A Collage is Surreal In-between

A Collage is Surreal In-between

He gave his girl friend a buzz, After
Paying a visit and climbing over the Tiananmen Square Tower Gate
The virtuality is in reality realistic
He did not go to the Imperial Summer Resort
The reservoir of the Great Wall is frozen;
Snow not melt
The Dong Wind Missile and the cannons in the Military Museum are promised
Permitted to visit..with the jet fighter J7 on display
We had our dates as said in emails
Coffees were sipped
The first time was the cafe in which croissant were consumed
<1942> was seen in the Cinema of Golden Rooster as a film;
Motion picture of
Wailing tears – You as a allegory of Death
Famine, Tribe in wars
Not yourself but the evocation
Of calling upon the images and visions
And the memory clicking through the Laughs
I smiled and you cried
We knew each other as a trial
The sax sung the melody and groaning monologue plus
Yearning for another visit to the National Museum
You are amused
I am confused
It adds up to 4 dates altogether
Our karma is coincidental
She was a bit for a little while.
Regrets are useless
The frigid 14 degree sub-zero
Even the tears of love and hate are glaciated
We dated twice twice
She did not go out for the Free Jazz gig of improvisation
I did not go to the Imperial Summer Resort


a scar is like a flaw buried deep in his memory in an technological information societyHe lives in an industrial suburb called Brooklyn in the west of Melbourne. The rent is cheap and
not far from where he dwells stands a chemical refinery that occasionally emits smoke from its
silver-coated tall chimney. The smoke smells a bit like chicken refuse when the weather is humid;
the odour stays in the air and seems waiting for a gasp of southerly to clear it away. There is a big
Shopping Mall called the Plaza not far from the factory and the house where he lives. The house
is a weather-board functional free-standing semis adjacent to a large garage in which it is scatter
with old clothes and plastic bags and rusty tools. He drives his station-wagon to do shopping in
the NQR, a discount foods supermarket, a acronym also means Not Quite Right.
He has a Bachelor of Science degree in Electronic Engineering and the stuff he learned then was old
analogue theory. Now the information age of a Digital Cyberspace has arrived and he struggles to
get to know the software programming and applications. It is not difficult since the Window 7
comes to the market and it is just as good as the Macintosh. ‘The core of a processor is the RAM
in the CPU – Central Processing Unit. RAM is like a human’s brain – cerebrum left for emotion
and right for reason…’ he looks at the screen of display that radiates plasma’s glow and lights up his
face. He divorced a few years ago and with some of his inheritance from his deceased parents he
just meets his ends. His libido is not as strong as before when he was younger; still he has sexual
drive and needs. Nowadays he does everything online: bank transaction, any inquiries about his
life and government services.
I rode my bike to the Grace Darling Hotel in Collingwood. There was an experimental gig there
in the basement with noise churned out from 50’s British vantage synth and trippy soundscape
feedback blasted off from the tape loops of a retrospective nature. The record label, the Ice Age
Production, arranged the gig. There was a bar in the basement with some sort of artifacts on
display, glittering and shimming in its shine of focus. The basement looked like a bunker 400
square meters with two couches lying against the wall. There was an entrance to the cellar and
the fluorescent light shone a whitish milky colour. The wall was very very thick and the bricks
were made of darkish granite laid out with a rough and jagged surface. I had a couple of bourbon
with coke. I felt tipsy. Glittering twinkling What a holler! The sound of a diminished saxophone is a
husky innuendo. The whine is fine. Your guitar wails some bravados. I am riding my bike through the
darkness of sky. My poetry is your insanity! Our thin hugs threaten the Desire of swallowing down…
‘Domination is genetic.’ He said, while I am riding into the Night
The earthquake striked at four in the morning and people were in deep sleep. That was in 1976, a summer that was sweltering hot in a coal mining city . It was July. People awaken to the collapse of the buildings and concrete slabs. The tremour shook the Soviet Style apartments for the people in the City of T.S. Running water pipe was cut off and twisted. Suddenly people died in blood in the debris mingled with the dirt, dust and fallen structure of the building. The road was split in slits by the quake. People were caught off guard and ran for their lives. The next day people started to search for their relative but helpless to find any survivors in front of these architectures defaced, destructed and doomed by the nature force. The corpse were scattered all over the city, which was basically flattened and flogged by the calamity. It was deadly quiet contrasted to the people bursting in tears: wailing, crying and simply screaming out loud lamenting on the loss of their beloved ones. The cloud was sickened thick and over-cast reminding the city of its sorrow and pain. The sky was leaden in a dreadful mourning. Then there was a shower wanting the washing away the unhappiness and chaos and rubble. The day after the stench spread out in the air and soldiers were sent in to dig for any survivors and corpses. The dead were piled up and laid reclined on the ground under the sun. The rain was gone and the hot sun shone over the city. But the apparition of Death still loomed over. Evening approached and night fell. An old woman stealthily sneaked on to the street and climbed over the broken walls to look for any dead people mostly middle aged people. She squatted down and took off their watches. At first she wanted to put into a bag but later she had a second thought instead she put on her own wrists and arms. After a while she wore six watches on both of her arms and wrists. A soldier found
her suspicious nearby as she walked over the corpses and started to question her.

