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I.                                                                                             


Leaves
                        are                 burning                                  snowflakes crimping

dumplings gnawed from the tree bark lent
by the neighbour of the seemingly friendly friend of
his friend. Circles, the rabbit stews in
the suffocating of Fire,                                                           but you ran,

 
                   ran,

TEACHER, from forests, when Exile
from people's posts in                  the city has
a cornet stuffed to it, heralding shuffling             

                            unity                

                                                 
                                                        of the smoking stream meeting soil on hydroponics.

 

Confucius, resurrected as a granite countertop,
recited two thousand years to the cut-off words
of Four Quartets in the kitchen and
there was confused music squabbled in present day
as a present in the thousand soup bowls in the sink,
entwined in the watership washing down
unspoken prophets in reddish rain
where each droplet counted the hollandaise
and aroma bleeding from wrinkled mouth and drain.

 

When there was no blanket around your head,
twenty years ago,                                                                     

                                                                                                  the chilling storm sat down and held

your asparagus hands like dowager empress telling
                                                                            folk tales and dragons moralities to

princesses bethroed to the flying


Ouroboros burried in rubble of clouds,
in misty fortresses of ancient civilization  
vapourizing into dampening

 


autumn. Remembering
the Berlin Wall: when fireworks
went off in Poverty village and
there wasn’t a sound, it echoed, but
everything was cold and got colder when imperial yellow
turned to red. The embers of concrete fly back
to Ground and was smothered, plowed in
the crisp cutting of meat in drowning air when

today, folks believe the bridge in Kiev falls at
the end of fall, when winter has already crawled
onto your enamel windows,
unheated, uncared for, unlit.

What is free culture? 

The snow blankets a head, TEACHER, when
the dirt roads were covered, buried in the blood
of november leaves when rain created
cleavage in the quarries where you laid.
Whose turn is it now to chop timber
when one hears people rise to Les Mis,
when Beijing is built up from backs of Rome and
the carmine is embedded in a vigil of Christmas lights?

 

 

 

It is perhaps a mystery when
the pines sleep quietly and the bristlecones
walk to the nightmares of 1989,
when the young bark is stripped and made to
divine dreams born from hammer and sickle,
when they are arranged down on jade board
held down by the knife for a phantom revived 

in the Western Wall past the rising eastern
sun, which rose and receded to the sleet
as the thrushes feigned the siren of a silent generation,
as the steam from your kettle boiled to heaven’s gate
running past the cauldron, tanks and guns,
as the poppies in the field are shaken by
unheard distant rumble hereof.


II.

 

On a shivering night, I was told a story that
your neighbour’s television was finally passed
and you witness the Iron Great Wall deconstructed
by elves swinging in the West, where the
Great Music plays in the phonograph in abandoned
houses. Today, the hobbits have found their
time living at the heaps of rolling raked leaves
at an end, and you are grabbed by wheat ships
on golden wind, heading into a sandy millennium
defined by the two classes of the evening sea
driving the earth to madness when all it does
is to let us work it, work it. It is
in a faraway place.
The velvet carpet has been strewn for celebration,
the coronation of a new sensation, or
temptation of the new coup, dressed without
clothes walking proudly in the coupe invasions of
the capitalist kind. The king permitted it, I mean,                    bullshit,
TEACHER. Inspiration is breath of  
ocean ramming its whitewash onto
innocent rocks, who stood bruised but firm in the
asiatic continent they were born in
and sanguine ultramarine stains its clothes
when the torrent currents gunned up
against all of their heads.
When the foam finally subsides and
all that is left, the whistling zephyrs
empties the profoundly littered bay.

When autumn has ceased, the bear is
seized in the rocking cradle of the snowing
bull, radiation sparkles onto the atmosphere
and the working day is clear. They learn
language and grope the choruses, but fall
bears no more fruits. They are banished
from a world into the hairy forest growing
between lines lying on the beginning of horizon
when the paradise of
                            home is merely a zone.

Arriving from wooden days where the armies
scale fogged peaks, the ringing alarum has receded
like Tibetan tides from the pinnacles of sky,
an ocean, and all the leaves, all kings have vanished.


III.

