Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi

O, Brother!

O, brother
Why have thou come hither?

The morrow are being wither
Bone marrow are being batter
My sorrow will not be better
I can’t give thou bread and butter

For I, too, hold my hunger
You shall have to suffer

O, brethen
You call me heathen
Burn me at stake
make me a steak

My meat is meek
Blood wine as sleek
What will you seek
After I break?

Live like Jesus die like Jesus
Beelzebub babbling bobbling pus
Brother will you let me pass
working as hard as an ass

To give food on your family plate
To be good as a man on a gate
To be fooled by your poor little slate
To die bold on the hands of my mate.

O, brother
Why have thou come hither?

Can’t thou love me any better
Than to be sad and bitter?






Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi, Uncategorized

Hunger

My hunger

I have told you this thousands of years ago

my hunger

is a monster you can never comprehend

Hell, I can’t even comprehend it myself

My hunger, my hunger

I run like mad horse

a black cube in the desert floating

made of pitch darkness

bottomless vacuum

my hunger, my hunger

How can I love you and live with this hunger

but how can I tell you about this hunger

when you have lost your limbs for me

And my dear doctor asked

“Will you satisfiy your hunger with a new prey?”

To be honest I’d rather die

Yet here I am devouring love

of a Goddess while chewing

at yout bones

Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi

Room

There is no outside world
just this room
spacey, controllable environment
and I am free, inside

I escape reality
reject responsibility
my body and mind lack capability
to move, strive, struggle, no agility

But I am not running, no
how can I run if I can’t even stand,
nor speak, nor think straight
or see the light that bestowed upon me

But I do believe in love, that surpasses all
I do believe that if we love each other, all of these
sickness does not matter,
love does not make it better
or worse, it will put fidelity in the gutter

What it surpass is our understanding
to one another and to ourselves

That there is no bad intentions
in loving one another
but dire consequences
lies in unfulfilled desire

Despair is the sickness
everyone must endure
unto death

I love you
and nothing can stop that

But we can stop
hurting each other
by stopping those
that entails love.



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.