– Stop. What are you doing here?
– I am looking for my son… – Show me your wrists. This is an order. – Oh…ok…
Then she was taken to an army camp where loudspeakers broadcasted revolutionary songs loud. She was interrogated by an officer and after a week she was executed – a bullet in the head and another on the skull to guarantee the death sentence. That was in an afternoon and the sky was crimson with the afternoon sun shimmering through the thin cloud.

He opens the email box on live.com.au same as the hotmail sign-in button and finds a new email telling him to meet this person on the 23rd November 1999. He goes there and find a lady from Tokyo at the MacDonald in the Darlinghurst Road. The Big Mac tastes like fake beef – it is too soft and chewy a bit like a piece of soft chewing gum with salt and BBQ sauce. The lady takes him upstairs to meet O the person who wants him to meet in the email.

O says:
‘Welcome. The email is sent out to you because I have chosen you inevitably. In this game of chances, you have become our guest of INEVITABLITY.’
He is puzzled and wants to ask a question but he keeps on speaking.
‘Do you know why you are here?
‘I don’t know’ He replied anxiously, ‘Maybe because of the Email I received from you.
It was drizzling outside. The weather was gloomy and constantly threatening. His memory stops like in a comma. Again the darkness, he tries to paint, it is about the Death. The eternal theme of our poets. She has dark hair and with a frail voice, you know that she longs for the sensibilities that any men can afford. Again we went to the Monkey Bar and drank a lot together. There was a cartoonist sitting on the stool drawing me. I kept on dreaming and drink. K stood up. I approached her and dragged her to the dance floor as the DJ played a Cha-cha. We danced to the beat in the river of love. The floor was slippery. She fell. The crowds was milling around. The trumpet’s notes were high-pitched and saucy. I got her stand up. We sat at the table and looked at each other. Then we wobbled to the street, twist and turn; we walked to the back lane with some stencils
sprayed on the wall. In darkness, I stroked her bum and raised her shirt and made love to her. The night was tender and smelt of jasmine flew over the fences.


