see saw seen swan*

maybe one day

she will just say that

she's heavy enough

heavy



enough

*

Argumonk

forget holes in your argument really it's

you who want consoling

M•A•C Primer - FACE: PREP + PRIME FACE PROTECT SPF 50

the dirt of this city:

the foundation on the face chart
of my soul

Look out

You said
on that lookout
I could see both
my country
and yours

But I've been there
I could only see
you.

tuhantuan

                            per
                           tjinta
                           anke
                           lahir
                           anke
                           mati
                           anke
                           sepi
                            an
                          mata
                            har
                            ibu
                            lan
                            ke

tu                                                          han



                            an

Thisblogis

This blog is shit
This blog iss hit
This blog issh it
This blog i sshit
This is blog shit
This is blogs hit
This is blogsh it
This shit is blog
Thiss hit is blog
Thissh it is blog
This shit blog is
Thiss hit blog is
Thissh it blog is
This is shit blog
This iss hit blog
This issh it blog
This blog shit is
This blogs hit is
This blogsh it is
Blog is this shit
Blog ist his shit
Blog isth is shit
Blog this is shit
Blog this iss hit
Blog this issh it
Blog shit is this
Blog shit ist his
Blog shit isth is
Blog shit this is
Blogs hit this is
Blogs hitt his is
Blogs hitth is is
Blog shitt his is
Blog shitth is is
Is this blog shit
Is this blogs hit
Ist his blog shit
Ist his blogs hit
Isth is blog shit
Is shit this blog
Iss hit this blog
Issh it this blog
Is blog this shit
Is blog thiss hit
Is blog thissh it
Is this shit blog
Is thiss hit blog
Is thissh it blog
Ist his shit blog
Ist hiss hit blog
Ist hissh it blog
Isth is shit blog
Isth iss hit blog
Isth issh it blog
Shit is this blog
Shit ist his blog
Shit isth is blog
Shit this blog is
Shitt his blog is
Shitth is blog is
Shit this is blog
Shitt his is blog
Shitth is is blog
Shit blog this is
Shit blogt his is
Shit blogth is is
Shit blogt is his
Shit blog tis his
Shit blog tish is
Shit blog is tish
Shit blog is shit
Shit blog shit is
Shit blogs hit is
Shit blogsh it is
Shit it is blogsh

Sestina na na*

aku malas ngomong tentang pertjintaan
perut djadi mual serasa sedang menunggu kelahiran
aku lebih senang batja koran dan menjimak berita tentang kematian
mungkin itu tjuma salah satu tjaraku melupakan kesepian
seperti pagi2 aku menunggu terbitnja matahari
dan tidak melihat di kaki langit sana masih ada bulan

tapi mémang siapa pula jg masih peduli pada bulan
kecuali penjair2 tengik jg tak bosan2 bertjeramah tentang pertjintaan
jg tak puas hanja punja 20 padanan kata buat 'matahari'
jg menuntut tukang bétja peduli djuga dengan sakralnja kelahiran
jg protes pada pohon2, satu2nja jg menurut mereka mengerti tentang kesepian
buatku hidup lebih baik dilihat sebagai permainan jg kartu as-nja kematian

sehingga kalau kau mau menang, tjabutlah kematian!
djangan tunggu sampai NASA mengirim lagi astronot ke bulan
ingat subagio, jg bakal kau temui di angkasa luar tjuma kesepian
lebih baik tinggal sadja di sini di bumi dan selami pertjintaan
asal tak usah kau embel2i dengan sesadjen lajaknja kelahiran
tjinta akan selalu bisa membuat kita terengah2 seperti habis mengedjar matahari

bukalah buku harianmu waktu SD, pasti di situ ada djuga matahari
sering kita lupa kita pernah bahagia, hanja karena hidup penuh kematian
seperti rumah sakit jg sudah terlalu sering djadi saksi kelahiran
seperti pungguk jg sudah terlalu biasa ketjéwa pada bulan
seperti tak lagi menghitung djumlah tawa dalam sebuah pertjintaan
bukalah hatimu sebelum sesak dengan kesepian

tanjakan pada seorang pendjaga lift tentang arti kesepian
tentang pasangan2 jg di matanja tersimpan matahari
tentang muzak jg menjiksanja dengan kisah2 ménjé pertjintaan
tanjakan padanja tentang kampung dan kematian
tentang sisa tanggul di bawah bulan
tentang salak andjing jg mengiringi tiap kelahiran

kota ini tak pernah peduli dengan kelahiran
buatnja tiap kafé adalah sesendok teh kesepian
dua tall lattés, carrot cake, dan sebotol bulan
di kota ini kita tak perlu berebut matahari
di setiap sudutnja 24 jam membara kematian
tetabuhan purbakala jg dilistrikkan dan api biru pertjintaan

maafkan aku sok tahu tentang affair pertjintaan dan kelahiran
maafkan lelutjonku tentang kematian, tjeramahku tentang kesepian
aku hanja ingin melihat matahari bersanding dengan bulan



