ASHTER

Seen you from afar, Amanda
Dim lit street light, reminds me of your eyes
–which I haven’t see
How do I talk about the unseen?

Jocund be the moment, Amanda
For so joyful are my fancies; it fancy.. You
You! The unseen, the unheard melody
Which I sung tonight, as I went to peaceful restiae

Resucitate!
By the eerie dawn I sing
And I bid you good night, Amanda Ashter
After the day that filled with blaster

With sum of promises to keep
Amanda, let’s have that ole gawdy sullen sleep

Now,
Shall we?

****
Citeureup, Augt. 2012. After been jotted on twitter.
****

EPAULLE

“… The weight of the world crush your shoulder to the ground…”

–Baudelaire–

 Princess, for what did you take a bow?
Seven dragon orbs weighten your shoulder, it seem.
All the peasant saw you and asks:
“Are persimmons turns bitter,
Are the north wind smells so unpleasant ?”

Princess, the streets are in festive
Cheer up!

Earlobs

kind of hurt inside. Kind of slippery. Gooey. Phooey. Kind things happen as often as unkind. Thus average steep road lead the way or rather pave the step to somewhat higher.. Ground. And sure as heck, as birds flies when the wings are matured.. Bang! Bang! You’re flown to some kind of land that has not been landed before.. Adios.

das Gradiola

The heat.. Feline smell atop your hair. The cold, that burns thy holly flesh. Grind me O hollow fa routs.. Rum pam pa rum pam pa.. Sing me the melody of onset, of onslaught, of rums and wodkas. Papas breath akin to global meltdown.. The endless onomatopoeia.. Hahas..

New Widget Part deux

Run O Cryptic One.. Run like you never first had to learn to walk.. Be the biggest whatever you can. This broken arrows are not meant to hurt, off course. For that would denies everything that felt so nice from it at the very first place. Take a vow! then take a height! Every feet and and every foot steps shall not be forgotten by the relics of human err…

New Widget

This is tomorrow. This is today. The one that meets at the middle are nothingness in spawn. Made the ghost cries of sold madness. And the wolves dances with trolls. Are the evening cleared? The kidneys wait and test on mere strings of wondering.. and wandering.. and chimneys of salt trembles to the end of any subconsciousness alert.. alarmed.. surprised by the sound of time creaking to oblivion.. hurray!

MONBERTE (a poem for a friend)

*inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s “America”*

Monberte, I’m born as a bookworm in a place where books are mere food for worms;
Monberte, I wrote so many poems but they never write back;
Monberte, I try to sell my poems for a nickel then I gave it away for free, for no one’s eager to buy..

Monberte, I love to read TEMPO magazines but I only read their Sidelines;
I read so many Sidelines, now I’m a sideliner, waiting to die..

Monberte, criminals in my country loves to hide in Singapore;
Monberte, I hate them Singaporeans for giving the convicts a hiding place;
Monberte, Nazaruddin must face trial, now!
Monberte, Nunun must go home, now!

Monberte, I hate them Singaporeans;
Monberte, I love them noodles and chickens;
I love to walk on Orchard Road but I never went there, so what’s the point?

I love their mainland, their Big Wall and all;
Many kids there shit on the street and grow to be bussiness moguls..
Monberte, when them chinamen rebel, they made new star in tennis court;

Monberte, when kids in my country shit on the street, they only get bruises and sodomized;
When we rebel nowadays, we only made traffic jams;
Not all folks here well understood, and no one cares enough to made manuals..

Monberte, I hate them Malays for stealing cultures from my country and claims as their own;
And still our women went to their sultan cocks and gold coins and be enslaved;
Bruises and more bruises and black and blue and towering twin balls..

Monberte, I hate them Singaporeans, them Malays, and them who follow me just to sell their products..
Monberte, where is sincerity?
Monberte, what’s your phone number?
Monberte, can I knock at your door at 3 AM and still get warm welcome?

Monberte, last but definitely not least
Would you send me some postcards?

–June, 2011. say NO the tweeta marketeers!!–

Elegy for the Morning Odours

Morning, with dews and the odours of dawn
Vegetables and fruits laid on the street
Colorful sight for the sore eyes.

Morning, to the fishes that saying: “Hello! Hello!”
To the people that always waiting
At street corners and on the road.

Sweating, for the small and big stuff
For all the stuff that ever changing and repeating.

Swearing, against the day that breaks
Thousand promises and plans.

Morning,
Hopes to see you again.

S. Parman-Slipi, 5 Sept. 2005.

Cough inside the head

have I learn anything from this trembling that shook the tremor out of me? To read the subliminal thoughts and hidden messages that spread troughout my veins? The pale color of my masochistic fiesta, runs like cheap stocking that I wear to hid my real countenance. I greet thee welcome o sorrow of the gloomy heart. Why does the quest only spread to catch more and mere questions? So sunk me in again in soliloquy, kinky, like Ike when he hits Turner on the face like a ramshack. I know I should and I could yet I still would.. Not. Now there’s a statement of a lame feet. Afar from real goal, aside from mentions. So where does all this neglectments went, o man with wench tits?

Humaine brain: no limitz!

why there’s a spot for the spotless? Because everyone’s too aware for themself. And to prove that, try have as many followers you can gather, and sooner or later your senses are growing more acute to the sound of soundless tambourinas. No longer spake any taboo, no more glitch on typhos, and hence: you started to write burden with your thumb. You started to feel that you are no longer mortal. You feel like you’re a naivette angel fought on the highest level of mortal kombat with the lowest form of avatars.