Myself and the Mushroom Pavilion and English Corner

 Myself and the Mushroom Pavilion and English Corner
- a short piece of writing on memory, time and displace and history
It was early in the morning 1980. China began to open up after thirty years isolation and
revolution. I wore a Mao's suit to go to the Mushroom Pavilion to do morning exercises. I was only
fifteen years old. Guilin, my home-town is a beautiful city for its striking attractive scenery with
bamboo grooves, rice paddies and water buffalo. It has a fairytale feel and a poet once wrote that
only immortals live in a fairytale town. With its picturesque limestone hills and caves around,
Guilin attracts tourists from all over the world. Since the national door was opened up and
revolutionary zeal died out, there were English corners appeared all over China. The Mushroom
Pavilion situated near the Li River Hotel, an hotel for overseas tourists and the English Corner
happened to be in the island in the middle of a lake called Banyan Tree Lake. After the isolation in
China for so long, people were earnest to know what's happening outside. And the best way to
know was to learn English; so English Corner is for young and old to learn English and
communicate with the foreign tourists.
I was fifteen years old and learning English in the middle school nearby. I was curious about the
people speaking a total foreign tongue. The curiosity drove me to learn English in the class. The
English we learned in the school was revolutionary and full of slogans such as 'Never forget the
class struggle!' 'Unite the people from all over the world!' ' Long live Chairman Mao!'. As usual, I
went to the Mushroom Pavilion to look at the people practising their English with the foreigners. I
was shy.
Finally, I made up my mind to speak out in English.
'Where are you from?'
'United States of America.' replied the old lay heavy in French perfume.
'Oh!...' I responded timidly.
Now I am glad that I could practise English and brave enough to engage in a conversation. My
language skill was improved better as I practised more. Once I was given a dictionary and some
Newsweek and National Geography magazines. It aroused my interests to learn the language better
and know the culture more. Eventually I passed the entrance exam into the university and majored
in English literature.
After 1989 Tianmen Square massacre, the English corners were banned by the government and now
it has become a historical relic only in our memories.
Looking backwards thirty odd years ago, I discovered that the dream I dreamed of came true and
the wish I cherished become real. We are living a Hyper-real world now with internet,
consumerism rampant in China. The nostalgia for the world without plastic bag and internet and
supermarkets and cars and free way is stronger for me. Politically China remains repressive and I
have lived in Australia for almost twenty years. This memory of myself, the nation and outside
world comes as a sudden glimpse back in time. It is poetic and gives us a sense of being lost in the
history. It makes me wonder how I have evolved through those years. I wrote this piece of poem a
while ago to document what kind of emotions I have had over the years:
In the depth of our memories
Wisteria melts its colour in the snow
Avalanche is not for the maniac
I squint from the dark
I see the rattling plastic bags in the Sky
I am not sure of your Togetherness
On the other side;
There was a Pavilion; a Corner
A view with
an Attitude that is still fledgling
As that is not a farewell because
we have not met yet.
Rainbow testifies itself in the heaven
As night approaches
What we need is a dialogue
Under the blue winter sky
In the darkness of our hearts
I am sentimental over this period. I missed the English Corners through the 80's in China. There is
this innocence about the Corners. The Mushroom Pavilion was demolished ten year ago when I
went back to my hometown to reflect upon how I came so far. Ever since China opens up more and
more, something is lost. My teenage years are gone. My understanding of myself and the world
has deepened yet this reminiscence of the bike I had and road I walked on is stronger. The need to
engage ourselves in dialogue, mutual understanding and love is always important and essential. No
matter how we will become in the future, these needs can go away.
Even though the English Corner is there any more, I have strong association with the part: learning
English, memory of the 80's China before consumerism and history in time. My teenage years, like
most of us, were tainted with angst, anger and rebellion; however, my interests in English language
and culture makes me live now in Australia. Sometimes I am homesick and nostalgia for something
lost over the years since China has undergone a total development. Feeling displaced and
disillusioned here, I sometimes long for an eternal return of my teenage years. Perhaps it is
Nostalgia; perhaps it is Narcissistic; perhaps we all call for the Eternal Return of timeless. The
techniques I used in this piece of writing is to try to revoke the senses, the pictures of the place and
the contrasts of the Now and past. I try to give the readers a sense of differences, changing in Time
and space on the planet.

First Love Encounter After 33 Years

The FREE WAY leads the newly built international airport to the city. There are taxi
buses and motor bikes on the road. It is road tolled. It has been over a decade since
he visited his home-town. Now it has become a tourist trap. He has arranged to see
his uncle and his girl friend in high school. He is too busy this time and he works as
Molecular Biologist in a lab in the United States.