*kata2 akhiran sestina ini ditjopet urut dari esei chairil anwar, 'membuat sadjak, melihat lukisan', di buku editan h.b. jassin, chairil anwar: pelopor angkatan 45, gunung agung, djakarta, MCMLXVIII, hlm. 150-151. kalimat terakhirnja: 'Pertjintaan, kelahiran, kematian, kesepian, matahari dan bulan, ketuhanan — inilah pokok-pokok jang berulang-ulang telah mengharukan si seniman.'

Avance-toi,who every ou are!

i think people don't like what i write because they can sense the hate

and no one wants to see hate

in a bunch of tulips

or

i think people don't like what i write because they can see the hat

and no one wants to sense a hat

in a lunch of tulips

The express wish of a Chinese kapitan in Batavia, 8 October 1740

i wish my life was as pretty
as a girl walking slowly
under the midday sun

her hair like a dance of ashes

The Wireless Dept.

i guess i'm just too rational
and you're beautifully it
imagine a canyon between plain
and an aeroplane

I don't think

i think it's because i've always wanted too much to be sad
                                                                            or profound
it's like when i go to school i should have in my bag a rose
                                                     and a photocopy of the sun

Old stars

us oldsters
what we've got is experience
the heart can only take
so much beating
mandatory
quadruple bypasses
of the head
before receding hairlines
cross the youknowwhat into
expanding baldness
before the halos
we puff up
come back to choke us
and we pave the way for you
grave by grave by grave

NV

i envy the young
everything that comes out of their mouths
is poetry i think
i'll inhale their farts for inspiration

manzania

friday night is a slow fanta

                            sy!



of pretty chinese girls in i-ta
                                        suki
of brilliant remembering of
                                     SMP years
of clean-cut dismembering of
                                               the edges
of different circles:



i put
my heart
on an escalator going up

Ode to an Esmod graduate

O my brilliant Esmod graduate!

Intimidate me with yer knowledge of crushed velour!

Of dandyism that begins at the waistcoat and never ends at the spats!

I envy yer débutante graduate show!

Yer interplanetary glitter!

Yer second-hand, much-loved, half-baked

Idée fixes

Of glam

D'or!

I envy yer year at Central St Martins!

Yer 3-month residency at Marc Jacob's brie-smelling workshop

Next to that patisserie tunisienne in the 20ème arrondissement!

Yer too many cigarettes and shared jug of citron presse at La Rotonde

With that adorable

Best-of-his-peers

Graduate from Esmod Windhoek

Sunny Namibia!



O my beloved Esmod graduate!

You of the high cheek-bone and strong jaw-line!

Make room for a piece of me

In yer slashed, vintage, stylist's own

Physician's bag!

Child

Rating:	★★★
Category:	Other

It's useless to believe
You can say anything with flowers

-Sitor Situmorang, 'Anak', Malam Sutera, Matahari, hlm. 118.

Lord Byron, where hath thou been

Di antara segala macam digresi yang kau paksakan
Hamam di 18ème arrondissement, sate onta Beduin
Harem di pabrik kertas Slough, naik tobogan macan
Sestina guru yoga, Wordsworth yang seperti Mimin
Dengan jari dan ujung rambutku aku bisa merasakan
Di balik ottava rima-mu yang mulus seperti beringin
Sebenarnya kau hanya ingin menancapkan hati
Di pucuk lilin yang menyala di kamar kosmu di Trinity.

Brilliant disguise (so not)

Restoran itu punya semacam Hindia Belanda chic, dengan pelayan2 tua berambut klimis, berjas putih dengan trimming merah di kerah dan ujung lengan yang menyembunyikan daki, piring logam berkompartemen yang tergantung dari film apa saja yang menemani anda waktu remaja bergaya kafeteria sekolah atau penjara, dan poster2 kaleng bergambar menu2 makanannya circa Pemilu 1955.

