van der Tuuk you old goat

'i am not here!'

ha you were never there

not in yr head Herman Neubronner

you lost it in a rampokan jawa

                                                        some nautical miles off the margins of yr mind

skin the beast

chariot-break it

its ones civilization that is always at stake

'tis always

                            at the stake

nothing grows under the waringin tree

and how many acres are the old kings universe pinned and nailed like a queer at the old vic ?

'kari sak megare payung'

youd understand that Herr man

instantly

youd only hv to do a bit of comparative philology

swot on yr Old Kawi

and youre all set

leave the old goat bleating under yr balé-balé

leave it to yr balinese njai                            Gusti Dertik you freak

kerb yr enthusiasm

wandering bear

                           when you tomahawked



howling wolf

       did you forget

       to wipe the blood                                                                 off





after the fact ?

IN THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS ILL BE MOURNING THE STUPIDITY HIPOCRISY HISTORICAL AMNESIA LILY-LIVEREDNESS SPINELESSNESS LAPDOGGINESS ARSELICKINGNESS GENERAL FUCKING IDIOCY OF MY OWN COUNTRYMEN

AND ILL BE PUTTING UP THOSE FLAGS AT THE FRONT OF MY HOUSE IN FULL FUCKIN MAST! 

—at the sentence level

u tried to hit me in the balls and missed

i called u a dog becoz i felt like one

she secretly hoped at least one of her pupils wd put in death be not proud in their anthologies of life changing poems of my life and no one did and she wondered if then theres any point in keeping her wish a secret

standing in a supermarket aisle she wondered if she cd die from swallowing a 12-piece box of crayons

she secretly listens to barbra streisand

four years ago to the day he went to bbs climbed the two flights of stairs to the second floor saw the sastro were playing and got out

he saw sastro the giant twice at the old ciledug plaza sat cross legged with the kids on the floor but refused to shake his hand both times because he thought it looked soft like a cows brain

when he was sixteen he went to an outdoor all day music festival and it was raining and muddy and why did he even go but still he didnt mind missing a lou reed acoustic set because he really wanted to get that sausage stick for tilly

my life has been kinda bleak lately hows yrs been ?

the karaoke machine is broken wd u like a cup of tea ?

she knew her neighbours were murdered but she was the junior mortician her expertise meant nothing

im pretty sure i will die knowing full well that i never gave myself a chance to do what i really want

he travelled around the world for years 103 countries at the last count but he came back last year to the village where he was born to marry his high school sweetheart which made him feel pretty much like a loser

the army guys confiscated the manuscript for my new novel last night ive been working on it for four years i feel like stabbing my own eyes with a pencil

she was convinced that you and i are a gang of losers was all about wayne gretzky and no one believed her

unlike others in this city he doesnt think arian13 is that great a lyricist but hes just never found the right occasion to say it

tak ada tamat*

"Kamu seharusnya menyadari itu sebelum kamu melompat ke ranjang sekretarismu!"

"Ya sudah, kita mencari uang dengan jalan lain."

Bagaimana kejadiannya sampai dia bisa kehilangan semua itu?

Kalau sudah berpikir begini, ingin rasanya dia segera mengakhiri perselingkuhannya dan kembali menjadi suami dan ayah yang baik.

"Untuk apa aku harus meras otak mencoba membaca pikiran orang."

"Izinkan aku menghilangkan pusing itu."

Berendam merupakan caranya melepaskan segala ketegangan.

"Ceritamu bagus kok, lanjutkan saja."

"Aku belum bisa sekarang."

Mungkin hari ini mereka akan terlambat makan siang.



*semua teks dari S. Mara Gd, Misteri Perkawinan Maut, setiap baris harus kalimat lengkap.

rangkum*

they represent the appropriation

the predictive interpretation of

the question we must

seem blissfully unaware of

this pluralist and multicultural

drama as we know

admonitions interest Artemidorus scarcely

we know from Photius

these were the stories

in the immemorial past

one might have expected



*semua teks dari g.w. bowersock, fiction as history: nero to julian, tak boleh lebih dari empat kata per baris

masalah kehidupan yang dapat anda atasi sendiri

youve got nothin. so u want everythin. badly. things are made of glass, cut yr hands when u try to hold on. even if that. but please. who would give a flyin fuck. if u put everythin into each word as though the elision of a letter a syllable a word wd fit thick leather gloves on both yr bloodied hands. still bleedin. as if if u cd feel the smooth kidskin linin. as if that wd stop the bleedin. as if u can accelerate scabbin turn wounds into scars w/out anyone seein. as if were supermen putting on capes in steamin noo yawk alleys. please. no one gives. the fuck flyin. so we must. it was great it wasnt all we had. when we cd go for a walk when touchthesky told us it was too cold to go outside. when everythin was all i remembered it to be. and do u remember when we sat on the green bench in bondi. watchin the micropigeons of saltwater licks fly horizontal across our face hit us on the cheek then we turn the other and let them hit us flush in the face ? yes we remember. though we hv forgotten the reason why we shd. yes wed sit. wed sit and cross our legs for warmth. and protection from the crowd. everyone in the history of man has always needed protection from the crowd. pull the coarse brown handed down teddy coat over our body the hardcopy the flâneur out of the deep square pocket. wed read of the night peter climbed the coathanger and wonder what it all meant when we didnt know what it meant we went back to the words and tried to work out what happened on the page. small white and heavy like a sword. then we didnt know about duende and everythin was real. and the paintbox had not exploded over our heads and yr hair was black and mine/mind too. wed sit like that for an hour. stealin repose from the pages by restin one thumb between the page we had just read and one we were. still. rest them like a dead pigeon on one knee. wed squint to let more in. the way we read about once since everythin is academic to us and move our head like the lighthouses lamp. slow needless to say. then dont say it. i saw the mans backpack then his toes then his sandals once white now black. the night was black too but what i didnt know. it was just about to get blacker. what i did know somewhere in all the black theres. nothin. 