He went to the apartment block to see his uncle. He spent his childhood with his
uncle who had an accident and crippled his right leg in the sixties. L, his uncle, was a
tailor and he used to work in a collective for the disabled and later the collective
developed into a co-op and owns many sewing factory of textiles. He became an
Advanced Tailor: an expert in the area. L used to make very good Mao's suite with
four pockets in different material linen cotton polyester in different colours usually
greyish dim colours: blue, light grey, dark blue and dark. He married twice and
divorced with his first wife with a son and he had another son with his second wife. I
went there to look for him, The whole block was built around late 70's and it was on
ground floor. It iwas not new like the commercial villa by the scenic riverside but I
could see some satellite dishes on the rooftop.. It was near the market for
vegetables and meat and dried goods. I knocked on the door a few times and bang
the security door but no one answered. I went to the market to find L my uncle as I
knew his wife worked there and sometimes he gave a hand. The market was busy
and outside the market area it was not very clean with rubbish scattered around and
a dead mice lay on the ground. The plastic bag of pink, white blue flew like balloons
as it was a cold day and dusty. He was there at the market. He was happy and
surprised to see me.

'How are you?' he greeted.
'I am fine. Both of us are getting older' , seeing his wrinkles when he smiled, I
'Time flies..'L, my uncle wass sixteen years older than me. 'It is too noisy here. Let's
go to my flat and have a cup of tea.' he invited.

We went back together. He opened the security door and the door and his son was
home playing online computer games. Maybe he was so absorbed into his cyber
gaming he ignored me knocking. His son is twenty-two years old and recently came
home after serving in the army for three years.

'He always stays home and wouldn't go out to find a girlfriend' His dad introduce him
to me in this manner. I thought maybe it is hard for him to adjust to the fast pace. He
wore a pair of prescribed glasses and kept on play his internet game 'The age of
We chatted away and after a while we departed.

In the afternoon I went to see my high-school sweet-heart. She was married with a
fifteen year old daughter. She divorced his ex-husband two years ago and the
daughter lived with her. She developed a hobby for photograph. She had a Nikon
Digital camera now. I remembered we used to go for the spring excursion in high
school and we took a DLR brand Seagull a copy of Telefax and a SLR 120 Seagull. That
was in 1981. It was spring when flowers were in bloom and the river was flooded.
We took the Cassette Player with four speakers to the mountains dancing to the
disco beat 'Sunny' Hey hey it was a disco song' etc. I got into a taxi and taxi driver
drove me along the ring road to get here. The ring road was just built and it was fun.
She was watching TV when I knocked on the door.

'So many years we haven't seen each other' She yelled. 'You must be doing well in
the States'
'I am just coping ' I answered. 'You have changed a lot'
'Yeah. So many years now since we met last time. I had a divorce too.' I said thinking that there was no possibility that we would unite together like we were young. The first love experience was too sweet to remember and I would love to leave it behind in good memory.

She was watching CCTV news and she told me she had 200 channels to choose from.
I was surprised to know since we knew each other at the Age of Radio and Cassette
Player. Her daughter was typical of teenager a bit spoiled and temperamental and
she was sending messages probably to her boyfriend on her iPhone. Later my ex-girlfriend suggested that we had better chat in KFC not far. I knew KFC was called
Kentucky Fried Chicken and maybe her proposal was because I just arrived from
the States. I wasn't keen on the idea of having fast food in the KFC so I suggested to
have a bowl of rice noodles. She said ok. The rice noodle was a Fast Food franchise
as well and operated upon the model any franchise in the world MacDonald, KFC etc.
It's called G-noodles. The noodle tasted slightly bland from the small private noodle
shop in my memory. The noodle shop was spacious on the second floor of a
department building located in the City Walk Shopping Mall. We had noodle and
carefully looked at each other and chatted away.

After finishing eating noodles, we had a stroll along the main street. The street
corner where we had our first kisses was gone and replaced by an Office Building of
Multi-purpose. We talked about marriage, responsibilities and sole parenting and
stuff and I noticed the shrub where we met after high school was replaced by an
array of villas branded as Oz-Orchid. 'Funny name.' I told her. 'It is expensive to buy
one of those' she said. I knew that paying off the mortgage was hard everywhere
and home ownership was an essential part of American Dream. This touched my
very nerve of my ideal - Land of Promise underneath there lied desire, violence and
expansion. My American Dream ? I have stayed in a land of contrast and paradox for
too long.  We said goodbye and had photo taken to leave the memory to a hard print of a
Nikon digital camera. Everything has changed - the space and time of our existence.
One day of my homecoming was filled with nostalgia and techno gadgets.