The rabbit made a great leap forward into the hole
and the grizzie woke up and chased the rabbit
when summer came and the muted
sounds of rivers flowing
into living ocean
trickle out of desolate rich-man wines,
                out of the secrets aged within the haystack of alpines.

     

When the field is quiet again, the october
season are crimson fossils farmers dig up and
throw like bricks to the ochre ground.

 Steam rises from the terracotta pots,
but no one remembers where
the water was or why

 carried it up the hill, and who broke
their crown when everything fell down
to the mountain. Eagles, eagles, come.

 Exists no more TEACHERS when
the students are born from those words
of 1989, the words of struggles, so
you resolve to sleep as Athens is
rebuilt again in the vacuum of seas




when the surface has been unscratched
and forgetting what little is known,
about the incensed iceberg above, is known.

 

 Vote, if you can or want to.

 

You say powerful memories are dug up and
come to haunt you, as the powder falls
in Moscow, in Crimea, but the e-den is gone.

 The sepulchres of revolution are dead.
June and his men are dead.
The trees are dead, the ocean is dead,
the sky and you are dead in the place
where we denote as the set of 1989, when it has been
always left as a plaque in the stupid forest at
the beginning. You are the friend’s
friend, and I am your neighbour in
a world where red,

the fiery birthmark, has been bonded into
our yellow skin,
kitchen knives and empty sea.

 Where the yellow trees fall down,
when all the red trees are down,
who are down?

  

2014-11-02

In memoriam communism, 1989
1989 was an eventful year. Censorship is ok unless used for relative evil. This thing is hashtag free, and therefore highly photogenic. Why am I ranting about a country which I do not believe in? Because words, words, words.

Anyway, in case anyone wasn't aware, 1989 was an eventful year. The Tianmen incident, fall of the Berlin Wall and a couple of revolutions occured within the space of the year and it was a period of massive change. Whether for the better or worse, that is a story for another time. Before 1989, China was beginning to open to the world after many years of self-isolation during the Mao regime, and well, the results are debatable. I will ask the question: are we truly ever free? The notion of free choice is quite complicated because we may not understand the intricacies of a political system, and if we fail to understand it, then there is no way we can work around it. Whether you want to debate on this, or the poem, it is fine, but please keep it respectful. 

For this contest: <da:thumb id="489584511"> and I have written nothing longer. Sad :(

Edit: (sort of) Incidentally, it was the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall last weekend. I did not actually know that and it was an interesting surprise.
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the words of revelation fall from your lap to mine,
god. it’s perhaps that i’m the wrong john or jacob,
but superfluous was not in the universe’s law.

job asked why the righteous suffer,
and i was sated by your wisdom before it led to me.
you held the blood and you sew them to stars
raining memories of jerusalem, of
an innocent mind turned against you.
i threw your book out and it soaked out
the iron garden, as did i.

we lived in a city enclosed in adobe.
by itself, i hear the procession of children crusades
pillaging broken windows
playing the seven trumpets of solitude
plied within. god, they say
you are right. i know, before adam and eve, that
you do not imply fair.

jerusalem was a city,
and it became a citadel where the walls
grow and i am ripped at your endpoints
by moving stones of forgotten
childhoods, forgotten graves.
i shed feathers of ink on easter monday,
finding where i am on your number lines only to find

you penned the word of the world
in six and gave all we would be. inside, time withers
as i am carted away to churches
and there, we are taught to walk on your road away
from you. all roads lead to rome, but you are jerusalem.
so i follow no road, but know the cobbles itself. 
i unproof each hint scattered across of your emptiness,
only to lose the faint starlight of each insight
that you have written with the ink of my sight.

some people know you as real.
the agnostics don’t know, and the atheists know.
but there is nothing to know about you.
god, you are love pulling me out
the windows six feet down.
you are the unanswered telephone calls to a matrimony
slipping through my inside before the broken cups
of coffee spills emptiness to the milky way.
you are the celestial pages of scripts
thrown to hard ground
eluding this verse i scribe. 

maybe i may be grasped at the seventh hour,
at the fixing of the seventh angel to nights. i pray at sabbath,
when you are asleep. 
god,
i do not comprehend the silences today.
your poetry are bricks calling me at the pane
but all i only knew was how to lie in your name.

