"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."


These demons they linger till dawn, but they are not
gone- an afternoon nap, vital for midnight perversion
and infallible travesties.

Between the fingers of shadows lie the making of a
caricature that buckles the core of your mind and
exploits the seeds you have so carefully nurtured.

Mute, so you listen gingerly to waves that make no
sound. You gaze blankly- roads and people turn into
white walls, but then you hear it.

You hear the thoughts that is masking your sight,
disfiguring the outlines of your expression. No longer
seeking words or sounds, taste and smell but absent.




My skin has lost color and scent, i am faceless with doubt. Have you seen my eyes? I seem to have misplaced them. My mind fills with grain and noise, a photograph overexposed, too much sunlight or maybe barely enough to see a clear picture.The little dots in a jibber-jabber, i do not know what they say. Are you talking about me? Am i talking about me? Am i even in this picture?

Tears fall and i do not know why. The grains and noise disappear, yet the photograph remains unclear. Was there a subject to begin with? My mind now empty, i can’t stop the puddle in my eyes. I am broken for reasons i am unable to understand. Why?

My eyes focus on an inanimate object but i am not staring, barely looking, what am I glancing at? The foreground blurs, my eyes begin to hurt.

#@!? &$*

Raging like a battery that leaks acid right out of me.


‘No matter how many plans you make or how much in control you are, life is always winging it’.

Expiry date: undated

Can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep.

My bed spread smells of death and refuses to accept my body, alive. I resemble a browning apple and my heart, almost obsolete. My mind disintegrates by the hour as the worms in my brain produce sour milk- there is no happy place, only a chunk of mould in the palm of my hands. My senses tell me I have expired, I refuse to listen, as always.


The setting of my dream resembled Malaysia, particularly Ipoh, for some queer reason. I frequent visiting the latter during my childhood, as I have relatives living there. Vast land and terrace houses are vivid in my mind, there is no doubt in being acquainted with your neighbors.

A neat row of terrace homes were before me, as they were behind me. I picked one, without bias, and sat in front of the gate. No one was home; no one seemed to bother at least. 

I was reading. The title “The Little Book”, I remember clearly. Though it was probably 500 pages or more thick. Not so little I suppose. All I had with me was this book and a pencil. I was enjoying the quiet, the fresh grass and slight breeze- not quite violent enough to irritate (you know those kind of winds that sweep hair across your eyes and cheeks without permission?)

I then heard a clatter of wheels along… well more cement and stones then a perfect tarred lane, if you’ve been to Ipoh. Blue vans and police cars turned into the street that I had adjusted myself to. I ignored them, curious, but I didn’t let it show.

They halted two houses beside and three extremely broad shouldered guys forced themselves into the house right across me. How rude.

Then a little strange thing happened.

A mute of hounds came marching out, slob monsters I swear. I love dogs, and I remember not loving those.

Then a strange little thing happened.

A few men followed after. On their fours, knees mirrored invisible paws- just like dogs. The men in uniform seemed pleased. One of them caught my glance.

There was a weird feeling in the pit of my belly and I stood up. I noticed my dad walking towards me. He always knew where to find me. Just like when I was little and got lost once in the airport. At five, the airport can be a disturbing place if without a familiar face.

He told me it was time to go. So we walked, we kept walking in the other direction. My book! I forgot my book.

The dogs were barking now. They were jumping hysterically. I ran back and grabbed my book, refusing to make eye contact.

A few more steps… My pencil! As though my father had heard my thoughts, he shouted at me to forget it. No. My pencil, I loved that pencil.

I turned back.

“Did you forget something?” I heard one of them say. I wouldn’t stop glaring; there was something quite off with those eyes or was it his grin that worked me up? I wanted to slap it out of him, but I didn’t know what.

He handed me something and I ran. I ran as quickly as I could back to my dad.

“So you’ve got everything?”

I slackened my fingers only to find a red pen, broken. It’s ink released a tragic odor smudged onto my palm. A bloody mess. I dropped it.

My pencil, where is my pencil? I had to go back.

Obscure dreams

I dreamt that our little red dot was wiped off the face of this Earth. The cause – dinosaurs. Ridiculous? Maybe. I remember tossing and turning in bed till 437am, and the rest was a mystery, until dinosaurs invaded my sleep.

I remember the chaos and their colossal mass. They seem to differ greatly when placed on theater screens as compared to my absurd dreams.

My incubus was sound asleep, disrupted by a large yellow eye peeking through my bed side window. I don’t remember much, I never do when it comes to dreams.

I do not recollect anyone being alive.

What I do recall was the fear in my sister’s eyes. Saliva dripping, razored teeth – face to face. So close, you could almost pet it.

I remember myself being torn between fear and love. I remember myself conceptualizing the pain of being masticated, flesh and bones. Assuming to be eaten alive- a slow and agonizing death. I remember myself wanting to take her place and my legs trembling at the thought of it.

But if she stayed, she would have had nobody left.

The valleys on your back, i will trace them
with soft fingers & nails of amber.

My lush lips crave the contours of your
regal disposition.

You withdraw from the vibrations you
lust so dearly after-

waiving carnal instincts that you shy upon.

Your mouth is a playground
and my tongue is bored of chatter.

My lips yearn your pulsating rod and
i’ll watch you intensely being pleased-

down on my knees.

Won’t you give  into the erotic war of desire,
for there is no joy in a game of decency.

Your pupils reflect an aphrodisiac and
I want to taste the sexual God in you.

– I will have you in my sleep 

The little people in my head sit on staircases and alleyways, the day tires them and the night, what a maze.

Beyond the edge of the world there’s a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And, hovering about, there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.

Kafka on the Shore, Murakami