Johny Disturbed


Johnny Disturbed was a name given by the schoolies gather together in the Weekend
Market. He was about 1.75 metres tall and well-built with strong palms. Drinking
made his pot-belly bloated like a Zeppelin in the clouds in the distance. He used to
get up early at six o’clock and have a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs and
bacon and some sort of Kransky sausages. He went to work in the IBM help desk
department. Johnny Disturbed was a self-taught man; he had never been to any
colleges or institutes to study Electronic Engineering but he was brilliant and knew all
the state-of-the-art know-how to work for the International Business Machine cooperation. He bought some shares of the company and sold them as the NASDAQUE
stock price went up and he paid off the mortgage shortly.

The house located in a National Park where not far there was a cove with trees
surrounding the slope around. It situated in a nice and scenic location. Sometimes
he went to the jetty to fish with a rod and he could catch some rainbow trouts that
filled the whole bag. The area was connected with the Metropolitan train service
and it was quiet all year round with a few neighbours around. His house was built on
the rocks with dozen of stilts supporting the main structure so he usually drove his
cars straight into the empty space underneath the house and used the space as a
parking spot. Johnny Disturbed loved anything technological such as engineering
constructive and mechanical: electronic, mechanic and computational. He was a
computer freak with desktops, laptops scattered in his study and the lounge. He had
always been nerdy and dorky in the school but he was a smart guy who could fix stuff
and made up stuff. He assembled a electric train when he was three years old. His
father, Physic teacher in the same school, praised him; his mother taught Math and
English and she was hard-working. He inherited lots of those traits from his parents.
He loved to play around with his two older sisters as well and played mind games and
he was a smart kid.

One day after he came back from California US and he changed his life style. He
wanted excitement in his life. Maybe he was jinxed in L.A. and found out spliff give
some much joy. Over there he went to a Dead Kennedy concert and suddenly he was
caught in the aggressive punk music appealing. He felt the urge to have a change.
Once his American Dream came true like ‘California Uber us All’, he found reading
Hunter S. Thompson ‘s ‘The Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ like his search for a life
style. He decided to change.

Something underneath had him changed but he was not aware of what that was.

Cars! Cars! Cars!

He became an alcoholic. He bought a Trans-Am and a Cadillac. He drink-driving
habits brought him pleasure and satisfaction. He hardly slept and kept on drinking
and taking drugs until one day he broke down. He was burnt out. Later he was
diagnosed with Bi-polar Mood Disorder and had to take prescribed medication to
control his moods swing. Shopping spree gave him pleasure and he drove very very
fast cars. He started to litter his house and turned up late for work. After a while, his
house became a rubbish dump and he invited punks, psycho-path and sociopathpath to live with him.

Now Johnny Disturbed found the cars erotic. With the Trans-Am he picked up chicks
easily. He liked the starting motor start up with a boom noise he felt the engine
stirred up like an old lover: erotic, raunchy and satisfying. He liked the screeching
noise when he pedalled on the brake suddenly and breathed in the smell of the
burnt tires. The Trans-Am was painted with a black eagle on the hood and he felt he
were the bird and he day dreamed that one day he became a mechanic bird that
would fly like a Trans-Am in the air.
Even though he hung out with the punks, druggies, his up-brings were of a Middle
Class American tastes. When People’s Princess Diana died in a suspicious car cash,
he wept like a baby. JFK Junior crashed his wedding and Johnny almost passed out by
drinking a bottle of Jim Beam. John Denver crashed his Jets into the valley and
Johnny Disturbed went to the Red Light District to find a hooker have a romp with a
few bottles of champagne. Slowly he become more more more obsessed with Death
and Cars and the high speed of his trans-am. Love had become a car obsession.
Marcus Caucus moved in the house with his girlfriend; this couple had some rough
upbringing which was unlike Johnny Disturb. Caucus was a heavy-weight alcoholics.
He drank all day.