Tak ada AC. Hanya beberapa fan yang berdiri di pojok2 ruangan yang berdinding kayu seperti manekin telanjang.

Siang jam 2.

Paman Gembul duduk di salah satu meja yang bertaplak kotak2 merah putih dan berlapis plastik, di depannya beef stroganoff yang sudah beberapa menit ia aduk2, sebotol bir besar yang berpeluh, dan sebungkus rokok Gaulois yang belum dibuka.

Sudah setahun ini Paman Gembul makan siang di sini setiap hari Sabtu. Lebih baik daripada siesta sendirian, pikirnya.

Paman Gembul sejak kecil selalu punya fantasi hidup sebagai sinyo dengan nyai2nya. Rijsttafel buat makan siang, kemudian dipijit nyai2nya sampai ketiduran.

Sampai setahun yang lalu fantasi Paman Gembul ini sempat terpenuhi. Dia bertemu dengan Bibi Titi Teliti di sebuah party di Kemang, dilanjutkan dengan ngiprit semalaman, dan berakhir dengan breakfast pizza dingin dan Coca-Cola di kos2an Paman Gembul di Menteng Dalam.

Sejak itu mereka bagai alis monobrow. Tak bisa dipisah.

Seminggu setelah mereka bertemu Paman Gembul bilang kepada Bibi Titi Teliti tentang fantasinya. 'Ajolah, akoe djadi Jan Boon dan kaoe djadi Njaikoe, koeberi nama kaoe, Njai Ogoh2.'

'Nyai Ogoh2? That's a ridiculous name. Don't be stupid. Gimme a grande dame old name, like Ontosoroh, or Sanggramawijaya Dharmaprasada Utungga Dewi. What about that?'

'Batavia boekan poenya orang Djawa, Njaikoe. Bagaimana kalaoe nama jang lebih nétral sadja, seperti Germaine Greer?'

'OK. Asal belikan aku iPamper untuk memijatmu.'

'Tabik, Njaikoe.'

Jadilah sejak itu setiap Sabtu (karena di hari2 lain mereka harus kerja, dan di hari Minggu mereka harus makan siang bersama keluarga) Bibi Titi Teliti akan menyiapkan rijsttafel dengan srundeng, sayur lodeh, cumi woku ('Aku diimpor ke Batavia sebagai budak dari Manado'), dan susu nihorbo ('Terserah aku'), mereka berdua menyantapnya bersama di depan TV di kamar kos Paman Gembul yang lapang dan ber-AC (2,5 juta per bulan), dan setelahnya Paman Gembul akan tengkurap di lantai di depan TV yang dingin sambil punggungnya menikmati getaran iPamper di tangan Bibi Titi Teliti yang memainkannya maju mundur seperti Hoover sambil nonton TV.

Tidak lebih dari 5 menit Paman Gembul akan jatuh ketiduran, Bibi Titi Teliti akan melanjutkan nonton Nip/Tuck di DVD, atau Paman Gembul tidak ketiduran dan menyadari betapa Bibi Titi Teliti mencintainya dan dadanya akan penuh dengan gelombang samudera, ombak pecah, kapal karam, dan dia akan mencabut kabel iPamper yang menyelip di bawah tangannya dari tembok dan dia memeluk Bibi Titi Teliti sekuat tenaga dan mereka kemudian bercinta dengan kasih sayang dan nafsu yang sama-sama besarnya. Atau kadang2 Paman Gembul akan bangun dan yang pertama kali dilihatnya adalah wajah Bibi Titi Teliti yang mendengkur lirih pas di depan mukanya. Saat itu dia akan tertawa dan membelai rambutnya yang jaguran.

Sampai suatu Sabtu siang setahun yang lalu waktu Paman Gembul pulang ke kosannya dari mengantarkan manuskrip kumpulan puisinya ke rumah Laksmi Pamuntjak di Wijaya, dan di situ yang dijumpainya bukan Bibi Titi Teliti yang sedang memindahkan cumi woku dari rantang Beautika tapi lemari pakaian yang pintunya terbuka, isinya kosong melompong, dan sepotong kartu pos bergambar Monas dan Hotel Marcopolo yang di belakangnya tertulis, dalam tulisan tangan Bibi Titi Teliti yang rapi seperti gigi peri, 'Aku bosan bermain nyai-nyaian.'

