In the forever now

The other day when the clock
tick-talked us into the night,
you observed how premonition 
could be a cheaper alternative
to time traveling. Of course,
neither you nor I had the gift
or the money to afford the real deal,
so we just discussed the possibility
in the capacity of veterans in making
this far into our lives, failing
at every moment at interpreting
the future, until it was deja vu
on the horizon.


Paradise Hope Humanity – Four Poems (an experiment)

Let’s not move                               Sit like a rock                            Let hope take root

Down this road                              Vulnerable to destiny             Let Faith be not enshrined

In the burnt city                             Exactly above the haunt       Where her cries were buried

Not far from                                    Where time-capsuled             Injustice in memory lives

Tourism billboards plastering     Unacknowledged stories       Defile

Paradise                                             Hope                                           Humanity


Words –

battered and bruised,
used and abused,
celebrated, relegated,


deemed as spoils of cultural wars,
donned as pride,
skinned as hide,
held as armour,
pierced as sword (for nothing leaves a more lasting wound),
hugged as identity,
kissed as sorrow,
dreamt as tomorrow –

have percolated
down the fine mesh
of lives and worlds before you,
to get to you
with hope and a twinkling desire
to be lead

to a place they’ve never been to before


What’s for dinner tonight?

What have we got here?

I see, a quiet, cold night
out of December’s deep freezer,
finely ground desires, cold water 
sourced directly from the shore
of doused hopes, a sprinkle of
native sadness, a ginger of a brazen self.

Just let the mix simmer to some sad synth rhythm
and there you have it –
soup for the sentimental soul

A portrait before the rains come


recurring dream

a city wakes diffused

week two at cluttered quarters

desert under my


my water bottle an erect palm

an oasis

We own no cooler no AC

instead our doors remain open

we receive among others

  1. tap of sunlight

  2. waking dream

  3. smudged horizon in 3.5 x 6.5 frame

  4. call of duty

  5. glimpses of tomorrows and yesterdays hongsangsoo-esque in their playfulness

  6. cue for indifferent / friendly tea

  7. smell of night-soaked underwears on the balcony

  8. call of duty

and of course dead skin of the city

settles over utensils shoes chairs

and is wiped


settles for window panes

magazines dictionaries my oxford

and Lyra’s

fiction and poems


like dust on poems

night slips


over you

dust at traffic intersection


under a red moon

sleepy sands in yous eyes

you conjure

a different city