‘ Johnny, get a slab of twist-tops and I’ll chuck in my share later’ Marcus asked
‘I need to drive my Dodge convertible to the bottle shop and get a slab of VB…’

Johnny Disturbed knew that he wouldn’t pay up but he wanted to drink too. He was
six-teen years older than Caucus. Caucus’ girlfriend didn’t like Disturbed. Maybe
Johnny Disturbed was too calculating and too much into mind-games like an
electronic engineering.

It was getting dark and instead they went out in the convertible and drove into the
Inner City Suburbs along the freeway he needed a spin to get out of the house. ‘The
Lost Highway’ was on the Dendy Cinema and when he drove around Redfern on
Eveylin street and it was run-down. He could see the TV tower’s light blink and he
pulled over at the King Street and went into the Oxford Hotel and shouted the punk
couple a drink. He would get a slab anyway; he thought to himself.

Days in and days out, Johnny Disturbed was fascinated by the Convertible, A car of
American Dream. At the same time Death creeped in. He has lost hope to live in a
waiting game. The tech gadgets ruptures worn off. He wanted to crash his Trans-Am
on the Free Way like JFK junior crashing wedding.

So he did. One day before the millennium he drove his black Trans-Am in two
hundred kilometre an hour and crashed into a cliff on the side of the Free Way. The
car was wrecked instantly. He died shortly after the crash with blooding rolling down
his face.



before death does upon us apart

i have found her

the passion is too violent

our love lies on the grave

of the forest

beauty is reborn; conceived in a broken heart

before death does upon us apart

halo of fantasy strangles us in the full moon

seven colours of petals shines

in the womb…

that is the bleeding edge of a narrative of sex

violence, industrial chaos

the code was rifle. bored skills and unswerving motivations

form our chaos’ ideas

expression couple with the Creatures of horrors

spaces of a home

Now a road travels through the wild landscape

In the afternoon

As the sun sets in

The cloud rolls over and over into

The blue horizon…

The bags of sorrow were tuned into

The moonlight of a melody –


Underground noise is irregular

With the wild lines curve the escape

Abstract are the light blue paints

Abstract are the crimson taints

Abstract are the vertical faints

Now a road travels through the wild landscape

IscreamintotheVoid: In the darkness of some asthetics of Saxphone

I screamed into the Void

and discovered the Real you

Reflected in the constant reminder of

a longing for the Future

Your Uranus curve girdles our special dimension

In the Cyberspace without your portraiture of a


Concrete is the music

Yet the trip is beyond our Galaxy

Resonnant is…

Painting is visual…

The morning stars shone

Is the fire in the fence though

– the lights of a Lamp Flower

– up wards

Clear is the licking tongue of Your Flame

Cosmic union

Amoral poses…

No more. – not only…anymore


An arrow in your Face

That is It.

Painting is visual


Untitled : A free-verse rant like the freckled digits….

A free-verse rant like the freckled digits of yesteryear

The vials of your jelly, across the deck of the insidious creases

Into the hearts of your ac/dc melody

The position is upset

Down the north by south-west, that is our feet’s direction

While we are wasted in our heads

In the sky !

The polar magnetics attract each other as if in the

Classroom of experimentals in the School

Since the steam engine and electric theories were powered

Propelled and sailed Like the dark varrukers Anarchy

Without tanks, fishes and the bullets I bitten

A belt a pistol and the graveyard’s hierarchy

The skins and records

On the turn-tables spin over since the Summer of a four


Not because we are born for the Facts of Roots

Something is pretty dry

Something is moistured

Something is deep undergroud,

You are far and close

You are so far on the Virtuality

When I dreamt about you

You are so close

A Phantom_Beauty_born

Into my embrace

Your gaze

You are so far on the Hypereality

When I talked to you

You are so mysterious

A Black_Swan_torn

Into my earnest face

Your taste

You are so far on the Sureality

When I imagine about you

You are so beautiful

A Smile_Hug_worn

Into my invisible grimace

Your base


Redenvouz in the Other Space I touched your lips The facial is gone in the Morning