Obscure The Jude

tangkringi pucuk all souls
kumandangkan yohanes dalam dialek yunanionik!

en arkhé ho logos

gantungkan cita cita di ciborium langit
di samping father time dan kate winslet

en arkhé ho lo        gos

rantai jam sakumu semakin pendek
peraknya dingin di genggaman tangan

en arkhé ho lo
                                                        gos

Juni Bulan Hujan

aku ingin sekali mencintaimu dengan sederhana

tapi ingin terlalu kompleks dan cinta terlalu banana

prambors poetry attack seharusnya sabtu-minggu lalu tapi ternyata sabtu-minggu ini

Start:	Jan 19, '08 11:00a
End:	Jan 20, '08 12:00p
Location:	sebelah ratu plaza 102.2 fm

me and gratiagusti chananya rompas sabtu dan minggu 19 dan 20 januari 2008 jam 11 sampai 12 pagi siang menyanyikan lagu-lagu di bawah ini (temanya kali ini PELARIAN) (some of the original poems' formatting is lost, say, anya's 3 nenek sihir sdve been centre-aligned, since the word processor in this schedule event thing is totally retarded):

THE BOOK OF FARCE
mikael johani

if i send you a roomee
would you send me a reindeer

if you send me the sun
should i send you a fireplace

let's make a baby you and i
and let it grow into a xmas tree

send me those happy pills
and i will pluck you a platinum quill bling bling pimps!

'tis the season to be jolly
joyeux noël! les super walls!

describe me
in naughty gifts

tag me in an album
never let me go

pass me le puff puff
in our incredibly beautiful snow globes

panty raid lick hug super poke me
you secret friend real gift rockst*r you

warhol me
a super puppy

in my solar system
there's only you me and 97 other requests

FIE!


BABY FALUDA
mikael johani

suatu malam sehabis nonton pan's labyrinth aku duduk bersama pacarku di kursi bar di komala's

dia memesan baby faluda, aku teh masala

dan kita ngobrol wek wek wek dua jam-an tentang salesman setengah baya, ibu-ibu india yang menjepit bawang bombay mentah dengan ujung jarinya, dan brondong-brondong di oh la la di seberang yang mencoba menyembunyikan cardigan murahan mereka di balik

tawa.

kita tertawa ha ha ha dan dia menggodaku kenapa begitu gampang menangis menonton pan yang berkulit kayu dan berbau tanah, dan aku menggodanya kenapa daya kritisnya hilang begitu nama gael garcía bernal muncul di layar.

'tapi kan tadi tidak ada gael garcía bernal?'

ha ha ha ha ha. 'kukira tadi sutradaranya juga benicio del toro!'

selagi mencengkeram perutku yang tegang tertawa

aku ingat waktu aku umur 10 tahun, duduk di atap rumahku di badran, jogja

menonton rumpun, gepeng, asep, githil, lilik, mas kelik, trio

membela gawang rt 6 dari serangan ganas nanang, bomber rt 12

buku pspb kelas empat terbitan tiga serangkai di pangkuanku

gambar jenderal oerip soemohardjo dengan epaulet-nya yang tak sempat disetrika

dan tangan yang menuding entah kopral siapa

di halaman 42.

besok ulangan.

waktu itu faluda hanya nama tante yang naik haji baru sekali tapi sudah lima kali umrah

(karena angka ganjil dikasihi allah)

dan masala, aku yakin waktu itu aku belum tahu ada sesuatu di dunia yang bernama seperti itu

ada kasti, ada gobag sodor, ada benthik, ada dhelikan, ada lèk lèk-an,

tapi belum ada masala.

sekarang pacarku menusuk-nusuk baby faludanya yang tinggal sepertiga, mencari vermicelli yang mungkin sembunyi di balik air susu yang putih seperti hatinya,

dan aku memutar-mutar sendok di teh masala-ku, memecah kerak lemak yang menggumpal di permukaannya:

waktu itu, juga belum ada dia.


FORGIVE ME FORGIVE ME NOT
mikael johani

bosan bukan perasaan yang patut diingkari
serupa jatuh cinta
maupun pikiran malas untuk bunuh diri

atau keinginan menato seluruh tubuhmu
dengan karakter karakter le petit prince
si rubah si pemabuk si pangeran kecil yang pergi begitu saja
setelah menaklukkan hati

semuanya

rasa rasanya wajar dan rasional
menganggap bosan sekedar khayalan

tapi akhir akhir ini aku berpikir
bosan bisa jadi senyata
kemuraman radikal* seorang kapten kapal

semua ini karena aku tiba tiba teringat pertama kali kita bertemu
di sebuah pertemuan keluarga besar di margaux
kau datang sebagai pacar seorang sepupu

di tengah tengah aku bercerita tentang rencana tunanganku
kau tiba tiba menyela:
'kau kedengaran begitu yakin, nih, have some more ragout!'

garpu garpu berhenti di sekitar dagu
pacarmu, sepupuku, menepuk bahumu

sedikit terlalu keras

hahaha, aku tertawa ringan
hahahahahaha, aku tertawa lebih keras

dan meja berguncang dengan perasaan lega dan sisa cemas

you're a funny one

you're The Funny One

You're The Funny One For Me, Funny

sekarang setelah entah berapa kali main kucing kucingan
dengan sepupuku yang sekarang suamimu
bertangkai tangkai mawar di tempat sampah

sekarang yang tersisa adalah menonton Oprah
dalam diam, kepalamu di dadaku
dan kepalaku penuh dada dada baru

bukan sejarah yang bisa dihiraukan
maupun saling memahami yang mampu dicampakkan
tidak seperti di film film antonioni:

we understand each other
and we get to keep our clothes on

bosan bukan perasaan yang patut diingkari
rasa rasanya wajar dan rasional
kepalamu di dadaku dan kepalaku penuh dada dada baru



*dicuri dan dimodifikasi dari 'kemurungan radikal' di Goenawan Mohamad, Tuhan & Hal-hal yang Tak Selesai, KataKita, Jakarta, 2007, hlm. 133.


YANG TAK PERNAH KETEMU
gratiagusti chananya rompas

apa yang kau cari di siang seperti ini ketika gerai-gerai makanan cepat saji riuh rendah oleh piring-piring yang bersentuhan dengan nampan dan orang-orang kelaparan yang begitu kikuk menggunakan pisau dengan garpu, oleh cerita-cerita tentang hari yang baru setengah berjalan sementara pengeras suara mengumandangkan lagu-lagu pop yang katanya lokal tapi sebenarnya hanya mengulang kejayaan lagu-lagu asing, oleh bermacam-macam bunyi lain yang selalu terdengar salah di telingamu dan selalu saja kau cemooh, oh, mungkin karena mejamu terlampau

sunyi

?