Sebulan setelah itu Paman Gembul tidak pernah keluar rumah. Dia hanya menonton Taufik Hidayat menang Olimpiade Athena, berkali2 menonton Dogville, dan hanya sekali2 mencoba menulis puisi. Tapi susah sekali. Rasanya seperti ada kereta api tanpa masinis berjalan pelan di terowongan antara kepala dan dadanya. Tanpa jadwal dan di gerbong Eksekutif-nya hanya ada satu kursi yang berlumuran darah.

Sekarang Paman Gembul duduk di depan stroganoffnya yang berlumuran telalu banyak Lea & Perrins, merokok Gaulois yang terasa seperti kardus di mulutnya yang bau bir, dan memandang ke luar jendela lattice kawat yang membatasi dirinya dan jalan Gondangdia V yang menyerap panas lembab seperti cawat.

Panas lembab yang mengalir pelan menggoyang poni Paman Gembul yang berat berkeringat. Senyum simpul menyerobot mulutnya yang sedari tadi hanya garis coklat. Di kepalanya terlantun nada sebuah lagu Bruce Springsteen dari album Greatest Hitsnya yang kata Bibi Titi Teliti, 'meninabobokkanku waktu hatiku digergaji pertama kali,' dan yang sampai dua minggu lalu chorusnya ia pikir berbunyi:

IS IT YOU BABY, OR JUST A BREEZE IN DISGUISE?

Le misérable

Di sebuah taman kecil di seberang Notre Dame aku duduk di bangku batu

Di sampingku sekantung pita bread berisi falafel, tabouleh, beberapa biji zaitun

Sekaleng Orangina rasa sitrun

Mereka harus menunggu

Di tanganku buku tipis Remembering William Carlos Williams, NDP811

—James Laughlin, seorang penyair medioker, tapi jujur

Membaca surat pertama yang ditulis Bill setelah stroke-nya yang terakhir

Susah payah dengan satu jari di mesin tik

(buat Flossie, istrinya):

'Dear Floss thank you for everything
forgive me   I always loved you   Bill'

Buku itu lepas dari tanganku

Jatuh di tanah yang berwarna krem dan sedikit basah sehabis gerimis

Waktu kupungut pojok-pojok buku itu telah menyimpan secuil Paris

Beberapa butir pasir, bulu merpati, dan air yang membentuk danau gelap di kertas kuning gading

Secuil yang akan lenyap

Sebelum lonceng berdentang tanda makan siang

'Tis clear thou art a loon

The aim of yer chosen passage
Of charming masks and bergamots
The joy of Lot and a quasi-dance
The sadness of yer fantastic disguise

Chant in yer minor mode!
Love is vain and life opportunistic!
The air, the cross, the magic hour
The son & a mêlée on the moon

The calm air on the moon is full of tears, beautiful
The river, birds, trees & the sangfroid of ecstasy & jets of water,
The grandest jets of waters
Svelte as Parma marbles.

- translitic of Paul Verlaine's 'Clair de Lune'

William II of Akron

william t. vollmann caught the last plane to jakarta from akron, oh.

not a direct flight, of course.

nothing flies direct out of akron, oh.

he landed at the soekarno-hatta international airport when it was still missing all its toilet doors.

there were pools of urine and cigarette butts in the bottom of the urinals, perched higher on the wall for white male caucasians though of course william t. vollmann, being a white male caucasian, didn’t notice this.

having caught a damri bus to gambir, william t. vollmann walked the short stroll to jalan jaksa which, he thought, would be like a mini pat pong.

it was nothing like pat pong.

he booked himself into a deluxe room at losmen eskol (ice cold!) and ordered himself a whore from the bellboy who was really a fifty-one year old man named samuel.

the whore had dark, perfect skin and was perfectly efficient.

she offered to bathe him before they got into bed and william, that’s what he asked the whore to call him, said yes, okay, agreeing that after a 27-hour non-direct flight, he was a dirty man.

when the whore went home william felt the same emptiness he felt in akron, oh.

it felt like inside his chest there was a funeral cart carrying an oversized coffin draped in old glory, drawn by twelve black belgian horses, and everything was moving really really slowly.

to get rid of the emptiness william went out to dine.

it was a saturday night, or perhaps early sunday morning, and he ended up at a noisy 24-hour patisserie.

