Crosses

dedicated to the one
i hug from behind



we needa carry our crosses,
and believe babe.
for if we drop them all,
we will know nothing more.

we will carry the crosses to the light,
and babe we will walk by sides.
faith, our engine. courage,
nevermind- it will come.

you don't needa be brave babe,
we just need a lil' faith.
no matter how blind.
no matter how small.

carry your cross with me babe,
for who dares crucify us
then becomes.

inconsequential.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 12:19 am

  Earthquake

dedicated to those
whose love meant.


You think its merely an earthquake.
Shake Shake Shake.
And no more.

But I'm kinda trapped here-
uner your tectonic plates.
And that leaves me for dead.

Like how your toes
used to be under my feet.
And my tongue under yours.

I need the earth to move again.




cuRRent...jer  ¶ 9:26 pm

  Haunting
(Part II)

Swinging on rusted planks
with the moonlight breeze,
where laughing frolicking kiddies
in sweet elation
hang by on brighter days.
An aimless spectre stroll
around quiet lamps,
where lovers' clothes rumpled
and hands clasped around waists
forge sleepy symmetry.
Another limpid body sprawl
on cold concrete the pavillion lay,
which holds repose for morning joggers
and the minute sprinkle of water
for their runned bodies.

Ghosts of yesteryears passed-
they haunt driftwood park like
hungry ravens for breathless action.
And the patrons who sometimes see
their diaphanous contours
find millstones around fragile necks.
For they march in mindless misery along the copse
in their gelid transparent unifroms,
with their breaths (if-any), icicle-forming.
And along the stained-bench and quashed flowers
weary of these interloping living souls-
they twist the sinews of these hearts
and crush the minds of living art.
For we could never escape their scrutiny;
when the ghosts' eyes staid cast on us
and their touch chilling to the bone.

Their presence so telling;
they would never leave us alone
never move on
never die.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 12:27 am

  Fugacious

Oh fleeting, oh run.
my minutes are done.

we could cut the chase.
but sand will move on,
still unfazed.

for water slipped
from ugly hands,
oh my heart is ripped.



cuRRent...jer  ¶ 2:30 pm

  Haunting
(Part I)

"We are always watched, always haunted and hunted by the ghosts,
of yesterday and tomorrow.."

Driftwood Park. A broken landscape littered with the random pieces of dessicated wood, the branches tilting and the bark chafed. It is a glass-cracked potrait of reticent shadows from the past and of disjointed white-washed memories; of recollection fragmented and ran ashore and of the burdens that yesterday and tomorrow bring.

They drift in a painful preternatural vividness, as the scattered remains of lacerated souls incarcerated by the blight of time, in the distant howl of unfinished laments and in the stiffled cries of sun-dried skeletons burried deeper than six feet. Yet, they take a faster route of return. The bare hand erupt from the earth, naked and fed by maggots. Their bodies might have disintegrated, but their pain has not. So they drift.

The playground seem lighted in the desperate conflagration of reality and the slides are overrunned by crawling vines. The stubborn swings are tipped left, some right- its ropes ever on the verge of crumble and the tension only the expedient. The tired fabrics of the pavillion seem so ready to collapse into an ever-widening hole inundated with a stygian nothingness. The crown first, then its arms- it will melt into the ground. And it will eat anyone talking careless shelter as it falls into the tricky recesses of Driftwood Park, concealed in a noisome odour.

Herein, fear debouched from the slippery abyss of yesteryears supplants hope, blinds the light at the end of the tunnel. A white towel flips wildly in the sky and it hangs perpetually like an eye fixed into the socket of burnt clouds which shifting velvet then tangerine, finally fades into bitter charcoal.




cuRRent...jer  ¶ 11:09 pm

  Death
on a wheelchair

Sticking my head into the oven,
to check for chicken grilling.
Losing my careless footing on the window ledge,
to recover my Prada fourty floors below.

Flailing my desperate arms in the water,
to fathom the lake with my fantabulous legs.
Hanging by the head on the kitchen ceiling,
to look like the angel on Christsmas trees.

Running towards the crackling fire,
to check out the whee! pyrotechnics.
Gulping medicine meant for the floor,
to be as shiny and hard as marble.

Traipsing into the suddenly receding pelagic,
to procure a motley of seafood expiring fast.
Lubricating my body with kerosene,
to demonstrate the hippiest new fragrance.

Running into an irascible lorry boom!poof!,
to disprove wretched Newton's theory of inertia.
And entering the dark tunnel...
without the safety glove.

Boredom is an underrated force in suicides.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 7:23 pm

  Ambitions

I'm somewhat tired chasing after my dreams already. Maybe I will just ask them where they are going and hook up with them at a later time.

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 12:51 pm