TURIS ADALAH HANTU
gratiagusti chananya rompas

turis adalah hantu
gentayangan dari satu tempat ke tempat yang lain

kau singgah di kedaiku,
habiskan kopi sambil membaca koran berisi berita-berita asing,
tinggalkan tip sebelum menghilang di balik pintu,
tertawa ceria,
terpesona bangunan-bangunan tua,
ambil gambar sana-sini
lalu janji kembali
walau tahu tak akan datang lagi

aku juga ingin berlibur
lalu jadi hantu



—selesai 22oct2005, diperbaiki lagi 1feb2006


3 NENEK SIHIR
gratiagusti chananya rompas

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
meracik ramuan untuk mengubah kodok jadi pangeran

sebuah baskom
sebotol besar vodka
secukupnya sari anggur
dan tentu saja es batu, banyak tapi jangan kebanyakan

sim
sala
bim

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
menunggu saat-saat indah kodok jadi pangeran

mereka bilang semuanya berawal dari cerita
lalu jadi tangis
lalu jadi tawa
tetapi urutannya dapat berubah-ubah

sala
bim
sim

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
kini bingung karena kodok tak jadi pangeran

mungkin takarannya kurang pas
tidak, mungkin vodkanya yang murahan
tidak, tidak, mungkin mantranya yang salah

bim
sim
sala

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
setelah lama kini tahu mengapa kodok tak jadi pangeran



kodok memang diciptakan untuk sesama kodok


BERLIBUR KE RUMAH NENEK
holiday_sendiri

pulangnya ia duduk tenang-tenang di jok belakang. kaki goyang-goyang mata menerawang. lalu tertawa kecil menyadari rima murahan yang terbentuk dalam pikirannya barusan. haha murahanbarusan, satu lagi rima kacangan. dan kata itu mengingatkannya akan dirinya. maka tangannya berusaha mengalihkan pikiran dengan mengaduk-aduk keripik kentang lay's. kres. dan rasa asin pecah di mulutnya. rasa asin yang klasik, begitu tertulis di bungkusnya. selain rasa asin, rasa apalagi ya yang bisa klasik? rasa kecewa yang klasik rasa puas yang klasik rasa terbuang yang klasik rasa dicintai yang klasik rasa gagal yang klasik. lalu ia membayangkan pergi ke supermarket membeli beberapa stoples rasa bahagia yang klasik. ia akan berjinjit, menukarkan puluhan uang logam dari celengan bart simpsons-nya untuk sestoples bahagia yang klasik. petugas kasir menepis uang logamnya dengan kasar. clang. clang ketika permukaan uang logam berdaki membentur tepi meja kasir yang dingin. heh ingat ya sestoples bahagia bukan untuk dimiliki anak-anak sepertimu. dan clang di hatinya. dengan gugup ia memasukkan uang logam ke saku. kaki kanannya bergerak sendiri menendang pelan kursi sopir. ia tersentak bangun karena rasa gigil yang terlalu, yang ia sendiri tidak tau namanya. oh ya barangkali ini rasa sedih yang klasik, pikirnya. dan ia memilih untuk memejamkan kedua matanya kembali.

speak, kate spade

in the new display window* of the kate spade store in plaza indonesia

theres a nice hardback copy of nabokovs speak, memory

its a great book to read when youre just starting out

to write to read yr way into

literature

after a while though i think

hes just mean

all those jibes about his english governesss double chin

the not-believing-in-anything except in a kind of permanent sulkiness towards

life snow aristocracy velvet gloves that fit perfectly

why didnt he say anything about what he really felt when he saw his papa getting beheaded?

maybe he didnt see his papa getting beheaded

maybe his papa didnt get beheaded

still its an 'autobiography revisited'

tell me something original

and new



*originally written sometime very early october 2007

not for the faint hearted cat fancy aquarist

in der friedhof der namenlosen

i buried a cat

a tricolored

three striped freak nebelung

it had jumped off a green steel draw bridge

into the danube

in the superfine morning

of another old european civilization going to the dogs

it had seen

gesundheit!

an angelfish

swimming just under the surface

Something Superspiderbataquabatwoelongatedx-hawkwosandstartoywonderwoman can only dream of saying,

'Oui, I lead a double life that requires no costume change.'

Announcement 3, point 5: Herr Johani, er ist tot

"Please collect the coffin containing: his body, a withered single rose placed carefully under his hands neatly cupped above the first button of his death-suit by his daughter and a Penguin copy of Pope's Iliad that he never got to finish, though he kept saying he'd put it on the bedside table so he could grab and read it whenever he wasn't too tired from seeing his girlfriend all day."

Pas l'éducation sentimentale

- now i can live without this this distilling of a day thru the cheap (less than aus$10,000) coffee machine of me brain. no more waiting waiting waiting for the splotch splutter swish of dirty brown half quarter no truths into the cracked coffee single-serve cups of me minimum opus.

- i can live without this. we used to hate this whole thing didnt we. it used to hurt even on good days. even when you were writing something true it felt like you were lying thru yr teeth. none of the Hem smugness you wanted so much.

- it was like Flaubert in Madame Bovary. there was no meaning in my life (i shdve really just killed myself) so i tried to create another world in order to destroy what i had (whatever meaning it had left).

- it was like, 'mme bovary put an extra corner on her husband's dilapidated tricorn hat.' this line is extraneous (like the extra corner). 'tis written to convey to you a nothingness the emptiness of life in Yvetot (or wherever) the feeling of breathing in a vacuum. how cd such things exist? how cd it be written without emptying the soul of the writer (assuming he did have at least a half one)? but even if he did he wdve lost it now gone forever in the very act of writing that goddam sentence.

- it feels like the sentence shdve been written in chalk and rubbed off after reading.

(kupikirkan setelah beberapa hari langit cerah malas berawan)

when it rains its the same thing everywhere

_____...


the soaked sleeves of my shirt

not so much a second skin

as the absence of one.

One nite i was convinced i couldnt write anymore i just wasnt able to maybe i was never but i forced myself to sit in front of my iSook coz one always lives in hope and all that and it was only then that i realised

its hard to type with yr fingers crossed.

CANTO CXVII (THE LAST DAYS)

whr art thou narasoma?
       i hv seen the sacred flies fly
       into the mouth of a rotting elephant.
       i hv seen the blood red slick earth.
       i hv seen
                      the world come to an end.

i am tired. i hv stopped fixing the wirus on my skirt. my hair falls in ropes about my face.

whr is yr headgear of pure gold? yr arrows of burnished wood? yr five-o-clock shadow?

no birds sing.

vultures fly in circles.

dharma is happy, i know.

he wdve shaved u himself if he knew
vishnu had long gotten sick of u.

my replies are better than my originals*

mighty horny aphrodite!
lend a hand to thy subject
quit piss-farting around
in cummy olympus

forget jove
and his limp thunder sticks!
fluff thy subject
help him kick against the pricks



*my reply to ney's reply to my post

Notulensi pertemuan antara Komisi Perempuan Indonesia, Jurnal Perempuan, Duta Besar Norwegia, dan wakil Kedutaan Swedia, Smoking Lounge, Hotel Nikko, Jakarta, sometime sore-sore 2007

- tell me ms hanna, where did you get yr accent, harvard or yale?

