Scream Queens

Darling, the cameras are watching.

*

*

Imagine: It is late winter; you are standing
next to a pond, holding yourself frozen; 
you are about to die a horrible death, and all lights
are on you, and the director is barking 
into his ridiculous megaphone,
wearing an equally ridiculous pair of sunglasses, as if
moonlight would burn him. And in this movie
you are the first girl – the innocent sacrifice, 
the foolish blonde – except that you are not.
Your hair a dark mane around your face, your eyes 
sharp enough at the corners, non-compliance
promised. Your mouth’s a straight line, obstinate. 
When you move, the set rumbles
like thunderstruck. Sadly you are but a name on the
deadroll. ‘Listen, all you need to do is scream’, the director says,
commanding you to smile. Your skinny legs
bare and shivering in the cold, and in a few minutes
you will be dragged into the water, wailing and kicking
bloody murder. You are looking at the monster, your co-star, thinking 
‘I can kill three of you with a chair leg’, thinking ‘I should be the monster
in the lake’, thinking ‘When will I stop being a parody for men’s entertainment
and an excuse for women’s
discontent?’ The director is still giving commands
but you’ve stopped listening.
You should have stopped
from the start. Imagine: It is late winter, it is 11:46. You dip your feet 
into the cold water and shiver.
‘It will be fast’, the monster tells you, his teeth glistening
banal desires; the corner of his mouth threatening
to swallow you whole like a ripe apple. 
‘It will be fast,’ he whispers, voice like a noose,
‘Just pretend to thrash a little and give in,
and I’ll pull you down,
and I’ll pull you out of the cold.
You wouldn’t even feel it.’

*

Sun, 19/11/2023.
Ant.

After Club Hours

let us run into the night laughing, let us die with a young heart.

*

*

The olive branches are staring
back when I snap them in half.
Dig into the dirt, I kick my heels
and you say ‘come here, you
monkey.’ Your hands are cold
and there is a burn rippling
in me which could warm
both of us. We are standing in a
parking lot, there are no car
in this ungodly hour and we let the sun
climb over our shoulders, greeting
sad eyes, sad mouths, staggering
hands folded over each other
like paper planes. We are sitting
in a parking lot, both twenty-one.
You take off your shoes, dangling them
by the thin straps, saying ‘I don’t blister
when drunk dancing’, and I’m thinking
‘then how are we going to remember it
the night after, and the night after, and
the night after?’ and I’m thinking
‘memories: we’re pressing pain
against our ears and listen to its
beats’, and I’m thinking ‘love,
let’s walk home, and brew coffee,
and have a shower, and climb
in bed together; and make slow
patient love, listening to our bodies
in that deliberate music, stripped
from all the loud noises of the night
before, outside our windows’.
We pick at the wild blooms
on the sidewalk. Porous asphalt
and concrete cracking, opening up
little doors to life. I give you a flower
no one would buy, so in a sense it is
priceless; your hair loose, your lipstick
smeared, your short skirt scrunched up
and your nose too when you smile
the nectar in my veins is bursting
back into flowers. Always
so violently, youth kisses

like it could kill us.

*

Sat 28/10/2023.
Ant.

Sunset Anthem

And we were endless.

*

*

We ran until we forgot that we were running
our souls lifted and twisted and shifted
and became the air, the plants, the soil,
the sweat on your temple
the dust under our shoes, remember
the time when running around was all
that we do? It was as if we were chasing
sunsets; those fleeting moments 
where the sky turned into the colour of
your cheeks, and your hands, and your brown
golden-flecked eyes under sunlight
when we kicked all the rocks we saw
and screamed at the rushing water.
The riverbank felt endless.
All the stars were bright and shining,
and the moon was so round
like she had never been imperfect.
The kids stayed happy. 