Vanishing faces of red and green

The lies on the Side

Drifting away from the Shore

Of my floating mortal coil

Snoozes in the copulation of Flesh and Death

Being here and now

Redenvouz in the Other Space

I touched your lips

The facial is gone in the Morning


Another is the trouble of another

It is just a mistake

Blinking melancholy of Lips

Kissing the stairway to the Vain Hope

My wishes are dirt cheap

Anything evols in our wisteria of wrath

Our dreamy Ruptures creep up and down…

Hesitation is a Danish cookies

The tram on the Tracks clank all along till

Your melody flows a thousand bends and twists

Waratah is in bloom when the pollen hit us hayfever

On the brink of our Desert…

That was an Object of the Minimum

Patterns. Shapes. Textures…

Something is muffled while on the Way

In freedom –

Of course…

Day in and day out our Enclosure is the Family’s Greetings of

Her season

Though the brutality can not be broadcasted

At the barricade the Denial is nothing to compared with…

Only if you were touched in the Swoon.

Love advocated a Joint Venture

Love instigated a Key note

Love objectified the Stain

Love utilised our Craze

Love manifested the Attutudes

Something called off waists – Truth

Anything evols in our wisteria of wrath

On the beach, Penguins are happy in an Artificial World

On the beach, Penguins are happy in an Artificial World

Wobbly are those moving creatures

From the Atlantis…I am not a man but mist in pants

Shake off the dew of the Morning swim

Just a few burrows to lay the


From miles away… the polar of Antarctica

You are still searching for a shelter

When I was tripping like you, penguin birds in a trance of the Under-water

Where I saw the Fear and Loathing in disguise

What a landing I touched on the ground of Paradise

Yet there are no oats for the penguins in a swoon on the beach

They are not silver-tongued

Even though there are no rats rattling on the beach

Even though there are no dinosaurs flipping away into the Distance

Even though there are no dooms of the Mood

Yet the roosters crow a few times in a village nearby

Polar bears are on the other side

It’s dark then

The flash is the Camera take 1,2,3,,,

In our pursuits of a resting space

Oh! Penguins, my friends

Sorry to disturb you

You glide from the ocean of the submarines

Mermaids engage themselves in a conversation of Carbon-dioxide emission

We shall perish soon

The rush hour is coming like gods

From the Southern Sea fairies pixies elves and those UFOs, so to speak,

Climb up the Peak of the Black Hole

This is not a swan’s song

Let us go, You and I

When the morning creeps in the tumbling dice

In the Cyberspace… Life goes on Time has changed

In chances we trust

– a short poem on my Dream of Promise

The President of the Cyberghosts blinked on a micro-processor

It was the Space, not quiet telepathic though

Viva las Vagas! I walked fast not as a Zombie

The chances were minimal

I jump like an animal

When the bats swoon all over me

I write, therefore I dilever

In death, the Attorney mind stormed the Websites

In the kingdom of capitalism of desires, loathing and lust of


Later he was ordered to shoot himself by his son James Thompson

It was all too wild and weird

The winning game of the Russian roulette

Is all about Winning, Winning and Winning

Yet my chance of Winning the game is NIL

Scam, scam and all those scams plus the Check of my greed

Are Uber us all

The divination of a Beautiful Mind

Recovered with her Love

“We will find you since you have won the Winning Prize…’

The Cash Disbursement Officer said,

Kindly, I worry about the Rules

In the fortune wheel of the Fools

There were doubts about the Claim


In the Cyberspace…

Life goes on

Time has changed

Histerica, panica and dead-pan laughs

Histerica, panica and dead-pan laughs

The morning is misty;

Friends talk over the phone, Oh!

The names, identities and demons fly along

The poetic justice is undone in the smashed state-of-the-art

This is simply a Fashion Parade

The split mind of the Past and NOW and our nature

Of a five minutes Fame sunk into the

Sheer limbo

I am searching for the Lust of the Beast and the Beautiful around

The Valley of the creek

Fallen were those dolls in the Vanity Fair

The talk has been silver-tongued all along

That is a story of the Non-fiction

That is a cast in the amour of the Vanitas

That is a scene upon the Pond drowning the by-gone Memory

It was all hysterical, too hysterical

As you were yesterday

As you lied down

As we met yet once again.