- accent is nothing my good man. its the things you say, do you have anything to say to the world-at-large?

if only i had her sense of entitlement and self-importance

'I'm a writer who concerns myself with underrepresented voices.'

- Camilla Gibb, author of 'Sweetness in the Belly', Grand Ballroom, Le Meridien, Casablanca, Jakarta, Indonesia, 22 March 2007

Credible Sadness, Inc.

sadder than boys with ponytails

are boys with pony tales

Crise de la conscience jakartanaise

SEBUAH PASTORAL

PENUH SENDAL

Misreading of the day, 13 January 2008

'Choose the right pain believers'

- on a pack of Neuralgins

Menulis dalam gelap, Blue Bird JU 1261, 13 Januari 2008, 03:31 WIB, Pakubuwono ke arah Ciledug

Hanya kota ini yg bisa membuatku
merentang busur sekaligus
mencium tanah.

—> DUA SEPUR —>

everywheres provincial
when youre poor

Radit Hearts Jani

Rating:	★★
Category:	Movies
Genre:	Romance

BUT WHAT MEANS HEART IN THIS HEARTLESS CITY?

unlike other crybabies i didnt shed a tear watching radit and jani (midnite at megaria 1, 13 januay 2008, rp 15000, A9, alone). not for lack of want or trying, i just broke up with my boyfriend and i was all too ready for a tearjerker. i was all too ready for any jerk.

but by the gazillionth time vino g pleaded for more forgiveness more patience more love from the i find it hard too admit surprisingly subtly moving faharani, since he was such a weak-willed ubas junkie, i thought no upi, no, please dont overdo it i beg of you!

it was only when the characters (mainly jani) had to lie and cover up their real feelings like when radit asked what jani was craving for when she got pregnant against all better reasons (they were dirt poor though her parents live in what looks like either menteng or bandung) and she almost told him but then she held back and looked him in the eye and said, 'bener kok bodoh (thats just their nickname for each other), aku nggak pengen apa2,' that ok, i was ready to reach for the man next to me, but then radit replied, 'kalau kamu pengen apa2 kamu bilang ya, bodoh,' and i wondered if the man next to me wd mind being vomited on.

its not like upis lost her touch with little quirks that we humans do when sad, little funny things that make things even sadder, like when in realitacintamatiku vino gs kid brother sent him what looked like a cloying letter begging him to come back but then when he opened the envelope there were only three dirty creased rp 1000 notes, or here when jani complained she was hungry and radit u resourceful quick-thinking junkie u, without blinking an eye started a word game (d, guitarist, deddy dores!) and lo and behold jani forgot the growling in her stomach and i felt like i had to hand it over to u upi u really know how under duress we silly bodoh humans can quite often be perfectly capable of genius.

radit and jani are married, live in a kontrakan in a rumah susun, no aircon, the walls are customised by tembok bomber, polaroid photos of the happy indie couple everywhere, lucky strike pepperita menthas strewn on the floor, are so good-looking and perfectly scruffily dressed in hot pants, leopard print boots, skinny leather jackets, skinny black jeans, vintage def leppard hysteria t-shirt, handmade t-shirts with digital prints of each other's pictures at the front and 'aku cinta bodoh' scribbled above them in snowman, radit a struggling musician who had just pawned his guitar for more smack and is waiting for an answer from a record company about the demo tapes he sent them many moons ago (bodoh obviously too wasted or, haha, too stupid to realise the power of myspace) and jani just got sacked from her waitressing job at a café because radit is a jealous bastard and nearly killed her boss for daring to flirt with his totally hot(pants) wife.

in the beginning of the movie i thought, theyre too good-looking and her parents too rich for me to believe that their fears of getting evicted from the kontrakan because they were 2 months' behind on rent, and eletricity and water bills, their fears of LIFE, were real. after all she cd always go back to her parents. radit wore a black vintage senen t-shirt with a picture of a pink cadillac and the words in neon pink: cadillac dreams, and i thought, well if you just swallowed yr struggling musicians pride and moved in with her parents they wd buy you a cadillac. but thats kinda unfair. because my parents offered to buy me a cadillac yesterday but life in this city does still freak me out every now and then. this city can turn on you, against you, any time, or i think at least thats what this city makes you think.

so this is the crux of the movie, and perhaps of all recent indonesian movies set in the urban concreteforest of jakarta: not to put too fine a marxist point on it, just how much of an individuals angst, anxiety, fear, economic, relationship-wise, existentially, is caused by his/her self-pity or the unforgiving, bourgeois, dog-eat-man less-than-human nature around him/her?

and of course this film doesnt offer any answer to that question. upis got at least one finger on the pulse though, her message to radit and jani seems to be, unite and take over! but shes too much of a realist to let that happen. spoiler alert: radit surrendered to the historical materialism of this former VOC port and tricked jani into an ice-cream date at café au lait cikini/the waiting toyota vios of her dad.

that was another scene where a character this time radit perhaps for the first time had to lie and vino g hitting himself on the head leaning on the mouldy walls of an alley in cikini raya the old artery of this city and trying hard not to watch or hear jani's i'm-a-woman-abandoned-hear-me-roar cry, gave his best performance, this time, without saying a word.

yr pubic hair / is everywhere

the twirls of hair in front of her ears. the young moon of folds abover her eyes. the week-old scar of a squeezed acne a centimetre above her left eyebrow. the scar is small, the size and colour of a dark star. the strange centre of her hair, somewhere in the middle of the back of her head. someone said she was balding three years ago. she didnt look close enough. she didnt care. or she cared too much and thumbed SMSs all night long. then, the next morning she asked, 'how cd you act so indifferent when we were this close only two hours ago?' her negroid lips felt cold on mine, then her tongue advanced, like a reconnoitrer for the spit than soon followed. or the love? the imitation of intimacy? the intimation of intimacy? how, can we account for me kissing the petals of haemorrhoid in her arsehole, so pretty?

im taking the pigs eyes out and ate them

warm milk
served in cold white
glass poured
into—
weak coffee
dripped from two-headed
spout steaming
from its own heat
controlled by hands
trained by Swiss-accredited
hotel academies—
work experiences
spent sticking tiny mirrors
under doors
connecting doors—
watch the reflections
of hurried love-making
hands on the wrong places
tongue missing the tips
of lips
lovers move
in ancient chairs
with detachable backs
as if attachment
to modern love practices
was taboo—
and a man thumbed
familiar numbers
on poly-pixelated screen
and waited for the air
to give in and let
two sets of numbers
converse—
i observe
all this talking
and drinking, and moving
and all the observing
unmoving