I wished we could frame this moment
and put it in our pocket; a little snippet
of infinity we stole, carefully cut 
into the shapes of our silhouettes, separated
from the expected lifetime of growing up,
growing old, growing expected, and dying.
We would glue it head to tail, 
like a mobius ring, and sprinkle on
so much glitter we would have them
on our clothes and in our hair for weeks. 
And in this ring we would spend lifetimes
chasing sunsets. I wondered if you would want
the same thing, having our little paradise,
and living in that bubble. We never leave Eden,
we never eat the apple. The day you left town
I stayed at the riverbank reading your letter. 
I didn’t cry much; the winds were strong, the river
rushing, I screamed at it until my lungs exploded,
and my body exploded, and suddenly
I was old, and my soul was tired of running, 
and we were no longer kids. 

We would never be again.

*

Fri, 23/12/2022.
Ant.

Love, always

is what i sign my letters with. 
it has always been easy to say love
to people i am at most acquainted; 
the cashier of the grocery shop, the bank teller,
the editor of the magazine i submitted my poems to, 
that UberEats delivery guy 
who has memorized my address. the intern
i am in charge of, who will not get 
the job offer in the end. the other day i told you
about the kitten that died in my arm when i was
twelve. it was a sad story; i was hopeless,
we were living on rent, penniless, and my mom 
couldn’t afford a cat on top of her two children.
the kitten died from the rain. i told you sometimes
i was hopeless, still. and you said, ‘i love you.
please remember that i love you.’
aren’t we ambitious? look at us,
saying love as a countermeasure 
to sadness, as if it will somehow uphold the sky, uproot
the bad memories. how dreadful an ambition it is
that we exchange it like postcards, a collection 
of wax seals, and dried flowers, and absinthe,
and dead doves in paper bags. 
i dream about it once, where i can stop saying love
as if i mean it. where we hang our coats
in the hallway entrance, walking in
bare feet, leaving our lies dripping like beads 
from the lappets. the lights dim softly, mellow hues
a halo around our faces. we pour a glass of wine, 
we turn on the music, and when it shatters  
i don’t stretch my skin out like an overfilled balloon,
i don’t stop the tears seeping through the rips. 
i dream about it, crying
instead of writing. let me wallow
in sadness. let me stop parading traumas 
like they are performances. let me leave my coat 
on the hanger in your hallway. let me leave my shoes
in the rain. i love you so much
that on the days i do not feel like loving, 
please open the gate when i pull up
on your driveway, and stand with me on your doorstep.
we will hold hands, and witness the sky breaking
open, its shards collapsing like glass, at last.

*

*

Sun, 18/12/2022.
Ant.

the orphan talks to the universe.

*

*

‘Are you happy?’ The universe asked.

*

You looked up and the universe
was staring back. You were both children, dreaming
of the moment you were brought into the world,
crying and kicking blood red, boundless
explosions the space-time was ripped to shreds
with an infinite amount of black holes.
You were dreaming of the moment you were born;
you had a body so massive and sublime
and almost too divine to behold.
But it was fleeting. Thirteen point eight
billion years were way too long a journey
back in time, and maybe that was for the better.
You had heard how resounding
a grandiosity the Big Bang was. You had heard
about its greatness, how it expanded,
and expanded endlessly. It was almost a myth,
the first day of your creation, a disembodiment
so clean-cut that if you were to come back,
you wondered if you would even recognise
yourself: screaming so loud so piercing
as if life had greeted you with open arms
and you refused. It was better staying a dead,
inanimate, bright but distant foreign scene
in the past only, wasn’t it: beautiful and absolutely
harmless. If you had stood witness,
you wondered if the explosion would ever happen,
you wondered if you would ever let yourself
be born.

You looked up and you were still
dreaming. The universe was gazing,
almost expecting. I will not be a mother.
So you told the universe. I will not give you
another motherless orphan. Another kid
screaming ‘please, why did you bring me
into the world?’ Another child who will mother
another child who will mother another child
who will pass the aggression and the rage 
and the devastation down like a heritage.
And the universe answered, Oh, darling, 
are you still having nightmares 
that you would be your mother?
Are you still seeing her in yourself?
You were stripped. Your fear, so deep
rooted, so tremendous and conspicuous,
so alive, laying like an open casket, where
you gave birth to your first child: an eulogy
for the day your mother made you motherless.
It sored like a healing wound you were too afraid
to let heal. You cradled it
like a mistake. You put it in a crib and flinched
whenever it wailed. You will not be a mother,
you thought, because you never learn,
just like the path your grandma had walked
before, and your mother had walked after.

