A Poem of 55 Lines and a Thousand Unwritten Others(of an unhappy 87 days of a hush-hush affair, of the love that never came to be)
I like for you to be still when you read this
And for once forget about those dull and dead theorists
That populated your thoughts
For I have no regard for them
As I am of myself and with what I have written now
Although it seem to you I wrote in perfect ease,
granting each word a perfect release
I am not at all quieted inside
for I fight a foretrembling storm of losing you
My Beloved, Langga, crowned owner, ever dumper, ex-lover,
I will miss you, us, and the perfect tableaux
Of a misbegotten affair
I will miss that strange excitement of having you around
The thrill of the forbidden and the dangerous
but most of all
I will miss the smell of your breath in the morning
the sight of your jaded face
your feline eyes
you’re aquiline nose
your fragrant and bushy armpits
I will miss your beauty in the dark
Your naked shadow clinging unto me
Those invaluable stretch marks that
adorn your lovely bottoms
Your crenulated hips
I will miss north and south of your body
The vast stretch of skin bedecked with moles
I will miss those areas foreign to my tongue
I will miss those times
When the room would reek of the kitchen
Of vegetables chopped and steamed
The shared plate next to your bed
The false connubial ceremony when
I took the fork and you the spoon
And together we renounce: I do’s
Like bastard lovers on the loose
Feeding on a sacred meal
Followed by a sacred fuck that stopped time
I will miss you
My fellow culprit
My fellow Dharma Bum in bed
I will miss everything that happened between sex & meals
I will miss the flight at dawn and the Indian gibberish
the very late trips aboard flight 1695
that white car that never stopped to sleep only to cough
in the dead of the night
the neighbors who knew of our crime
I will miss the house and the labyrinthine way to your door
I will miss the musical snap of underwear
the ageing bed that creaks at dawn
and how it never tires
how I wish we didn’t tire of each other
how I wish we understood better
how I wish I knew this language so well
that I would finally make sense
strangers we were once and strangers we are again
this story although written ten times or more
is never told
never heard
for it never was
never-evermore.
September 21, 2008
I like for you to be still when you read this
And for once forget about those dull and dead theorists
That populated your thoughts
For I have no regard for them
As I am of myself and with what I have written now
Although it seem to you I wrote in perfect ease,
granting each word a perfect release
I am not at all quieted inside
for I fight a foretrembling storm of losing you
My Beloved, Langga, crowned owner, ever dumper, ex-lover,
I will miss you, us, and the perfect tableaux
Of a misbegotten affair
I will miss that strange excitement of having you around
The thrill of the forbidden and the dangerous
but most of all
I will miss the smell of your breath in the morning
the sight of your jaded face
your feline eyes
you’re aquiline nose
your fragrant and bushy armpits
I will miss your beauty in the dark
Your naked shadow clinging unto me
Those invaluable stretch marks that
adorn your lovely bottoms
Your crenulated hips
I will miss north and south of your body
The vast stretch of skin bedecked with moles
I will miss those areas foreign to my tongue
I will miss those times
When the room would reek of the kitchen
Of vegetables chopped and steamed
The shared plate next to your bed
The false connubial ceremony when
I took the fork and you the spoon
And together we renounce: I do’s
Like bastard lovers on the loose
Feeding on a sacred meal
Followed by a sacred fuck that stopped time
I will miss you
My fellow culprit
My fellow Dharma Bum in bed
I will miss everything that happened between sex & meals
I will miss the flight at dawn and the Indian gibberish
the very late trips aboard flight 1695
that white car that never stopped to sleep only to cough
in the dead of the night
the neighbors who knew of our crime
I will miss the house and the labyrinthine way to your door
I will miss the musical snap of underwear
the ageing bed that creaks at dawn
and how it never tires
how I wish we didn’t tire of each other
how I wish we understood better
how I wish I knew this language so well
that I would finally make sense
strangers we were once and strangers we are again
this story although written ten times or more
is never told
never heard
for it never was
never-evermore.
September 21, 2008
painting by: Jean-Michel Basquiat
