts
consummating its magic

a voice that speaks
a heart that constantly seek

gentle... poetic...
and living within the beats.

The Sacred Nymph

there is a voice that sings
of nature and its beginnings

a creature of, for and whom
spawned to life, from Gaia's bosom

with a dance that flit and flutter
celebrating the gifts of Gaia's platter

a sensuously sinewy sibilant shrew
seducing laughter and hilarious dues

you can catch her now and then
dancing sweetly to the pipes of Pan

in a blaze of furor and a sea of smiles
this erstwhile daughter of Gaia's wiles

An Ode To Desire

It did simmer
and then to boil,
a torrid downpour
of un-platonic wiles.

A constant whisper
of thoughts that endlessly toil.

A brazenly dapper
harbinger of un-imaginable joys.

Touches that linger...
looks that shy...
thoughts that hover...
and words that sigh...

a jaunty parade
of un-innocent wants
perusing delicious assets
in hidden pantomime.

The Long Road

We'll walk this road,
a million times.
Through storms and shoals,
that never ends.

Through thick and thin,
on rough and smooth.
A million dreams,
by sun and moon.

A thousand sighs,
a hundred cries.
A thousand tears,
from a hundred eyes.

Days and years,
that saunter by.
Nights of sleepless,

Where have we,
have got to go.
What have we,
have got to hold.

An emptied heart,
a hollowed soul.
torn apart,
by hopes untold.

But for a tear drop,
and a smile.
look for the moment
at every mile.

For God still love you,
all through this while.
His faith within you,
Would never die.

Dear friends that stood,
through rain and shine,
with hands that reach,
and hearts that sing.

Then Shed a tear drop,
for His benevolance.
and birth a smile,
for friendship's persistence.

Beyond The Memory

There it lives,
beyond the memory,
a special place,
that once was you and me.

Where I found,
the me that I could be,
when you're around,
your love does this to me.

We would fly,
and soar into the sky,
reaching high,
to touch where heavens lie.

All around,
the distance, through the times,
where we are bound,
by love that's most sublime.

You and I,
forever and will be,
rhymes that sigh,
this special melody.

Love through time,
and distance that it bridge,
where we'll find,
a love that is complete.

And even when,
you are gone so far away,
my heart still send,
its love to you each day.

To me it is,
forever and will be,
our love still lives,
beyond the memory.

Pitter Patter

I walk the pitter patter of life, perusing the paths both sweet and bitter.
Searching for that jive, that clicks with my chit and chatter.
A purpose, a dream, a thought most dapper.
A brilliant excuse, a reason to factor.
For life is a journey, that deems to bother.
Doubts most hearty, and hopes that shatter.
Eclipsed by the many, the one lies unknown.
Amidst the dark truly, the bright disdains the norm.
What speaks the truth only, can never be seen nor known.
For the heart lies oft heavy, unperceived and outshone.
What fed my joys daily, is the promise of the dream.
This constantly sweet litany, of might and could have beens.
For even if the nights, did cower the end of days.
The dawn will then relight, and recover the hopes that stays.

An Angel

There are those who call thee beauty
but only at a glance.

Others who call thee funny
look only for thy laugh.

Some would call thee classy
but only for thy charm.

But I...would call thee angel
for all that I know thou am.

Thy courage amidst the fires
thy strength against the storms.

Thy kind and gentle wisdom
thy heart, lovely and full.

For to me thou art the Lady
who has helped me through my storm.

A friend whose hand did lift me
and succored me through my gloom.

Thy beauty is quite amazing
of that I would agree.

But for me its just the icing
of the cake thats sweeter still.

For I have seen thee as the captain
sailing through thy life.

Fighting off the pirates
braving the seas at night.

Shining like a beacon
unflinching in thy ways.

A strength I find amazing
amidst the furor of thy days.

Thy beauty is in thy smile
but also in thy deeds.

For thou art more beautiful still
for all the beautiful things thou did.

Thy charm is in thy wiles
but truly in thy head.

For while thy personality shines
thine intelligence doth precedes.

Thy wings art thine compassion
thy concern for all and kind.

Thy halo art thine passion
for all that thou seek to find.

To me thou art an angel
that has deigned to call me friend.

To me thou art the Lady
to whom I will forever be inclined.

A Familiar Feeling

I can see it...
a mist of hopes long dead
a fog of lost emotions
as it clouds upon horizons
and drowns all sense and notions.

I see it still
I see it everywhere
these ghost that haunts me
memories that just won't die

I can feel it...
a touch colder than ice
that creeps slowly within
an all encompassing numbness
coursing through my veins.

I know it well
this cold and empty feeling
for it lives nearby
and always keep my company.

I can hear it...
a siren's woeful cry
a banshee's song of sorrow
as it stills the beating heart
and silence all its echoes.

Its calls to me
this soulful lullaby
it sings to me
for all that has left me by.

Edge of Twilight

There is a great disparity between now
and the puerile views of an innocent's eyes
the trappings and surfeit that reality endows
the gregariously common countenance of lies.

Veiled minds and obscured sights
concealed from the embrace of truth's visage
what is, what was and whats perhaps
shuttered behind tedium and regimented wiles.

Where art the hand, the guidance and the light
amidst the darkness, the gloom and the flood
for I stand alone at the edge of twilight
as I seek to find the meaning of the tides.
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