there, being a gregarious, chatty traveller, william met aldé, an assistant stylist for the indonesian idol, and a pretty boy with curly hair and dark skin that reminded him of friday, yes, crusoe’s friday. friday didn’t say a word the whole time william and aldé were laying down foundation for a friendship that will last a lifetime.

aldé said that this girl priska was the prettiest though she couldn’t sing but that one of the judges promised she’ll at least get through to the finals if she let him suck her big toe while she urinated in the cramped backlot toilet after the ‘spektakuler’ show.

that’s all he wanted and that’s all he did!

aldé said and william and aldé both laughed and friday stirred his warm coca-cola with a black straw that doesn’t bend.

are you planning to fuck friday? asked william. they were speaking in english and william was taking a chance on friday not being able to speak it.

or speak at all.

no. let’s go. said aldé.

aldé got up from his seat (a metal chair with rattan back), bent down, and whispered something in friday’s ear. his hand cupping his ear and his mouth so he couldn’t see or guess what he was saying.

friday swung his backpack on his waifish shoulder and walked away.

i will take you places william, i know that’s what you long for, but not tonight. longing is good. but longing on a large scale is what makes history. you of all people, should know that.

they shook hands and both disappear gently into the good night air.

william walked back to his losmen room with an idea of a book in his head and a million butterflies in his stomach.

Yang kudambakan

Kebahagiaan

Keabadian

Awan emas di kejauhan

Sebuah mal dengan sungai di tengahnya

Kau dan aku bermain ayunan di tepinya

Sorga sebagai sebuah permainan selama-lamanya

ETTA TU TOBA

dari Tabo Toba kita berjalan menuju Tuk Tuk

melewati jalan batu dan rumpun perdu

sinar beku bulan baru

dari Tabo Toba kita berjalan

tanpa doa tanpa petunjuk

papan nama luntur menunjukkan arah ke sebuah disko

300 m naik ke atas bukit yang dipenuhi salak anjing kampung

300 m yang kita jalani dengan hati yang cembung

300 m naik ke atas bukit yang terasa seperti turun

sampai di tujuan kita jumpai dua Honda Legenda, tirai yang berbau jamur,

dua pelacur yang berusaha keras menaklukkan kekosongan kursi-kursi rotan, dan debu di meja bar.

musik house megamix yang bercampur aneh dengan gondang di hatiku.

kita melanjutkan perjalanan dengan sinar senter Nokia-mu dan tanganku yang memegang erat-erat

tuak sebotol Aqua besar yang berguncang-guncang seperti mengerti badai di dada kita berdua.

dari Tabo Toba kita telah berjalan

dari Tabo Toba kita masih berjalan

penuh dosa

dan rasa takluk.

Gondang Dia

«Here the earth vomits trees it doesn't know what to do with.» And you said I was right.

Then

You put a hand, pale like a flower, on the grey trunk of a palm tree, «That's why I feel so out of place—where I come from, the trees keep everything in.»

I left you sometime during the transfer of power from Ulan to Olay

And I hope you will go through a painful divorce soon and I won't take you back either.

PostSecret

today i bought goenawan mohamad's tuhan & hal-hal yang tak selesai and back at home i jerked off to aphorism no. 69.

U&I

Like pieces of white bread
In nutella commercials:

Never toasted.

parc si crap is crap si parc

2nite: it's Anytown, Indierock

Orientals of the world, unite!

Pins on lapels

Cheap beers «best served with friends»

Firman haircuts

Neat

Hair washed, teased, blow dried, hair-sticked, hair-sprayed

Senen Garfield tee on Jimi Danger, 4st 7lbs

Sleeves rolled-up

«Ils sont Les Jadugars»

Casio Exilims' flash

Passing joints at the bar

Generous Absolut in the cranberry

A couple kissing at the bar

Open microphones

A couple kissing at the bar

DavTar hiding the labels on his records

Edophilia spinning burned CDs with tracklists stickered outside

So people can make requests for James, latest Franz Ferdinand's 7"s

Glamorous indie rock 'n' roll

The waiters are young

People say, «Lundi, c'est le grabuge, yeah!»