The universe crouched down and folded you
into its embrace. The universe was the child
and the mother. The universe had loved you, had died
for you, had only wanted to make you
happy. why aren’t you happy? It asked,
in the small little space it boxed you in.
In your dreams the universe was smiling softly,
eyes crinkled, blurry at the edges. In your dreams
it had a shape, a silhouette, the flow erupting
with hands. In your dreams it looked like mother,

and you realised love was always a blade,
but you were never
the wielder.

*

Tue, 15/11/2022.
Ant.

On writing poetry:

*

The Manual, Page 1.

*

It was simple enough:
to take a dried seed

and birth a nightingale.
Only that the work

was never explained
in great, formal details.

How would a dried seed, supposedly
dead, become a living thing?

Where would the life force
come from? Which devices

to be made? Who should I turn to
for advice? Questions were left

unseen and seeds kept turning,
nightingales soaring with their wings

almost dark enough to blend in
with the suede of the sky. 

And I am but a mere mechanic.
I know the fixing, how things

should work in the eyes
of the common crowd, how words

should flow like birds gliding
in the air, like seeds falling 

to the ground, landing on those
waiting hands. I am not

creator, examiner, the birthing mother.
It is not in me – the maternal love

for children born out of mostly frustration
and imaginative endings.

They are but expressions, feelings
conveyed naturally – they come 

and go with ease, as they should
without the assurance of knowing.

How do they work? I don’t know.
What about the structures?

I do not follow them. I merely pick
the seeds in me and let them flower

into a summer bird. The tip
of my pen touches the pages

and soon enough words become
a vessel of my emotion, feathers blue

only to the eyes of those
understanding. It was simple:

to take a dried seed,
put it into the holes on your chest

water with the ink in your veins
and let it flower, and let it fly.

*

Thu, 28/01/2021.
Đậu Hủ.

beaming.

*

even if your light dims and flickers, it is still light, it is still a beacon, and this is for you.

*

i think we are fireflies in a jar.

at night we light up and pretend
like we can feel warmth 
radiating from within ourselves.
and in the morning when the sun rises
we sleep. our dreams fog us
like clouds, hiding us – 
hideous bodies and illusive
minds. but i remember you so vividly.
your wings fluttering, your eyes gazing,
your body sleek brown and 
cut sharp, like falling out from a mould, 
a cutter; a carefully crafted
sculpture. like there are strings
on you, controlling. around you, binding.
i think i fall in love, just once, and then
again and again, with a different you,
every time you hit the glass. 

we live in a glass jar; and the world is blinding
with light and excitement and 
madness. do you know anything outside?
no, you said. but you still try to
leave. i don’t understand you.
i don’t try to; we are different bodies,
our minds intertwine and part
and it’s not our faults; 
we are not created to feel each other,
and sometimes not even ourselves.
i would ask you the reasons
and you would hum a little.
because the world is massive, you said,
because this jar is too tiny,
because our lives are too short.
you are using big words, too big
for two little bugs, so big they are
crushing us. tell me,
have you been gutted by ambition? 
have you ever been defeated?
have you ever been destroyed? 
you look at me, longing,
beholding a past that has long gone;
and i know the answer
for the question i haven’t even asked.

when sun rises, i will kiss you goodnight.
i will hold your hands when our lights
go out and our breaths even; 

and one day i will wake up without you
and one day i will start hitting the glass.

*

Sun, 07/02/21.
Đậu Hủ.

