Don’t Promise to Grow Old with Me

Don’t promise we’d spend the rest of our every evening with teapots of coffee, with low light, listening you writing songs about me and your old stories.

Don’t promise we’d survive the war or the earthquake, because there are too many men who try too hard to be important, because I already told you that Earth keeps secrets the best.

Don’t promise to come to Vietnam with me. We both are too busy. I’m jumping to the very next flight to Kenya, when monochromatic zebras are closer, and pink hippopotamus are farther.

Don’t promise that you’d be able to read me like you’re able to read the whole newspaper with its ads and its political jokes backward.

Don’t promise to stop seeing the glass half empty, the bible half misinterpreted, the skyscraper half ruined, the storm half stopped, the bread half toasted, and the women half naked.

Don’t promise to spell every Beatles’ lyric correctly in French, in Japanese, in Arabic, in PHP, or in silence. Just say, and write a letter for me later than the dawn.

Don’t promise to draw the silver linings perfectly because bright clouds aren’t good at raining, and because it’d hurt the dark designs we always have in our selfish minds.

Don’t promise to go hiking and stop the volcanoes. They are too sad to sleep too long. Too sad to lose their warmth, their weight, and the lives around. We both never know.

Don’t promise to stay or to make a home in a train or an airplane, so when you’re too tired to drive following the horizon, we’d just rest upon the yellow grass or above the golden sea.

Don’t promise to forget every promises you didn’t promise me, the way I often forget my way home, all those traffic lamps, and punctuations in your bed time poems.

Don’t promise anything in this temporary life. You and I have never been too close or too far to see the future and lifetime is never worth the wait.
—

GEA General Election: The Hearing, and The Dawn

Along the night
We had blurry vision
Of plastic glasses
Half empty with black coffee

Lights were low,
High-pitched tones,
And dead cigarettes
Laying on the floor

We wore the same
To bore, to blame,
My rubber shoes
Damped with sweat

Dances were skipped
While our dreamless eyes
Dimmed with exhaustion
Then we slept awake

(After a really tiring hearing….)

Let’s Runaway and Join a Circus Gang

Let’s runaway
And join a circus gang
We’ll wander around
Riding caravan

We’re gonna make it
Country to country
Where the grass is greener
And spaces are wider

We’ll play everyday
Under the sunshine
Below the moonlight
Among the little lamps

There are plenty of children
With smiles to laugh
Heart beaming
Wind chiming

We can have cotton candy
Or jump on trampoline
Whenever we like
Whenever we care

We can do the tango
And the clowns won’t judge
We’d forget about our age
And how we grow older
***

Let’s runaway
And join a circus gang
Let’s pack everything
Start with your Holga

Let’s runaway…

Carousel

He’s her carousel
Of sad tale
Of silent melody
A broken remedy

Spinning, spinning around
Think she’s run far
But she only reached the start
There he always be

She’s always back
And missing him
Spinning, spinning around
Think she’s run far

But she only reached the start
There she’s always back

(I miss those times I dedicated you a bunch of songs)

Fireworks

The rain falls on January, 1st
Wiping away the sins and the dust
From the very last night

Every dime that turned into
Temporary sparks
Of joy and delight
Boiling the sky
Burnt, melted, faded
As we laughed, we danced
As the clock ticked
Wrapped the memory
Blasted remedy
Of thousands drops
Of friendly fire
Burnt, melted, faded

The rain falls on January, 1st
And nothing is left
But three hundreds and sixty five days

After Midnight Thoughts

I
Am I nocturnal or I just slept too much in the afternoon?
I know you don’t know
You don’t even have any idea who Pelle Carlberg is
He’s a genius

II
Pelle Carlberg is a genius
He sings a song about a beloved imbecile girl
But (…)* is a prodigy
So don’t masturbate with his pic

III
Monks don’t masturbate, do they?
I recommend them Sigur Rós
For ear orgasm, and melted heart
But never half tired brain; tired or not at all

IV
Eventhough my brain is masochist
It’s still malfunctioned after midnight
I wonder if so is everyone’s
So was maybe Cinderella’s

V
Maybe Cinderella was brain malfunctioned after twelve
That’s why she had been told to come home before that
She left the glass slipper, didn’t she?
And if she were there any longer… I begin to wonder

VI
Cinderella would start screaming on the top of her lungs
About how much she fell for that skinny prince
How many pages in her diary she drew about how bad she wanted him
Then maybe she would start lighting a cigarette

VII
Cinderella was not a bad girl, but I am better
She went to dance party and I am studying
She cried and I am meeting her inside my brain
With melted ear, tired heart, and brain orgasm; I go to sleep

*) Well, it’s a name. Of my friends. Who rocks. He does. Hoho.

Written in March 23rd, 2008.
Cinderella lighting a cigarette? A really awesome idea from malfunctioned brain. Hff..

White Dress is Just a Symbol

White dress is just a symbol
And we all love symbols
That we symbolize everything

Red polished nails for sensuality
A for ‘excellence’
Heart shape for love

We are so busy symbolizing
That we often forget
The meaning, or more, the reason

We draw heart shape
Between our names
Then we’re busy again thinking

White dress is just a symbol
Of anything we want
Then we’re busy again, wanting

Written on January 26th, 2008.

Rufus Might Have Tried

The books are wide opened
But the pages are empty
Or too full
That they are black

And you seem so perfect
Because I only see you from the north
When compass doesn’t work
That you are made of steel

And I hate myself when I’m alone
Because I will go too far
And out of my mind
To cross the borderline of hell

I’m a tresspasser
with grey converse and green tee
I wanna jump to through to you
Like Jimmy Hopkins to the assylum

Rufus might have tried
To sleep with eyes open
But it’s too cool that he & I can’t
So we srite a song

But the pages are empty
Or too full
That they are black

The books are wide opened

Written on November 14th, 2007 at 01:31.