May Day’s Second Parade

We’re on a marching band

I say we are before the month of May ends…

We’re on some marching band

God damn, I say we are

We’re on a fucking marching band

Marching through this nonsensical land

Say we are, we damn sure are—

Marching on piles with panic!

We shed laughs instead of blood,

Yeah, fine, we’re on a marching band

Cause we all feel sick so we make some entrance grand

but like sex it all feels we’re having a one-night stand:

To gather in haste and together we split

out our marching band,

where the prophets sound their horns

and those who holds their cross,

Make some children in bed mourn.

Father, why you pile us up… in some marching band?

Where bombs drop beats and guns for rattles.

I hate to see myself in some marching band,

where someday I will carry a fellowman’s coffin at hand…

I ask why there is a marching band—

On days we face death and his guitar,

as he plucks as back to no man’s land?




XD I should have posted this the past May haha



Continuous nonlinear poetry, start reading to whichever line you want:

but yours and mine
which (should) now (not), is (be) known–
like planks placed for fences
was the day we’
ve decayed of
bodies both yearned
those termites–no,
they did not
cause our
feet into crumble

“Though filled with …”

filled with
never occuring glances,
a note, a poetry:

some words written
eyes drawn on paper
what catches are
it, were shades
lines complementing–
the words just unknown
a paint of black:

were letters,
faint as the shreds
of an unsharpened pencil.

all was there reminded
of the photographs, not

just a pile, not much more.

is dust.

dont be confused with the cupboard and the armoire;
both is me.
one feeds you of love,
the way you did with others; the latter gave you warmth
because you needed it.
yet you open up and rob
the shelves empty,
breaking plates on my back,
tearing out old patches,
dont forget when you’re done
that in ways more than anyone,
you’ve always got the key.
so i keep in me this lock, and shut the small doorways,
even if you gave that glass of water,
that shawl that my shelves keep to another…
i seal the air that’s tight
with it the shards and patches, with all thats left

random thought

there are many a mystery in life, but none of them ever compare to your longing of that book–when once you’ve filled your nose the scent of its pages, or how you’ve turned every leaf to reveal the marvels you are to face. none compares of its front and back cover, or its height and weight, the way it is made and even the hardness of its binding and how it keeps the bundle through its spine.
none, but life.




well, I’m back. I’ll be posting some of those things I’ve written but hadn’t posted yet.

Your hand I’d want to hold when you feel alone.
Hug you tightly just to make you feel we share the same pain.
Listen to you closely, even if I’m in parts away.

To how the smile you give of me, by your words and kind heart.
Makes my body numb when you’re left by yourself.

I hold on tightly even just by the screen,
its frames the borders of
how in words what we
can only be seen.

i, you, no:
each held tightly
by those
minds intertwined,
lo, ’tis such the very reason
are only
st-st-stuck in thoughts
bound never to be seen,
spectral to one another.
both not knowing,
what could have and
which cannot.