Converse hi-tops, lo-tops, hi-tops, Converse, All-Stars only

Turn-ups. 511s

Electric Youth

Electric, eclectic youths on friendster

Blogger, melancholico, virgoagogo, everyonesintolomo

Everyone missing the extra -sis in narcissists

Lou Reed walks on the left side of the street

Punk's sordid affair with disco

Nastee is not so

Nastee doesn't even drink

Batman wears a Transformer mask

Otherwise, he's normal

People come in groups

Their clothes ironed and clean

The patches new and shiny

The turn-ups pressed, permanently

People lean on glass walls

Or sit in groups at the back, their toes not a-tapping

Checking pictures they just took of each other with their Canon DIGITAL IXUSi

The Canon DIGITAL IXUSi was incredibly small in 2003

Beers come in pitchers with black straws sticking out of the amber like ancient watchtowers

Someone orders profiteroles from the Italian place downstairs, the waiter wears black and carries the cream puff balls on a perfect white plate

The sugar syrup was dark and dribbled all over with the utmost care

The cool people crowd around the DJ booth. Sing along when the DJ turns the volume all the way down

The cool people refuse drinks, saying, «I'm gonna smoke a joint first.»

The Nameless Club is Open. The door is dark wood. Heavy with a small metal handle. Like a trap door. Or a secret door leading to a secret room where

«The music is not too loud, you can still talk!,» she screamed into my face

It's bright inside, so people can check each other out

Then people post pictures of the night before the morning after

On their personal hik-hik blogs

They send thank yous and shout-outs to the DJs on friendster's bulletin boards (remember, this was 2004)

A man is a bunny rabbit and a woman is a female carrot

Everyman's an artworker

A poster of the State TV's Latest Nite News on the wall

Breaking news: «I'm gonna play mostly new rock.»

The DJ sings along to his own tune. Ash's Candy

The DJ smokes, his/her fingers white and long like witches'

The place is nestled amongst freight-forwarders and modelling agencies

It's a cinch waiting for cabs outside

It's next to the ugly mall where all the expats go

It's next to the mall where all the ugly expats go

It's Anynight, Indierock

People Take Pictures of Each Other

And store them in digital Picture Books of the mind

I saw one of them the next day at Plaza Senayan, carrying a huge LV shopping bag with her left hand, and a leather baguette slung over her right shoulder

These people speak of a new renaissance

Of langue, parole, littérature and the delicate fine arts

Of waiters taking your money and printing out a legible receipt (finally!)

Some argue with people who charge it on their mamans' cards

The people threatened with a name and everything's resolved in a blood-lust under the table

The beer is twice the price inside and you can only buy two or not at all

Everything comes in two

Except a year

Studies for a street scene (macan tutul bok!)

Straws like bullets / in his back pocket / cold water / in his hand / like a grenade—

Plastic cups of water in his hands / cold / like hand grenades—

For a thousand rupiahs
you can get
a fully grown man
to run around traffic
of heavy steel
like a child
playing tags
short straws
packed like bullets
in his back pocket
plastic cups of water
Cold
in both hands
like hand grenades
he hands over to you
reaching out[cross that]
across the heated air
above the dull knife edge
of your passenger seat's window—
of the window
you roll down
from the safety
of your passenger seat—
of your modded
passenger seat—

a hand like an elephant's trunk
resting on
the edge of a car's tinted window
like a shark fin
rolled down just enough
to let
the hand roll out—
it roll out—
to flick dead ash
on the asphalt
and rest
on the sun-warmed roof
of the car to wait—
and wait—
for the next drag—

More honesty you don't need/more of me repeating myself repeating myself myself myself

«And one night I woke up in room A007 and went straight to my desk (so fast I almost went at it), opened a notebook my mom had left me on her last visit when she threw a full good box of Honey Crunch cereal down the sink, one of the many drug companies' gifts she always had lying around the house—it seems sometimes all the stationeries I've ever used in my life had the cute Paphros owl on them—and spent the next two hours writing a Platonic dialogue between M & M, both initials for my own name of course, just like this one in fact, with the two Ms instead of the « », and I think I was really honest then. I've still got the notebook, I plan to type it out one day, that's how honest I think it was.»

«Why, how, what makes you think it was honest? What makes you keep the notebook for so long? I mean, it does feel good when you've written something honest, doesn't it, even when the writing is bad, you read it years later and you can still feel the warmth, but that's making the whole thing sound cheap, or just not ... singular. You do feel warm inside when you've written something as honestly and as truthfully as you can. even when you don't get everything down, because maybe you're not good enough, some warmth does stay on the page.»