The air hot

Like dirty blankets over yr face. You asked who knitted my jumper. Who the eyeless woman flicking her hair Farah Fawcett-style. Yr fringe blunt, shot, blonde. Who are you? Yr palm coarse, I was surprised. The peeling, cracked skin felt like lies, seen next to the baby-pink of yr skin. You dressed in a period outfit. The Eighties. Eclectic. White perforated pseudo-oxfords with leather laces that trailed behind yr ankles like dog-tails. The laces refused to stay put in their butterfly knots. Baggy pants with the MC Hammer-Bollywood DNA you bought this afternoon (so you said). You were happy to see me, patted my shoulder and asked me questions in an accent I hated. Pale Englishmen who wore bespoke suits in summer. You were pale too, though nothing seemed wrong with you. Until I shook yr hand and the rough skin made my heart jump. You smiled and you smiled, gap between yr front teeth, the rest white tombstones on the pink earth of yr gum. You smiled at everything: my idea for a man purse made of accordion leather, the indie kids fucking in the girls' loo, the balding disco jockey. You smiled, told me you liked me. I like you too. I asked where you were from, what did you do, why you came. Grey London, fashion at St. Martins, for the sun. You said you were going to the zoo tomorrow, see the white leopard tanning its spots, sniffing its own urine.

Cruel angles of buildings

the sky props up the earth

the sky props up the earth

paints itself blue with melting snow

the upward

                downward flight of the soul

the upward

                        downward flight of the soul

the sky is a highschool blackboard

filled to the edges with scribblings of perfect stars

Disconversation

'that was what feuerbach said.'

'who said?'

'feuerbach.'

'who's feuerbach?'

-

'the german.'

'what did he say?'

'that we fear uncertainty most.'

'like death.'

'like death.'

-

The world on a shoestring

Trembesi di kiri
Rel lori di kanan
Batu runcing di telapak kaki
Rumah di kejauhan

Pulang
atau teruskan perjalanan?

The world priced two digits beyond purchase

see pictures thru words

pasticheur

rococo

chiaroscuro

transitoriness

pointilism

divisionism

primary colours

so what if the land is less pretty
no more seagulls frozen in mid-air
no more dry harmless rust on sharp corners of rubbish bins
no more uninterrupted carvings of easy-going open-armed sandstones
no more so what!

Puri Beta Town Square Junction Central Business District E-Xtainment Centre

The shock has faded from the applegreen                of children's water-spray guns

From the hot-pink of ice-cream cones                now pale like the palm of their hands

The children's eyes have lost                their palimpsest whiteness

The blacks acquired the brown                of the streets where they ran

Are colours the foundation                of a developing, failing world?

As Raden Saleh's pigmies are to the revolution                of his repulsion for the Dutch?

Are they ignored signatures                at the back of a canvas?

Why have they neglected to put the names in full?

Are they not missing the pieces in this puzzle, as a rule?

I find this city sad

But no sadder than those faded American Splendors on DVD stands

The kind of love you see only in movies and probably only Wong Kar-wai's or maybe Mark Linklater's but Fellini's good too though maybe his love is for god not man oh and or Truffaut now he loves man and their follies but if i was Antoine Doinel wd he find love for me I mean I know Maggie Cheung is married to a French auteur but I was always more interested in Mrs. Chan and her multicoloured cheongsams anyway dan jangan lupa Kiarostami!

aku tidak percaya kamu hanya tidak sengaja
memasak sirup wijen sebelanga
tapi aku tidak akan membocorkannya
suamimu sudah pulang
menunggu nasi masak di rice cookernya

kubur aku malam hari nanti
tumpahkan saja semua kerikil, puntung rokok, tai kucing
panggil namaku tiga kali
kalau aku tidak menjawab
itu berarti aku memang tidak takut mati

untuk apa kau membuntuti badut akrobat itu
masakkan lagi aku minestroni spaghettini
dadaku hampir pecah hari ini
menahan dingin rantai
dan rambutmu yang pirang keperakan

cinta yg ditahan membuat kita merangkum 10 stasiun métro
lengkap dengan transfer di république
jadi tiga rue dan sepotong jardin
j'accuse!
kau yang melipat waktu dan hatiku di dompet chloé-mu

kali ini rendam bunga kertasku
dalam merah darah kuteksmu
bangunkan aku kuil kwan-im
dengan balzac rimbaud proust
jadi pengawal terracotta yg tak akan pernah luntur catnya!

prambors poetry attack sabtu-minggu ini

Start:	Jan 12, '08 11:00a
End:	Jan 13, '08 12:00a
Location:	sebelah ratu plaza 102.2 fm

me and gratiagusti chananya rompas sabtu dan minggu 12 dan 13 januari 2008 jam 11 sampai 12 pagi siang menyanyikan lagu-lagu di bawah ini (temanya kali ini PELARIAN) (some of the original poems' formatting is lost, say, anya's 3 nenek sihir sdve been centre-aligned, since the word processor in this schedule event thing is totally retarded):

THE BOOK OF FARCE
mikael johani

if i send you a roomee
would you send me a reindeer

if you send me the sun
should i send you a fireplace

let's make a baby you and i
and let it grow into a xmas tree

send me those happy pills
and i will pluck you a platinum quill bling bling pimps!

'tis the season to be jolly
joyeux noël! les super walls!

describe me
in naughty gifts

tag me in an album
never let me go

pass me le puff puff
in our incredibly beautiful snow globes

panty raid lick hug super poke me
you secret friend real gift rockst*r you

warhol me
a super puppy

in my solar system
there's only you me and 97 other requests

FIE!


BABY FALUDA
mikael johani

suatu malam sehabis nonton pan's labyrinth aku duduk bersama pacarku di kursi bar di komala's

dia memesan baby faluda, aku teh masala

dan kita ngobrol wek wek wek dua jam-an tentang salesman setengah baya, ibu-ibu india yang menjepit bawang bombay mentah dengan ujung jarinya, dan brondong-brondong di oh la la di seberang yang mencoba menyembunyikan cardigan murahan mereka di balik

tawa.

kita tertawa ha ha ha dan dia menggodaku kenapa begitu gampang menangis menonton pan yang berkulit kayu dan berbau tanah, dan aku menggodanya kenapa daya kritisnya hilang begitu nama gael garcía bernal muncul di layar.

