It’s so cold.
A cold that creeps into your marrow,
Like a million metal maggots
Wiggling their way up your veins.

Not the absense of heat –
But a presence that no longer
Embraces me with criticisms,
Or give me a sobering slap.

Colder than a crowd’s boo,
Is when people care not a dime
Nor a minute. A fallen tree
In an empty forest makes no noise,
Neither does the artist in his own hallow world.

I recall the time
When I had
An addiction, a passion and a lover.
When everything was blazing,
And everything burned out, wasted
To a single pile of ash.

The notebook of love songs I wrote for you
They’re best left to be sung
To the cold winter –
at least
She is still warmer than the needles under my skin.

On the rushing trains of Tokyo

I was taking a walk
And saw a couple at the park
the other day.
From the back,
the man was holding her
the woman had her hands on his.

They were staring
At the only tree
with sakura left faintly blooming.

That never worked for us.

They will not make it

You never gave me the chance.

I left. Once again
my jealousy took away the beauty.
This time the park’s.


Finally I am depressed enough
to sit down and write you a letter.

Since when
Have I grown accustomed
to breaking a pen every time I write to you?

And my letters always
Cost a little more, because
of that extra drop of tears
of that extra reminiscence of you.

Playing a break up song you loved
To listen to after your break up
with him. It’s like you
Are having an affair with me.

And my pen dried
After one too many
“Remember that time
I planned to…”

I forget something – maybe your name,
maybe your address,
But I never leave out
the title
you never gave me.

Shape of you

I wish I had paid attention
under that willow tree

When she told me cypress symbolises death,
how enjambments mean
brokenness, or that caesura signifies
an abrupt end. I wish I had

the gift of a reader
or that of a poet.
Yet the dumbfounded reader I am.
The dreamer who wakes up with wet cheeks but an empty amygdala.
It’s a catharsis after watching a play in a foreign language.

in the labyrinth of words,

I wish
I’d know what to look for –
rhyme schemes or wet cuffs;
or should I grab the motif,
her waist or her heart.

All the unfinished portraits
I buried it under the willow tree
with a poem-full of broken rhymes.


My friend asked, “what
do you find most pathetic?”
“The incessant obsession
with shying from cliché,”
I thought.

In this epoch of
indie and bespoke, you should have known that
uniqueness is ubiquitous.

So you see
The true crime isn’t
ordering a gin tonic, but is to
banter those who are sipping coffee.

Because too often
do people chide the luciferous moon
for stealing the sun’s light.
And maybe that’s why the moon
wanes – to seek refuge in the darkness
from umpires on their thrones of pomposity. 

“I’ve heard that answer,”
my friend scorned, and I chuckled
“But I’d rather be a copycat than a pussy.”

The man without a past or a future

Patterings on my window.
A letter from France,
A postcard from London,
A flask from Scotland.
Yet I turned to
a clock I bought from a local convenience store,
Thinking I am going to be late
for another karaoke date.

Noise of a vacuum cleaner permeated from the corridor
As I learned how sound deteriorates exponentially –
maybe that’s why I harkened whispers in a foreign language
but let shouts of my mothertoungue slip.

another night of small talk.
and I tried to find a topic
from the bottom of the bottle.
But all there was
was the last few drops which wouldn’t come out.

So stop asking me
“do you care”
just teach me how.


The day it was shattered
tears bled out of our eyes.

You said
It cannot be repaired.
But I still want to

the shards are sharp.
And they cut
than your cold shoulders.

still little by little
I pieced in plight.
But texts and letters aren’t
the best
adhesives. It stay
broken as ever.

So tell me
when you’re ready
to let go of you piece.
For long shall I
for that piece 
named forgiveness. 

Missa Viventium

I was 15 when I first buried her
Along with a relative
whom I barely know

While people were moaning
for the deceased,
I was burning in pain, severing
a part of me. So in the coven
I placed
a perversed concoction of feelings

15 years of incompleteness
has passed before another funeral caught me
Walking in the front of the coven
I felt oddly out of place 

Yet my heart sank with
the coven of decayed flesh. 
With every 
shovel, a piece of her was bared

And suddenly I felt the pain – 
it is as if 
my body is lain bare 

ghosts of the past penetrated
me, my dignity and past

My past is my present 
and I have no future. 
for she buried it with her. 
So forever may I live
in that buried coven
With her

Picking pieces

I’ve been picking up pieces
I left in places
and people

I try to stick them together
to replace what’s been
in a foreign country

But the pieces are sharp
with odd
Edges that do not fit

“The unbridgeable chasm between concept as a set of conceptual moments and concept as an experience of meaning”[1]

Then I realise how dubious
it is to find whiskey in barley
And how mistaken it is
to weigh my smile to another

So again do I leave
This time, with not a heart
to be given. But space
for another


[1] A quotation from Japanese philosopher Kuki Shuzo’s book The Structure of Iki

Tokyo-to, Meguro-ku, 4-5-29 Komaba

walking down the road,
a train
by me, and I did not notice

someone was screaming
in my ears.
It blocked me out
from the world

and I tried not to notice
walking behind me with him
talking silently
with your hands

So I turned
and walked into the public toilet
To wash off
the scent of another man’s cock

Then I heard the train
this time
For all I had
is blues playing in the background