«Well, that's right. Sometimes I think honesty is a technique, you know, Hemingway always talked about it, although he used the word «truthfully» instead—I don't think he ever wrote «honestly», for obvious reasons, not to write anything «ghastly» like Orwell said could've been one, maybe not, Hem would never have listened to Georgie O.—but it's such and integral part of the early career of a writer ... well, really, of his life before he started his career as a writer—I think when you aspire to be a writer you start out just wanting to be honest—and I don't think you can start up a head of steam unless you're at least a little honest about yourself—that once you've got the career and you get very good at it, at all the different permutations of honesty, at telling it stright, or telling it circuitously to get at a bigger truth, at lying ... you don't wanna go bback, you distrust those feelings now, you think maybe you were just drinking too much coffee to stop yourself from going hungry. «Hunger was good discipline?» Where's the beef? You know, now you think honesty was just that, being really really hungry and not being able to afford a hot lunch.»

«Yes, and what did M & M talk about?»

«Love. Of course. At least it started out as a discussion about love. But then I think it ended up more about me ... than this girl I though I was in love with. I think I actually wrote it down that I loved her. Of course I didn't. OK, I did. I sort of liked the way she could say the things I used to want to say, to other people, to myself. Cruel things. It was the start of my masochism. So I wrote in my honest, uncompromising style du jour about how I had all these masks, a whole trunk of them that I put on according to plan, like, who am I talking to now, if it's her then I'll just put on my Bob Saget mask—that's what I used to call my straight, cool, but sensitive man mask—on and if it's a Thursday afternoon Philosophy tutorial then it's my ESPRIT tweed-patterned jacket and a skeptic mask and off I go on my eco-friendly SPECIALIZED MTB. But she didn't seem to care about all these masks I put on, she didn't even see them. One day I saw her at the mall and she said, «You're fat!»—she didn't seem to notice that I was wearing my thin mask. You see how all this talk about masks makes you cringe? That's what most writers feel about honesty. They feel that about themselves ...»

380, or 380 reasons to not get a fake tan in September

In the morning the sun is blue
Cold it's early summer
No one cares
If the cream sand has waited
The whole of July
Plus a good part of August
Or if it's time
Now
For him to dig
Exit tunnels
For hybernating beach towels.

Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau (ok, actually, me) to his girlfriend

Go into a corner
Your vantage point
Lookout
Over our history
And see
If I haven't been nothing
But the total opposite
Of what I've always claimed to be.

Congradulations

Only one of us will be married
To a girl who loves you more
Than there are fluffs of pollen
In the glare of September
You!

I wish to be united with my feelings but my thoughts keep getting in the way

Like one day in the cinema
I was watching King Kong
And I kept trying to avoid reading the subtitles
All through the action scenes.

If there does exist the Big Jakarta Poem, it would contain all the following things:

Bratwursts und Beers
München within

the span of a four-leaf
clover:

The Filter Moment Has
Come.

And people going out at 9.47
pm for donuts sprayed

with cheese in machines
copied illegally somewhere

in Sacramento, Calif., USA
and assembled in a ware-

house in the outskirts
of this city—Town Squares'

din beating the noise the
welders make with the

candy flame of their blow-
torches. Why

is everything so loud here
what happens when you com-

bine THX with Dolby? Maybe
the gallon-drum mestizo will

go off the scales and the
pretty redhead fly on the strangeness

of her hair—you top beet!—
and all that's just about

the noise. Govinda govinda go-
vinda Jaya jaya—We've still

got David Hassellhoff on prime
time. This city is a pan of

boiling water, forget realism
and moving Amygisms

for a while now and let's
build a future harmonium

while the jury's out: Every-
thing threatens to boil off

into steam. Things disappear
the way the world's omphalos

turn from an outie into
something non-descript just

to make things easy let's call
it an outie. Let's

do the long week-end at the
volcano: the merino death

cloud will make easy target
for your Canon Digital Rebel

SLR set to [symbol of thunder] or
for the optimists [symbol of cloud] & enjoy

a culinary feast with views
of terraced rice fields on green

slopes angled at the exact
degree to make the water

run down without ever appear-
ing to move. I think they

call it moving «vertically down-
stream». On boulders like houses

that pimple those green kids
sunbathe penises still recover-

ing from recent circumcisions, bar-
baric, when they happen at 10,

11, you try to get it over &
done with before the fine fur

on the base of your cock
graduate into a full bush.

A dilemma you keep to your-
self since there's only one way

out. Forget Su Tung-p'o &
his walking stick, stop strik-

ing jagged stones with it &
start at somewhere close

to a constant height
above sea-level.