'tapi kan tadi tidak ada gael garcía bernal?'

ha ha ha ha ha. 'kukira tadi sutradaranya juga benicio del toro!'

selagi mencengkeram perutku yang tegang tertawa

aku ingat waktu aku umur 10 tahun, duduk di atap rumahku di badran, jogja

menonton rumpun, gepeng, asep, githil, lilik, mas kelik, trio

membela gawang rt 6 dari serangan ganas nanang, bomber rt 12

buku pspb kelas empat terbitan tiga serangkai di pangkuanku

gambar jenderal oerip soemohardjo dengan epaulet-nya yang tak sempat disetrika

dan tangan yang menuding entah kopral siapa

di halaman 42.

besok ulangan.

waktu itu faluda hanya nama tante yang naik haji baru sekali tapi sudah lima kali umrah

(karena angka ganjil dikasihi allah)

dan masala, aku yakin waktu itu aku belum tahu ada sesuatu di dunia yang bernama seperti itu

ada kasti, ada gobag sodor, ada benthik, ada dhelikan, ada lèk lèk-an,

tapi belum ada masala.

sekarang pacarku menusuk-nusuk baby faludanya yang tinggal sepertiga, mencari vermicelli yang mungkin sembunyi di balik air susu yang putih seperti hatinya,

dan aku memutar-mutar sendok di teh masala-ku, memecah kerak lemak yang menggumpal di permukaannya:

waktu itu, juga belum ada dia.


FORGIVE ME FORGIVE ME NOT
mikael johani

bosan bukan perasaan yang patut diingkari
serupa jatuh cinta
maupun pikiran malas untuk bunuh diri

atau keinginan menato seluruh tubuhmu
dengan karakter karakter le petit prince
si rubah si pemabuk si pangeran kecil yang pergi begitu saja
setelah menaklukkan hati

semuanya

rasa rasanya wajar dan rasional
menganggap bosan sekedar khayalan

tapi akhir akhir ini aku berpikir
bosan bisa jadi senyata
kemuraman radikal* seorang kapten kapal

semua ini karena aku tiba tiba teringat pertama kali kita bertemu
di sebuah pertemuan keluarga besar di margaux
kau datang sebagai pacar seorang sepupu

di tengah tengah aku bercerita tentang rencana tunanganku
kau tiba tiba menyela:
'kau kedengaran begitu yakin, nih, have some more ragout!'

garpu garpu berhenti di sekitar dagu
pacarmu, sepupuku, menepuk bahumu

sedikit terlalu keras

hahaha, aku tertawa ringan
hahahahahaha, aku tertawa lebih keras

dan meja berguncang dengan perasaan lega dan sisa cemas

you're a funny one

you're The Funny One

You're The Funny One For Me, Funny

sekarang setelah entah berapa kali main kucing kucingan
dengan sepupuku yang sekarang suamimu
bertangkai tangkai mawar di tempat sampah

sekarang yang tersisa adalah menonton Oprah
dalam diam, kepalamu di dadaku
dan kepalaku penuh dada dada baru

bukan sejarah yang bisa dihiraukan
maupun saling memahami yang mampu dicampakkan
tidak seperti di film film antonioni:

we understand each other
and we get to keep our clothes on

bosan bukan perasaan yang patut diingkari
rasa rasanya wajar dan rasional
kepalamu di dadaku dan kepalaku penuh dada dada baru



*dicuri dan dimodifikasi dari 'kemurungan radikal' di Goenawan Mohamad, Tuhan & Hal-hal yang Tak Selesai, KataKita, Jakarta, 2007, hlm. 133.


YANG TAK PERNAH KETEMU
gratiagusti chananya rompas

apa yang kau cari di siang seperti ini ketika gerai-gerai makanan cepat saji riuh rendah oleh piring-piring yang bersentuhan dengan nampan dan orang-orang kelaparan yang begitu kikuk menggunakan pisau dengan garpu, oleh cerita-cerita tentang hari yang baru setengah berjalan sementara pengeras suara mengumandangkan lagu-lagu pop yang katanya lokal tapi sebenarnya hanya mengulang kejayaan lagu-lagu asing, oleh bermacam-macam bunyi lain yang selalu terdengar salah di telingamu dan selalu saja kau cemooh, oh, mungkin karena mejamu terlampau

sunyi

?

TURIS ADALAH HANTU
gratiagusti chananya rompas

turis adalah hantu
gentayangan dari satu tempat ke tempat yang lain

kau singgah di kedaiku,
habiskan kopi sambil membaca koran berisi berita-berita asing,
tinggalkan tip sebelum menghilang di balik pintu,
tertawa ceria,
terpesona bangunan-bangunan tua,
ambil gambar sana-sini
lalu janji kembali
walau tahu tak akan datang lagi

aku juga ingin berlibur
lalu jadi hantu



—selesai 22oct2005, diperbaiki lagi 1feb2006


3 NENEK SIHIR
gratiagusti chananya rompas

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
meracik ramuan untuk mengubah kodok jadi pangeran

sebuah baskom
sebotol besar vodka
secukupnya sari anggur
dan tentu saja es batu, banyak tapi jangan kebanyakan

sim
sala
bim

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
menunggu saat-saat indah kodok jadi pangeran

mereka bilang semuanya berawal dari cerita
lalu jadi tangis
lalu jadi tawa
tetapi urutannya dapat berubah-ubah

sala
bim
sim

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
kini bingung karena kodok tak jadi pangeran

mungkin takarannya kurang pas
tidak, mungkin vodkanya yang murahan
tidak, tidak, mungkin mantranya yang salah

bim
sim
sala

aku, dia, dan dia
duduk melingkar seperti 3 nenek sihir
setelah lama kini tahu mengapa kodok tak jadi pangeran



kodok memang diciptakan untuk sesama kodok


BERLIBUR KE RUMAH NENEK
holiday_sendiri

pulangnya ia duduk tenang-tenang di jok belakang. kaki goyang-goyang mata menerawang. lalu tertawa kecil menyadari rima murahan yang terbentuk dalam pikirannya barusan. haha murahanbarusan, satu lagi rima kacangan. dan kata itu mengingatkannya akan dirinya. maka tangannya berusaha mengalihkan pikiran dengan mengaduk-aduk keripik kentang lay's. kres. dan rasa asin pecah di mulutnya. rasa asin yang klasik, begitu tertulis di bungkusnya. selain rasa asin, rasa apalagi ya yang bisa klasik? rasa kecewa yang klasik rasa puas yang klasik rasa terbuang yang klasik rasa dicintai yang klasik rasa gagal yang klasik. lalu ia membayangkan pergi ke supermarket membeli beberapa stoples rasa bahagia yang klasik. ia akan berjinjit, menukarkan puluhan uang logam dari celengan bart simpsons-nya untuk sestoples bahagia yang klasik. petugas kasir menepis uang logamnya dengan kasar. clang. clang ketika permukaan uang logam berdaki membentur tepi meja kasir yang dingin. heh ingat ya sestoples bahagia bukan untuk dimiliki anak-anak sepertimu. dan clang di hatinya. dengan gugup ia memasukkan uang logam ke saku. kaki kanannya bergerak sendiri menendang pelan kursi sopir. ia tersentak bangun karena rasa gigil yang terlalu, yang ia sendiri tidak tau namanya. oh ya barangkali ini rasa sedih yang klasik, pikirnya. dan ia memilih untuk memejamkan kedua matanya kembali.

