she is jetting off on another adventure,
all those escapades across the waters,
while I sit at home, piecing together
snippets of her life, play them like a
pirated movie, drowning slowly in a
second-hand experience of her.
forget wild parties or listening to
the unfamiliar beats of foreign hearts,
she has done it all. that girl bleeds
art and probably drinks it too, I wonder
if my life could be like hers if I liked
grapes less than I did wine?
don’t lie to yourself, sober fool,
it was never about you. even this,
I almost gave to her, happy to be
a little parrot, rolling scraps of her
sunshine across the tongue because
I thought I could never light my own darkness,
bright plumage hiding a tepid fear of existence,
latching onto her so I could anchor my life.
alas, today, why not let the winds of fate
carry away the map to her as I am no
longer seeking to follow her path,
tales of greater adventures
shall be written yet.
She knows that, I am sure. This is
not for her, or you, it’s for me and now.
There is enough ocean for all of us
to find what we are looking for,
if we have enough spirit to go searching,
traversing separately but never alone towards
the horizon, through our own shades
of welcoming blue.
I am helium, at times invisible,
otherwise filling entire rooms with
giggles, little bursts of sound
bouncing off ceilings before
fading into shrill silence.
I am dispersed thoughts, scattered
stars, supergiant speckles of light
dusting the unfamiliar shapes of
our universe, wishing upon self to find
home on humble earth, even if it is in
a cheap red balloon from a party bag mix.
At least it will help me comprehend
where I begin and everything else ends, give
body to existence and meaning to freedom
through loss. Shape me if you can catch me,
trap me and I shall love you until my last breath
or at least until I grow tired of your name.
For my true colours seep clear and intangible,
and I am bound by the eventual, inevitable call
of an unknown else.
I got my first tattoo in January 2018 and it was designed by the amazing & talented Zeze who is based in Auckland, New Zealand.
It is based off a Chinese fable called 猴子捞月 (the monkeys saving the moon) – if anyone is interested in what the story is about, I’m happy to provide a translated version.
I’ve been trying to write a poem inspired by the fable, but it just wasn’t working, I think it was a tad too restrictive. Instead, I wrote a little something very loosely inspired by Zeze’s artwork alone.
I think that’s one of the best things about art, how it can be re-discovered, re-imagined and re-mixed to produce unexpected results and then interpreted every which way too.
Either way, a life update & a poem, I hope you like it.
creep up pale cheek,
whisper about me
behind the teeth.
tendrils burying into scalp,
snapping the neck back
some say these soft,
phantom weeds, born
of the mind can be easily
exterminated through a wish
to be free, clearly they have
forgotten, we are no more than
lost children of Eden,
searching for meaning.
carried by the wind,
germinates into a dull ache,
sprouting dissociation as fresh roots
wrap around the ribcage, bitter,
beating heart numb to the bites of
venomous, verminous thoughts,
they have a stronger desire for life
than I can muster, no more than
a careless cadaver,
caught in the headlights.
A poor little flower-bed,
drowned in homemade herbicide.
Look! The lovers are throwing themselves
over the moon, as the lost ones fall into
gravity’s embrace – stumbling, fumbling
children making their homes in the forest of thorns.
Tendrils of worry fill their mind as they wonder
what sins they were paying for, bodies bruised,
egos torn, instinctively clinging onto themselves
and each other in the shadows of the stars.
We set our fears on fire to remember who we are,
reminding ourselves that the dying galaxies
blinking so innocently up above are not ours to
wish upon and that we must keep moving with the
rise of the morning sun.
Even though there is an itch at the edge of our hurt,
fingers trembling, we shall resist the urge
to crush our capillaries into unfamiliar shapes of kindness
we were never afforded, we know we cannot gift it
without mixing in shards of bitter bone, swallow
words like they are contraceptives against rejection.
Let the blood pool inside these soft shells,
bathe our fragile hearts in our own warmth, realise
there is nothing in the world outside us worth
latching our teeth into.
do you ever lose yourself
when the night breaks to day?
and sullen silence is stained by white noise
but the darkness remains, caught in the ridges
of your molars as you grind down life
into ingestible inches of time.
there’s these sticky, murky thoughts
stuck behind the tongue and you’re not sure
if they’re even yours, head pounding
from all the muddled drinks
and puddled tears, you feel your heart
ache for someone you have yet to meet
and might never know, maybe that’s
for the best because the ones that get close
tire of how you dwell over the same mistakes
day and day again, the wayward words
carried by the wind litter barren streets with bro-
ken signs, nobody bothers to listen.
too many already dance in our heads,
hallow skull but a crowded stage,
no space for new thought or moving on,
only screaming matches against ourselves,
stubborn anthems against unmovable fate,
I don’t know if I’m starting to lose voice
or mind, I think by the time both go,
it will time to close my eyes.
I could hear in his voice
the conviction of youth
and I wonder if mine
was wasted on a fool
who has chewed down flesh
and bone to leave a terrined-heart
dished out, cold.
Do boys like to wear suits and
swirl wine, slice through
boundaries like butter
because they think that anything
in the world can be bought by paper,
and if not, they’ll burn
it down instead?
They wear metal on wrist
and hold metal in hand,
thinking they were born
as natural protagonists, except
sometimes forests are not yours
to cut down or even explore,
who gave you permission
to scale these walls?
she was never yours to save.
Now, I’m not saying women
are any better at sorting through
this tangled ball of fate and quick
mistakes, but I have always envied
the rain for how it melts into waterfalls
and I could always trust the ocean
to cleanse any small cut or graze.
she feels safe,
maybe soon the hesitation