bored.

i have a 7am class later. goodness.
i’m addicted to smashing pumpkins’ "beautiful" and nine inch nails’ "closer".
notice the juxtaposition of these words.

haha. you’ve been tricked. nothing there really.
i’m just f.cking bored. what? help me keep my sanity, will you?

friendster is a ballyhoo. we all know that.
sometimes you just can’t help describe it in dyslogistic terms and at the same time hop on the bandwagon to see it for your self and then eventually you’re actually one of them. horrifying.
oh well…

you are you

you are
you

and i learn
just by faint reverberations of your heart
as i reckon
                    for now
                    this is all i may receive

and i feel
by that pavement you tread upon
and the leavings i collect from pieces
of yours haply
left in uncertainty

and i swim
in thousand suns of eternal folding
as i search for better words
to utter
"you"

and i almost have nothing
a track nor a clue

the screaming incense emanating from
me to
(just because)
                       you
(just because)

you are
you

This

my head,body is pointing to the Nadir
while you
Empyrean still in how i see you bathe in your
aloneness
and how i bleed the last resisting stars
i must have foolishly cupped,gathered from before
to you now
and all i can do is this

sadly,
this

somewhere in,around the filigrees
of what we share, cradled by the troughs,
(this must be where my optimism broods)
sending tracesDeluding yetcomforting
forSometime, forSometime
‘cos
waiting punctures me
and i grow
this is what you should know

subtly,
this

*wtf. yes, you. you. this. where?  i can’t believe i’m posting this.

3 poems

i was apprehensive of posting here again because of some blatant ripping off i just found out recently - of my poetry - because i know, i just know in my heart that those were mine but who am i to say these things? i’m nobody. i don’t know if i must be flattered or irritated. but really. i don’t mind now. i’m not going to satisfy whoever by ranting too much about it here or by not posting here anymore because i realized that the experiences within, the experience itself during and after writing my thoughts in those specific moments in time cannot and can never be replicated so no need to worry, ne?

- c.s.s.

1

Heidegger
and Belle and Sebastian
meets
in her two-hour break
a solitary sketch
mind and flesh
in her solitary corner
unabashedly
comprehending (as if comprehended)
writing trivial thoughts
commonplace
desolate
attempting farther
than her armrest-less seat
sunrays in perfect angles
am i a gestaltist?
time hangs like fringes in God’s naperies
what is left look
the lint on her sleeve
the partly opened (partly shut) windows
sky five-inch width
bangs choking her eyes
is this the refrain or the bridge?
series of bittersweet riffs
vandalism in some of its leaves
crisp and yellow
decades-old pages
in her clammy hands
struggling
to steal some ideas so grand
decipher first
seinsfrage, erkannt, fragestellung
whathowshedoesn’tknowwhatthehell
this is her summary
and somehow tomorrow
just the same
she never learns anyway

2

cars
pedestrian
transactions
whatisthepurposeofthisgrayedifice
left right
u-turnroundnround
arethosestratuscloudsorsheetsofsootysmoke
shoulders wheels
acrid
veneers
headsahead
rushrushrush
exhausting comedy
thankgod
now
distant
muffled noise
peeling off like flakes from this bark
beside this slab of rock
where moss is
a green velvet
and drooping branches
a canopy
this space is temporary
heaven
afterditchingstatisticsclass

3

without spectacles

(sword-like shafts
:light
softens
sometimes
I:
prefer to see things this way
undefined borders
;smudged;
feathered)
permeable
I
the possible Evil
tethered
in this season:
Needing
oh, what could be more human
Human
Human
Hu
man
than needing?

?

question life
every single (god-given) day

watercolouring

the dispersing water and pigment
(like careful invisible flames
  singeing the surface)
is blitheness
besieged with uncertainties

the daunting hourglass
the spontaneity
the sodden paper
(like ground
  glossed by summer rain)

yet utter joy
one million and thirty-seven hundred raindrops
no, i did not count
it is just me
and my desire
to capture them many
  and let them finish what i have started

so,
be here
witness it
be here
such a shame to miss it

music to our ears

opening

the eerie
piercing sounds
the rusted hinges make
it’s music to our ears
it’s music
it’s music
finally

sharp points of light
soften
sparkles
shedding skin
shedding
shedding
finally

bittersweet brims
bittersweet brims
gushing
gushing
sliding bittersweet brims

not the cheap liquor
not the gliding threads of smoke
not the dregs at the bottom
not the tainted portions
not the perfect glissando
not the daily dramas
not the sore-self
nor the swollen heart

just the eerie
piercing sounds
the rusted hinges make
it’s music to our ears
it’s music
it’s music

perpetual music

*for joligs

back. words. done. sigh.

scarredheart is back. i suppose.

"who are you
scarredheart?

your words

hibernate
   underneath
       my skin…"

-c.s.

after reading tolstoy’s “my confession” (his theistic view on the meaning of life)

as if seeing for the first time

the swill of sunlight
to the tiles
kissing with indifference
to the earthly ground
saturates
a quarter of me
paper
thin as an onion skin
this day sums up to three

time
light
mind

wandering free

new and in another and pure / shut-down

we have everything
haven’t we?
if not
dance a song of longing
shall we?

count tear-stained faces
times zero
uproot the saddest grass
shut the door, shut it
may it be wood or glass

do not look back
don’t
before you: welcome
harm
it won’t

iron scraps lead you
world a gold
new and in another and pure
untold

——-

is
there
a
"shut-down"
for
this
brain?

wondering
howitfeelstobejustamoundofflesh

inactive
   immobile
      unattached
         unaware
            disregarded
               neglected

but the soul…
ah, the soul!

the soul inside is a circus
   of bliss
      and doubtless attempts
         and clear, clear skies
             in the bluest blue of shade

if this is the last poem

if this is the last poem i will write
i shall write it for me
i shall write a poem
i will only understand
i shall hum its words
and let it flee

these words
will cling to almost anything

to the walls and ceilings
to the towering buildings
to the bed sheets
to the cushioned seats
to the undelivered mails
to the books telling tales
to the piles of sighs
to the genuine lies
to the buds of leaves
to the less who gives
to the unfinished tasks
to the beings behind masks
to the flickering lamplight
to the rush of day and night
to the shoulders of people waiting
to the hair strands of the yearning
to the apparitions we never saw
to the absurd unwritten law
to the hearts made of stone
to the eyes where fears have grown

these words shall settle
on anything they land
these words are mine
my soul and crafting hand
from those i shall weave
my skin blending ruby skies
from those i shall see
worlds upon vignettes of lives