La Doncella de Salta*

girl with coca leaves stuck to her lips
eternal friend of mountain fairies

her mouth locked forever
in a kiss

uncross your legs
defrost what's left
in the wine rack

because there will be

no more chicha
for the golden child
of the last capacocha

*sesungguhnya terjemahan dari puisi ney, tapi dia tak sukanya.

sometimes it turns out something youve abandoned is way more interesting than the thing youve abandoned it for*

jogja bagiku adalah badran
bermain dhelikan di sisa kuburan
cerita tentang kepala, atau perut yang meledak
di krematorium sebelah pesta perak, dan pertanyaan dalam hati
banci mana yang akan mengajar ngaji di masjid p3 malam ini?

atau mungkin juga bertemu 'sang pemabuk' christine ay tjoe
di antara s. teddy d. dan athonk di gudang galeri cemeti
menanyakan, 'berapa ini?'
kemudian lari tanpa membeli karena dijawab, 'apa anda suka mengikuti seni?'

bisa juga salon putra, 'untuk putra dan putri'
handuk panas yang dijemur di panci di belakang kursi
slamet tua yang bermata sipit dan suka merapikan poni

jogja i hate u
memori tentangmu

seperti ujung peniti lepas menusuk peli

*jawaban untuk puisi malaikat kecil berjudul 'di sini' di milis buma. i wrote this first but then wrote another reply 'di sindang' which i thought was better and posted it in buma but in retrospect what goddam use is fuckin retrospect.

Limitations (Doggerel Remix 2003)

Ceramic cups crack on tables
Lowell would rewrite in a fable
of bored urbanites instead of mammals.
O he’d begin, soft, to intimidate
with the Greek vocative, long obsolete.
I’d gawk at the brightness of his diction
laugh at the arrogance of his fiction
And my jaw would drop. I think of my head
whence my ambitions, a farce, should have fled.
The steam-engine sound of hot white vapours
dances around the fat barista’s breasts.
She pours hot milk on black Sumatran brew
and spills white froth on her camel jodhpurs.
Lowell would give her a name, grand and old,
like De Witt Clinton, Hoes, or Vanderpoel
Of strange origins and split-second force
hung heavy on history’s family tree.
The sound of morning, meaning still far-fetched,
begins here. The date on the wall, Roman,
smiles and nods its dark head: Lowell is dead.

lettres choisis #711 (arides the bashful)

ARIDES

The bashful Arides
Has married an ugly wife
He was bored with his manner of life,
Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might as
Well do this as anything else.

Saying within his heart, "I am no use to myself,
"Let her, if she wants me, take me."
He went to his doom.

(il miglior fabbro)

But what exactly did Arides give up in marrying his wife, that her, that other world that wanted him and was willing fukkknowswhy to take him? He was bashful, so probably spent most of his time in his room playing Ragnarok. Couldn't he hack the loneliness anymore? The solitude?

We know there is something that eats away at the artist, Hank. And it is everything you said it was, an obsession, an affliction. But those are abstract nouns you use to describe a condition of the soul. Let's get concrete, what the fuck is it?

I want to harness that obsession, that flaw, into the Juan Roman Riquelme in my arsenal of writing tools.

But how when I don't even know what it is?

Is it loneliness?

Is it solitude?

Denise Levertov thinks there's a difference between loneliness and solitude. That what an artist needs is solitude.

It's fucking hard work to get all the solitude you want without getting lonely!

Generally speaking, artists do hurt other people. A lot. It is the duty of the artists to accept the fact that they do. Remember Tom & Viv? Lowell and his history of girls?

Because if you don't accept that fact, if you continuouslydesperately struggle to make people think you are a good person who never hurts anyone but yourself, then you hurt yourself even more. Too much.

You don't want that.

You don't wanna meet your doom. Not just yet.

I think I remain,



Superchunk! Society!

lettres choisis #712 (l'amour est plus épaisseur qu'oublier)

hey you,

sebelum aku lupa. bayangkan gambar sore yang standar. kecuali awan yang bentuknya seperti tisu yang tak sengaja kau pilin di sebuah restoran, di pojok kiri atas sebuah layar, semuanya standar, kecuali awan itu berwarna kuning telur. di bawahnya, jauh di bawah awan-awan lain yang berwarna antara abu abu dan jingga seperti biasa, di dasar layar, ada siluet atap, antena, mungkin menara masjid, aku sudah lupa. aku hanya memperhatikan awan kuning telur itu. setelah itu sore yang lain di kota yang kira kira sama. kali ini agak terang sehingga kau bisa melihat rel kereta yang melengkung ke kanan layar, sebuah stasiun yang menunggu di depan. cukup terang, kau bisa melihat batu batu di antara rel dan bantaran kayu. kemudian sebuah langit yang lebih dekat, siluet rumah yang tumbuh begitu cepat, seperti mulut mulut gelap yang ingin menelan mukamu bulat bulat. tapi masih tersisa awan awan di atasnya seperti wig yang kelewat pirang. mulut mulut gelap jadi tak begitu mengerikan, kau masih bisa merasakan kedamaian.

itu semua. mungkin setelah mengejar mas mas berjalan sepertiga. aku membayangkan r dan m yang sekarang jadi editornya juga, di ruang editing yang dingin, gelap, bau rokok yang menempel di daun telinga. di situ tak pernah ada sore, siang, malam, kau hanya bisa menandai waktu dengan rasa lapar. dan mereka sudah lama di situ. entah berapa lama. mungkin sudah lima kali makan malam. dan mereka sampai di bagian ini. cukup banyak yang telah terjadi. dan sekarang seseorang akan meninggalkan seseorang lagi, atau paling tidak berniat begitu. karena itu ada stasiun, ada rel, ada perasaan seakan akan tempat dudukku sedang melaju ke depan. kemudian mereka melihat awan kuning telur itu. awan itu indah. kalau aku berpikir tentang sore aku akan berpikir tentang itu. begitu yang kupikir waktu melihatnya. dan sebelum itu aku belum pernah melihat awan warna kuning telur.