seven eras at your end
A Facebook status does not indicate the systematically beautiful and emotionally ugly intricacies of a relationship. 
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twelve.

took the midday train going nowhere
and i look at the solstice
of the sun and think of a similar word
before my vision of the world turns to a solar abyss.

sons, that is a luxury for the young,
when nowhere meant anywhere.
i embrace your memory when all the voyages goes on. 


one.

by one, i am stream of consciousness
in your empty bed listening
to mumford and sons.

well, that is something i’d wish for.
something you thought you
won when your mom was weaved in cosmic rain at
the grass, at time pressed against your earthen breath.

 

two.

little lion man,
you are a pair guarding the broken gates
to my bank accounts.

but the sight of two comes at the new moon,
when the eclipse of twilight spew
out tragedy, when you lose control,
when there is suppose to be me and you
bleeding out policies of time.

as long as you like it, so will i,
but your light has already burst
and i’m not insured.
 

three. 

leo could have been a name
for the things we’ve never had.
you blew up your womb like a balloon
and we’d be in africa about now, but
then we'd be like icarus crashing
in nights to your hammock pinned to the celestial lion. 
flaubert is drunk, baudelaire is high and
a girl would have been fine too though.

  

four.

four is chinese for death.
four is the number of girls that lived
there forever, when there's one now
out the street by the forensics car. only men pass names,
but you were sure no one would remember yours.
 

five.

first world problem:
i wish lectures would end at five.

second world problem:
over-production of buildings for
sunsets. then you jump off
because time is precious money?

third world problem
is a disease of the first two worlds
beginning without your chronology.


six.

i recite an ancient prayer on the sixth hour
even though i’m an atheist. the city lights
talk and even if you are rowing the boat with him,
i would not know what to do. walk.

  
seven.

the party last year forgets who are we, when we are
held in poetry department. when minutes
pass from earthly heaven, i am reminded of your
song telephoning in for a slice of brain pizza and
i push her away and fuck off by the third.

 

eight.

i ate the text messages
and i’m running out of things to say.
because seven ate nine,
i walk because i’m afraid of you.

 

nine.

missing time by previous theorem
as nine is infinity, indivisible by zero.
age strolls between our doors
and i sprint endlessly on its treadmill.

 

ten.

is the end of singles,
and the beginning of doubles.
digits of our tennis game
fly as its starry balls, passing
by as a comet. the odds of impact
increase with each point effervescing
in my continuous head.

 

eleven.

my ribs are railways
marked in the fiery world when
it did end with your bang and
not a whimper. the doomsday clock rises from
the feet to your mantra

in my continuous head.
and i sprint endlessly on its treadmill;
i walk because i’m afraid of you.
i push her away and fuck off by the third
i would not know what to do. walk.
no word for self homicide?
but you were sure no one would remember yours.
a girl would have been fine too though
i’m not insured.
the grass, at time, pressed against your earthen breath,
i embrace your memory when all the voyages goes on.

hours
Cause I can't get you out of my head, you bastard. Also, reading Elliot tells you how high the curve is set.

(Also, read this on my first poetry slam night this Monday. ;_; is basically my internal reaction. I need to stop saying also.)  
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five things are all i can mutter when
ten are required.

finding me is a riddle meant to be loved
although no one deduces my eyes. look
closely, closer and his hair cuts open; it
exfoliates like an onion.

everyday has been taken care
and already, my time has come. no one thinks i listen like a boa
remembering each implicit fear.

nearing my mouth, the desert lips
own my face and my ear like foreclosed estate. my skin
shouts the pulling words and the oarsmen at my brow  
ebb like crying tides, but the ocean

smells like
home. dive in
or be pushed.
underneath, i am the arms of  
light bubbling to your ear. listen, you ask?
darkest days imply only light and
events do not occur as coincidences like elbows that rub.
respire and believe.

hints grow on my shoulders
in the blizzard of spring while
pi is a constant in which
all squares go around and round.

lest you rationalize,
embrace your thickest thighs.
good is relative to words people
say, though it cramps and cramps.

