Musik, Perlawanan, Politik, Portfolio, Puisi, Racauan

Kami/Kota

 

Lingkaran kami kecil
lingkaran kami sebatas sahabat dan saudara

Lingkaran kami kecil
lingkaran kami sejauh hutan rimba yang kau tebas menjadi

Reff
Uang kota menggeliat
kota menjadi kanker di tubuh kami
ruang kelas mencerabut
kelas mengasingkan nenek moyang kami

Orang kota menjelajah
kota menjajah tanah dan tubuh kami
sekat kelas meminggirkan
kelas menyingkirkan keberadaan kami

Lingkaran kami kecil
lingkaran kami setitik buih di laut luas

Lingkaran kami kecil
lingkaran kami seredup lentera nelayan yang melaut malam

Lampu kota menyilaukan
kota mengaburkan bintang arah kami
pulau palsu menjejalkan
palsu menjejal kami di ruang sempit

orang kota menduduki
kota menduduki hak asasi kami
ruang kota memberangus
kota memberanggus kampung-kampung kami

Cinta, English, Filsafat, Memoir, Puisi, Racauan

Et Tristis Laetitiam

Nobody wants to love anybody
If there is love, its not a choice
Because if you want to love somebody
You don’t love, you’re just lonely

I

You see yourself in the mirror

and people say,
you should love yourself first
before you love others
but no matter how beautiful you are
if the love its not there, then its not there

Then like the old cliche
of gratefulness and making happiness
you make the best of yourself
and try to love what you are

and that’s not too bad, though you certainly fail
you never ask to be born anyway

Since only narcissists
who love themselves selfishly
and condemned to be drown
in the self-absorbed ego-maniacal pond

Thus, unable to love others truthfully
socially crippled as a pathological psychopath
or destructive bipolar, hurting others around them

Nothing good comes out of beautiful narcissist

except probably some good selfies taken from one angle
you don’t want to look bad with that amount of ego
and in the end, self mutilating is the only answer
just to make you keep loving yourself

vincent-color-alt
“Vincent Van Gogh Self-Portrait with Cut Ear” by Eric Wayne. 

II

Nobody wants to love anybody
because other people is hell
but when it comes like a disease
like death, it is inevitable
like life, it will grow
and like desperation
you will die with it

But love is not a wolf, its not your desire
its not a matter of feeding which wolves
you can deprived it of actions or efforts
you can buried it alive with distractions
but it will stay where it is
alive and kicking

And there will always be moments
that make a glimpse feels like a lifetime
in between your thoughts and works
or on your bed, when you look at the ceiling

You see faces of your loved ones:
one that got away, one that died,
one that never love you back,
and one that sleeps beside you
as a complete stranger

And those moments, my friends,
is what they called

melancholy.

mel2

 

Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi, Racauan

Esser

Possible-phone-wallpaper-131.jpg

There is a place where we don’t have to choose. We can love each other freely, out of differences or social restraints. This place is an island of mystery and secrets; our mystery, our secret. It is a garden that we nurture, sacred, therefore we need to protect it with all our might.

It has to be kept from the outside world. And the outside has to be kept from it. For when a breach exist, both will ruin one another, and consume us like the giant snake of time. You, me, and the world we live in will cease to exist, thus end life as we know it.

So let us protect it with complications; create a deep labyrinth with tricks and traps, with monsters and demigods. You have your minotaur, I’ll have my Medusa. But beware of the green-eyed cyclops luring from behind the mountain. For it is a blind Shiva, with Uoroboros on his neck, ready to destroy anything on its path. Its eyeball is a mirror of a bitter truth, that will open any secrets, expose every sin, and use it to kill us.

It will pollute our island, defile our garden, and we will be transformed from angels and fairies to be a two shouldered beast. We will eat each other, and when we’re done, we will eat ourselves. From carcasses of our memories we will make our body; a chimera, the undead.

Alas, even to imagine it we quiver with fear, more than we fear death. For death is nothing but eternal sleep, but this clash of two worlds, is a big bang to eternal nightmare. She run through frozen fire and burning ice, and we’ll be her tormented captive. We’ll be forgetful of each torture, so every time we die, we’ll be revived with fresh memories to run with her and die again and again and again…

Thus, to avoid that mare, we meet each other’s eyes, and we lie truthfully. So truthful that we come to believe, that there was no secret island, no sacred garden. Just lonely people who happened to have the same imagination, but never share it to one another.

Nobody will ever know our great golden copulations, our Dionysian ritual, but ourselves, individually. Just a glimpse of an eye, is a thousand years in that island, that secret garden. Keep that secret, and we can die in peace and dignity in reality, while live happily ever after in the island.

Lie to each other, live with each other, life for each other, love one another.

Alam, Cinta, Eksistensialisme, Puisi, Uncategorized

Muazin

Dia memandang langit mendung dan kerinduan merundung
pada apa-apa di kegelapan, ketika waktu jadi lautan
ia terbawa jauh ke tengah, gelegak air asin masuk ke dada
tenggelam hingga pasrah, lalu mengambang tak berdaya

Bintang itu adalah rumahnya,
sebuah pulau di angkasa raya
di sana, ia lihat bapaknya, bercahaya,
tak tergapai, sinar yang sampai
sudah lama selesai

Suara adzan menggema semesta
menyambut kefanaan,
tak pernah habis
shalat tak pernah didirikan
Muazin terus bersenandung

Kidung sapaan Tuhan
hantu berjalan terbalik
likur garis angkasa
kasar mengabur
mengubur
buram
ramal
malam

Musafir yang selalu berikhtiar
adalah kafir bagi mereka
yang memuja dan melupa
bahwa hidup yang sementara
tak hanya untuk berdoa
tapi juga untuk bekerja
dan bersukaria