mungkin mereka belum pernah pula melihatnya. tapi mereka setuju, awan itu memang indah. karena itu mereka biarkan ada di situ. juga sore. dan sore yang selanjutnya. dan awan yang dekat, mulut mulut hitam yang menerkam. karena semuanya indah. mungkin mereka ingin istirahat, setelah semuanya yang terjadi. aku tak tahu. mungkin tak sesentimentil itu. tapi aku lebih suka membayangkannya sesentimentil itu. aku hanya ingat berpikir, inilah sebabnya orang tidak bisa tidak mencipta sesuatu yang mungkin tak ada gunanya. seperti seni, sebuah film, novel, puisi. mungkin awalnya tidak sengaja, seperti manusia purba yang pertama kali memasukkan benang ke dalam rongga sebuah tulang dan wow, lucu juga, kemudian mengalungkannya di leher. tapi kemudian ketagihan. setelah awan kuning telur itu, siapa yang bisa menyalahkan rel kereta, stasiun tua, mulut mulut hitam menganga? mungkin mereka jadi berpikir tentang sore itu mengambil gambar di sana. rasanya seperti itu. seperti awan yang kuning telur. rel yang tak menuju ke mana mana. dan mereka menggambarnya. dan menggambarnya lagi. berusaha membuat melankolia itu abadi.

¡youre good but im better!

in the year 1058
before christian bale
men were born with sword-y incisors
and identikit jawlines

they roam around waterholes
and at the tops of waterfalls
inhaling the miasma
like crazy

in the darkness of the full moon
spring blossoms like butterless popcorns
an old chinese poet
scoured his temple for a hairpin

try to get yrself together

Start:	Jan 7, '08 12:00a
End:	Jan 7, '08 01:00a
Location:	le petit ashram in my mind

on yr own

only the headstrong

one day it was a fine day
the bus broke down
on the way to ende
i took the chance to piss
on a great banyan tree
on the side of the road
i saw in the distance
the perfect triangle of a virgin
active volcano
it was smoking ashes
out of its pointy labia
that was when i realised
theres nothing harder
than trying
take still pictures
from a moving car

the great poet declared my taste was too bourgeoise

i nodded

no master

and stuck

my tongue

in his

bionic ears.

im curing myself of a heartbreak by making puns

like when mama made me a coat of many colours that put me in jail and didnt give me christian bale

whats with all the different ways of spelling andalusian dogs

dont know about you but i think rogue waves
correcting black francis' pronunciation of oon
shayn! to un sheee ung was a bit pedantic did
they do it to educate die-hard fans of the o.c.

didnt they think most of them wouldve gone
to harvard anyway and learn the right ways
of the world right off the bat even if they had
stopped playing creekit in cambridge in the 18th c.

or thereabouts or thereabouts dont know
about you but i think this whole biz about
getting things rite absolutely is a bit bourgeoise
think of leibniz and the optimists didnt they suffer

dont know about you but ill plant lilies in my japanese
rock garden and pray for lotuses that way
when im sad i can go for a walk around my private
botanical gardens and youll be there. with yr boots on

IF YOU HAVE RENTED OR PURCHASED THIS DVD PLEASE CALL 1-800-NOCOPYS

its like when youve been home for days
and the only thing you feel like is peeling
the paint on old sandstone walls and press
yr cheek on the cold microscopic duststars

its like when youve been wondering what the voice
of pain is like and you walk thru the night market
at 2 a.m. and the only thing you can feel is the splash
of yr handmade rubber soul on the wet asphalt

its like when you feel like ramen and the only way
you can get it is by climbing 26 floors of stairs
into a revolving karaoke booth in the skull
of this city the city you love and hate in nothing measure

its like when you ask yrself whats lost in loves labour
lost and you go to an opium den and ask for heroin
in yr dreams everything makes sense even the way
she paints her eyebrows with a chocolate stick

its like when along rue mouffetard get yrself
an ice cream two scoops at jeffs and save yrself
for dinner for one on the steps of the panthéon feel
really feel the waft of clove cigarette smoke on yr face

its like when youve been home for days its like when
youve been home for days its like when youve been home
for days on end and you think why when youve been home
for days on end and you think why mon dieu am i happy no

sometimes/always

someverytimes it happens feelings die

all those years are lost

in the blink of an

I

nothing's changed x-cept! the circumference of the world's sadness (infinitedecimatedly)

"I can hear gunfire
I keep hearing gunfire
          and you were saying—
          'Love is?'

          Something's missing

sendirian membaca dan berpikir apakah Su Tung-p'o makes too much sense

kenapa tak bisa seperti John Ashbery
menulis puisi sambil nonton TV
tali jemuran kusut
di langit Massachusetts
poster anjing Peking hilang
'we love her so much—Alastair, 8'

1 2 3 5 discount the lines
tak seberharga kuncup bunga
musim semi dan burung enggang
dalam pengasingan dan pelarian
yang penting adalah tambang
yang menalikan kudamu dengan kudaku

Arthur Rimbaud's Twitter entry when he landed at Batavia Bay, early August 1876

theres a fuckin dead horse in the canal the head half the body entrails big beautiful eyes

Notulensi Pertemuan Partner TDH-Germany, Hotel Raya, Banda Aceh, Kapan-kapan Januari 2007

What asses
these Javanese
are! When
they tell
you something
try to
find out
what they
really want
to do
or what
they've already
done. That's
what matters:

"nada senyap"

"pasir mengkilat"

"kaca berpasir"

"this is gonna be hell"

BUT I FIND IT STRANGELY COMFORTING
WATCHING THE DEEP SEA
IN POWER POINT

Théâtre de la Cruauté

In THIS theatre of cruelty
am I a mere stagehand
or Hamlet on a swing

LOOK
LOOK

way overhead



Ophelias floating in a sea



jaded scone-munching crowd



There is strength in numbers
and also in the silence of an
O

premier janvier deux mille huit: brunch

di warung mi bangka langganan dekat rumah
seorang tetangga menanyakan:

sampai jam berapa tadi malam?

saya nggak ke mana mana
saya tidak suka tahun baru

then it struck me

harder than a mere bolt of lightning

mungkin itu kalimat yang paling sering saya ucapkan
dalam hidup ini

saya tidak suka                                                fill in the blanks