freedom is an enslaving engima
existant without limits. there
exists your face, ear, nose, shoulders, hips, legs and
toes and so too will you.
deconstruction on principles
I have to be honest: I wasn't on board with the self-image thing at first. I wasn't a fan of poetry about myself but truthfully, I never really wanted to admit that I cared for myself even though I kept lying about it simultaneously. But after chromeantennae wrote this,

5'7'', 176 LBS (170 CM, 80 KG) 

it set off a huge response in here. (which you should go take a look)

This Deserves a Feature On Its Own

I was still hesitant to go on board because it wasn't what I usually write, but somehow I ended doing it? I am actually surprised by how well it turned out.

Thank you, Ricky. You're incredible at inspiring people. I would never have thought about this without you starting. (:   
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The soft anthem of twelve sylvan soldiers
guards the swaying of our glass halos
moulded on amber windows of churches.
Most people hear only wind breathing
like walking steps echoing into infinite positions,
but I don’t see why it’s wrong to surrender
to the everyday. Each morning, the autumnal songs of  
Time hangs on the gibbet of your pendulum lips
as arctic winds growing from a sweating tree.

I snack on Kinder bars while watching leaves
diffuse to a random state. Look close;
it reveals a different of colour of time.
Maple eludes to the shade of dawn
when my eye breaks its fast of you, while elm
is the golden glimpse of night when we ran like children to
the forest. Imagine a storm of candlelights
carried by the river of gales and I am carried
with it. I am brought away to city
in the rapturous prayers of all citizens.  

Everyday, I wonder to God that I don’t believe
of the chances, and I believe in them. The first tree
releases its flames and the woods follow the falling auburn
trailing like a map of epidemic paths.
Let them scatter in pretence and degenerate into spirits,
and you let them believe and the momentum
carries itself to pass over moments.  
Silence is borne on the entropic trees, but I am
lost in your branching labyrinth.

It’s strange how we met. Do you remember?
We walked past the town clock each day on
the melody of an orange earth. People headed to different places,
I wonder the chances of one evening when the autumn
lethargy claimed us under the thirteenth hour,
when we said our first and last hellos. The sun stopped.
The hour or Vespers and Matins stood watch
when visitors came and the feathered leaves came to rest
their flying days. Sleep, old months and years.
You are the solstice of time
enlightening each orbit as every person is locked around.
Everyday, I wonder the chances of you
and each time, I believe in their wonder.
Years under the orange earth
This is a complete rewrite a poem I submitted for a contest two years ago for Halloween. Most of the themes of the original have been discarded, but I kept some of the ideas of it and reworked them into this new one. Looking back at it, it reminds me of how much time has gone by. I'm also trying to go a different direction and detach myself more from the personal perspective and create something more abstract. I would love any feedback, criticism you have. (:

1. Kinder- refers to Kinder chocolate bars
2. Vespers and Matins- the even song and morning prayer respectively
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reflectionsinwater
Jack
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Malaysia
Props to :iconwolfclaw97: for the image and for helping me create an account :).

Everyone just calls me Jack, so you should call me that. Currently a math undergraduate with a passionate interest in anything and everything.
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:icondeinktvis:
deinktvis Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014  Student Writer
:thanks:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
So glad you're back, and just in time for DFC :). Been wondering where you've been P:
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:icondeinktvis:
deinktvis Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014  Student Writer
new job is the simple answer:)
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:iconjamboe89:
jamboe89 Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2014   Writer
Thanks for the dev watch! It would be my pleasure to watch you back! :)
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:iconjade-pandora:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014
Hi, Jack!
FireWorks by 0Josh0 Time for me to celebrate by thanking you for faving my poem "No Matter Love"/
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem. (:
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:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Oct 7, 2014
Hello. How are you today? (:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hello (: Thanks for asking! I'm perpetually excited about the wonders of everyday which we do not understand. What about you? Anything on your mind?
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:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014
lots of things on my mind because i'm studying for my midterms. at this present moment, legal history is bouncing round my head. not the most exciting thing, so i enjoy making random convos online while i'm at it. :heart:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
What do you study? (and if you wouldn't mind sharing where would also be nice). 
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