Giving up the Shadow in the mirror flushing Spooks

Giving up the Shadow in the mirror flushing Spooks

You do not know

Bound and bondaged egos in the Dream

Have fled into the Hometown of Water

Floating and hovering is your vague memory

In pains, someone has slided into your Realm

Your wrinkled smile’s chances are somewhere, anywhere and nowhere?

In Uranus’s rotation around the Sun was my wish into your Landscape

Veto has risen from the Swamp

Your smell is so far yet so close

Hope is a step away and a mile apart

A spectre roams

Your tears is salty as the  Bitter  Sea

Drown is something…

Oh! Love and Death is merely a twin

Death in the mirro is such …

Shut in


In the room of the Apple Trees


Your frown has congealed to a Scar

I dare not to forecast

Released emotion is the raindrops…


Between us a shriek appears in the Cloud

Hailstorm is approaching

Because you know that

Love and Death is a twin

Remember this is not a Farewell

Because we have not met

You do not know

A child is born in the Water

Because of You

You do not know

Pietas has became a Rock of a strong will


As I try to catch the shadow of the Wind

You will ascend to the Heaven

Within the Destiny

I grumbled in Hell like a paradise.

Life is on-going A process in the making

Crytic method of Discovery

Long ago, we don’t know nothing

The only swoon…

And the mistresses in the industrial debris…

– screamed of the Split Screaming

– the Medieval myths, so far, is being destroyed in the

– High Mannerism

People are talking about the Murders and Oppressions of the

Bottom lines…

Apocalypses is just beginning in an End

We are against the Insignigicant waves

We are against the Frozend egges of beings


– we are against

Life is on-going

A process in the making

Then they again start to brag about the cause-and-effects against the Walls

All of a sudden…….

All of a sudden, I have walked out of the Shadow

It is another kind of mind-racking Aesthetic

Signs are from the Abstract to the Abstracts

So concrete

The images of not be There…

Misty and vivid

Kaotic and defined

How on earth are we filled with the Phony Cyberlove of an evening of regrets

Delightful !

I cannot help but remembering the shocking and shoddy story of a Cyberghosts…


The amputated limps in the Hills

Are our morning conversation and

Fearless boasts

Snow-capped peaks exposes the Tender Smile

Depart away the Sorrow of

Images of exaggeration

Dots of marks sometimes remain on the polished granites

The stride of our Times is not Vain Hope of a mirage

Slow and fast…

Silently vacant.   Glittering.. shaking sound around…   lovely…evoking not…

Calling-on –   … split up …talk down the pains…in the Dream

A Phantom in the Creek

A Phantom in the Creek

Ye! The Phantom  is at the arm’s length

In my Spright the elf of anna coles

Haunts the Bits and Bytes of the I.T.

A superhighway of Desires

Indolence is the 18 years old with a Top Gun

Crashed and smashed into the buffalo

Over the rocks of the Solitude

Yes! The Phantom is looming in the masqurade

With mercy, melancholy and magarain

A tongue licks fast on the Brim

The cloud of your forlon eyes

Emotions of a 1967 erotica

Simply twists and turns

Only a U-turn recalls the Pietas, Vanitas and Las Vagas

Yeah! The Phantom is away on the window of the Desert

Our sorrow casts a shadow of Grimace

Over the Psyche, in the name of the Death, Poesy

Nights vapours the flies that

Sneak into our smell

Indolence is a sad washing machine

Dance, dance dance

YOU vibrate to the beats of a solo act

my kunadili is risen to the

swirls of an Union

twirls of the Ruptures

surrendering the surrendered


I can feel your Cosmic Dance

Returned to the loop of a Resonnance

Rotated to the Total Embrace of Succulence


Peach-flowers have been

In bloom

In the fields of


In the steam there is a tune

A melody swishing in the mountains of Love

Pietas and Melancholy and

Your face

YOU vibrate to the feats of our Imagination

In this mortal coil

An act without audience

In silence

Heart against heart

Heavy pounding and thudding provoke the Providence

Of a taste

I can not yell that I LOVE YOU

Because you are so far away in the Gaze

I can not yell that I LOVE YOU dream-lover

Because you are so close in the Glaze

So its resonated again over again in our Cosmic

Dance of a trance