:: Floodgate ::

I can't seem to keep my poetry at bay. They just come, words of colour and candor, pushing through my routines like wildflung poppy seeds, flourishing with boisterious abandonment.

Maybe T is right―the physical death of my relationship has woken up a certain muse, a rebellious, rhapsodical inspiration, and I'm being swept along through this vigourous floodgate. I rhyme without reason, and I write verses that are beyond my own comprehension. What do they mean―what am I saying―who am I saying them to―I don't know. I only know my mind has never felt more alive, more reckless, and less willing to be chained to my financial spreadsheets and press releases.

This world of mine, of ours―it's erratic and exotic, a marvel of tactile fallacies and veritable truths, and I never seem to embrace this knowledge as much in moments of my practiced stupor than I do during my fits of writing, where I become riotous and feral, a scribe unleashed.


***

Careless Dialogue

Would she knock, before she enters
Our careless dialogue―
Would she pause,
With remorse,
Or would she choose,
To lose,
The kiss of frost in your eyes,
The touch of truth in much-awaited lies?
Her heart (my heart) is virgin flesh,
Love-torn, pain-worn:
Like springtide magic,
But surly and tragic,
The echo of a knock
That would shock
Us out of our
Careless dialogue.

***

Dancing

Like the apprentice to a
Deranged alchemist,
You fuse together, dreams of
Copper-plated importance;
You turn rusty steel into angel dust,
So that you may dance,
With wings of hope
Welded to your bended back.

Like windpipe tune of a
Bleak-eyed charmer,
You exhale calmly, dreams of
Silver-shrouded mystery;
You turn bleating beats into moral feast,
So that you may dance,
With wings of hope
Cleaved into your bitter feet.

Like the autumn of a
Deadworld season,
You sweep with grandeur, dreams of
Golden-hued mortality,
So that you may dance,
With wings of hope
Impaled on your chiselled cheek.

***

老歌总是纠着我那忆动的心：

不管明天 到明天要想送
恋着今宵 把今宵多珍重
我俩临别依依 怨太阳快升东
我俩临别依依 要再见在梦中 ...