portrait of a lover

Love and Other Alienations #14

*

*

the day before yesterday i painted the sky.
so this is how gouache smells like, you said
it smells disgusting. and i laughed, so vibrant
yellow and neon green and barbie pink and
sapphire martini blue are spilling
all over the floor from my mouth.
we debated over the clouds.
there was nothing as enough clouds for you
and you acted like we would insult
you late grandmother and her patch of
brown mushrooms in the backyard
if we wouldn’t put just another cloud
on the canvas. we fighted
for the paintbrushes. messy
and lousy and with unintentional
bruises, just like how i paint –
i’m sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i can never draw something correctly
no matter how much i try – the blush
of your cheeks is always a bit too red
like you’re shy and excited and in love
all at one, eventhough you’re not. your eyes
avert, searching, a soft glow of dark and earnest
brush strokes. you would lean on my table,
or sit in my couch, or sleep in my single bed
where you pull the duvet up your chin and your toes
squirm under the golden light of the world
in my paintings. but that’s not true, isn’t it?
im sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i cannot paint you correctly, instead
i imagine you a different version of yourself
and she appears on my canvas. so playfully
and endearingly and impressively
i have the illusions that in the stark reality
her original model loves me
just the same.

*

Mon, 25/05/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

Escape Rooms for the Apocalypse

Thoughts and Prayers #2.

*

*

Except that there is no escaping. Strangers come and go and leave
stench. We would try to be polite if we are not so busy hammering
the floorboards over the corpses. Someone is supposed to find those

and act suprised, maybe a little frightened, maybe a little panic.
We power the batteries by shrieks, like the old movie Monster Inc.
when the apocalypse was still a word on the other side of the front-

door and the bell rang, but we ignored it. On the wall there is a line of
photographs and portraits. Behind some of them are clues, encoded
so that when you go down the right path, you die. The rest hide

traps, but not as deadly; they only ask for limbs. Grotesque mercy
is the price for poking in our past. We install the drains at the corners
of each room so that blood will not pool up at our feet and cover

the clues. It’s the escape room, anyway. In the jewellery box you’ll find
rings, with fingers intact; use them for fingerprints, although there are
hundreds and after three wrong inputs we drop the blades. We are 

nostalgic; guillotines excite us and the sight of your head served
on a floral plate is appealing. Careful what you’ll find under the bed
the ladies love a hide-and-seek as much as your eyeballs, ornaments

for their dresses; they’re making bowties out of those with ribbons
and giggles and laces. We’ll let you peak through the curtains,
windows are caged with forged steel and barbed wires but if you’re

loud enough, you’ll realise there is no one outside; everyone is either
dead, or trapped in their escape rooms. And by everyone I mean
us too, trapped in an even smaller room, the nails on our coffins

rattling when we laugh, everytime another one of you join us.
Isn’t it frightening? Do we terrify? The neverending cycle
of looking for a way out and finding none. We make fun of you 

and your despair. We laugh while looking through these screens
and set up agonizing scenarios you are forced to act out. It’s always
better to distract ourselves with the sorrows of others. It’s always better

making you suffer instead of drillling on our own. We are miserably
invincible. And when you make it to the front door, you will realise
the apocalypse is still on the threshold, waiting; the bell keeps

ringing; we will give you the keys and see you break. Pick up
your organs from the floor, they are an eyesore. And welcome
to the club, we have bet how long you’d take to be one of us.

 

Sat, 28/03/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

Thoughts and Prayers

of a rogue planet.

*

*

In the first day of creation God said
Let there be light
and I don’t know if the Bible holds truths
in these dark times, still. A hand
outstretched, something I cannot take.
A smile detected through only the curved
corners of tired eyes. Light fades
like everything else does
and in the shadows there are outlines
of us standing; scattering. Precautious
distances, we are told, and we act as though
that haven’t been our lives
even before the dark times ever
begin – floating around each other like rogue planets
too terrified to run into orbits and let gravity
grasps hold. Circling like the distances
define us. We act as though
it is a laughing stock. Funny enough
to forget that it was not better
before the fall. Where was you
before the fall? Someone asks.
It was strange. It was horrid – the land
I was on before. A deserted island.
A rogue planet. A place where people
float awkwardly and cautiously like we’re scared
of being too close. The universe is far too dark for us
and we will burn like comets.
The Bible said humans were created last
when the world was ready for us. But are we
ever ready for each other? You see,
even before the dark times there is no ray of sunshine
that can touches the ground I’m standing on.
I am too far from you, or from the stars, or from God
I read the Bible to know that I was not created alone
and I have been here for a thousand years
waiting for lights. 

Wed, 25/03/2020.
Đậu Hủ.