the thing about this belief that i hate the most

at first, i couldn't understand the bigger scheme of things. i couldn't fathom why he or she or you or i should hate each other because our imaginary patrons were not the same, or why they may tell us to never lay arms upon one another - except when we do not share the same imaginary patrons, in which case it's a justified free for all. i could not  comprehend why and to what ends wars are fought, or persons oppressed, or people demeaned, or lives shunted, all for the sake of incomprehensible greater goods. and i accepted that. i accepted that there could be no way that a person so feeble as myself could warrant or see through my invisible proxy's eyes. soon, i grew weary, and all these matters were not - they did not matter any more - and i could, for a moment, understand that there was no way i could understand.

then came effort without reward, and reward without effort. punishment without sin, and perhaps most incomprehensible of all, wrongdoing without punishment. i could not hope to question why my imaginary patron falls before yours, or why yours would before mine, or if there was only one of many, then why we could not agree to appease the same friend?

and i hated every bit of this, with the renewed hatred of the old lack of understanding.

but most of all, i grew to hate that which was petty and menial, and inconsequential in the bitter eyes of the cosmos. i hated that you could not be with me because we did not share the same fanciful friends and fairies. i hated that, though they told us many, many things, this alone would be the reason why we could not be together. and i hated 'it' as much as i hated them. i hated that you could bend and break some of your creeds, of whose basis i cannot even empathise with, but because it was told that i am of different breed and understanding and foresight and lack thereof, then i am evil and corrupt and taint. and therefore we cannot, should not be together.

now, i hate that this defines me, and who i am, regardless of what i have or would do, and we cannot learn to love because your ephemeral make belief has dictated so - and vice versa has mine.

tomorrow, i will hate that i do not believe any more in them, but still i lie prostrate before my imaginary patron. without heart, without belief, without understanding, and by far, without trust (any longer). i hate that i do not want for it, and yet it has become so embedded in me - they have become so embedded in me - that i will continue to do so, perhaps until the day i die.

i hate that i have become that which i do not believe; i hate that in the same way you will always come to hate me for that which i sought so hard to disprove that i am not.

and at the end of it all, i will hate most that regardless of what you or i, he or she, they or us, have chosen (or better still, brought up) to believe, it will all mean the same: that you cannot see me as more than something less.

the only thing that will, perhaps, create in me more hatred, is if i find out that it has been regardless of what i believe - that you would have hated me anyway.

cik yam’s infinite eyes

lustrous with a silver gleam, with backdrop polished black,
diamonds on onyx reprieve that through light does refract;
a subtle soft like velveteen that lining clouds soothing comprise,
i stared into the abyss long and deep, those fateful cik yam’s eyes.

though in her silent contemplation surrounded by din,
her darting pupils betray what comprehension lies within;
enough to show, that makes mine know, though rays may yet reflect,
untainted eyes that she possesses makes her stare perfect.

to gaze into (and then upon) such innocence belies,
like galaxies, like fireflies, like ocean waves are cik yam’s eyes;
oh, if i pray, that they would see but naught of any horrid worlds,
remain demure and winsome, those ephemeral white pearls.

so soon you would have sunrise pass, cik yam, like a butterfly flit,
i hope to see through such stained glass, those holy eyes of infinite.

why i could never be with a poor, brown, muslim, asian, ugly sod.

you need not be a scientist, of genetics or social trends,
an evolutionist who knows of humankind’s most early ends;
to see he’s of inferior race, who offers but most lowly genes,
who can’t provide my progeny with looks or minds or witless means.

with beliefs i could never live and empathise with, nonetheless,
that zealotry that begets hate and death that’s left the world a mess;
of course it’s only little time before his mind deteriorates,
and leaves his person for some promise of virgins and fathomed fates.
i shudder to think of such loathe, that comes and goes as he may be,
and how would it that he should come to impose such beliefs ‘pon me?
alas, they’re all the same these men, he’d treat me lesser than a mule,
i could not be with such a swine (which he’d make me give up, the fool).

prince charming, of ideal and pale, who muscular and eyes so deep,
where have you gone? what of your lust? why don’t you take me for your keep?
and left me here with scrawny man, of colour - short and ugly, too,
offensive to the very end, insensitive on every cue;
i do not want, i could not wish to teach him to become as you,
pray, let me be, this darkened man, the day i met you do i rue.
if only you could banished be, with all your lack of tactfulness,
repulsive to the very end, you cause me only grave distress.

if only you were somewhat smart, or witty, kind, funny perhaps,
with money to sustain my wants, to make me forget failed regrets?
alas, this man, he is but naught, and none of these could ever be,
the poor, the ugly, repugnant man, who leaves distaste vulgar with me.

and furthermore, if i’ve not said, is his weird culture i’d never grasp,
it’s ghastly, and revolting (like him), that makes him someone i can’t trust;
his people, how they’ve oppressed mine - of race, religion, chance and fate,
the only thing he invokes in me is unpalatable, abhorring, hate.

more than what he is made of, is what he is made up to be,
pathetic, loveless, unsightly, too, and condescending such is he;
possessive like a beast he’d only want to have me made to wed,
for all his selfish whims and wants, if only to take me to bed.

so go away, you poor, brown man: you ugly stupid, muslim boy,
and leave me to my deserved man - even if he treats me like a toy;
i could not care if you would to offer me all your heart and more,
i can’t see past your shallow failings or of your superficial flaw.

oh, how i dream for my true love, that with passionate, sensual lust,
and all you have to offer’s naught, so fsck off, you’ve none of my trust.

jamie's italian (also known as the place where food expectations go to wither and die)

after many years of being in perth, i had the opportunity last night to have dinner at jamie oliver's italian restaurant. back in the day, i was quite the jamie fan, and i think that his shows used to advocate cheap, healthy, and easy-to-make food. with those themes in mind, i was, though, somewhat pragmatic, and knew that the perth dining scene is very much lacklustre - the service is left wanting, and the quality of food is generally sub-par. that being said, an old friend had been in town for only a few days, and i thought why not, if were to ever give jamie's a try, it would be now or probably not ever.

the good

my friend and i started off with fresh crab bruschetta, which looked very much like the stolen image here (as will be all the images here, as i was by far, too hungry to even consider taking photos of the food, instead wolfing them down as soon as they arrived):

i was pleasantly surprised, and for an entre, i suppose it served its purpose. at this point, we were still in waiting for a table, and were quite happily catching up at the bar over drinks, and i would think that the appetizer complemented very well. the crab was fresh, the lemon zest was distinct, but not overwhelming (which is a pet peeve of mine when having seafood dishes). just a bit of chilli and italian herbs, which was to taste, but i found the bruschetta bread itself was very tough - enough that the provided serrated bread knife seemed short of its task. over my travels, i've come to realise that different people have quite varied expectations of bread, in general, so i wouldn't discount this as a bad point just yet, however, it was at around 8 when we were served, and i would expect the bread to be crispier (not to a toast, though), and perhaps more fresh at such peak dinner hours. but, that's probably a personal preference.

my friend had ordered the mussel and squid spaghetti nero, which looked quite bland. not to judge any food by appearance, though, i did manage to swipe a couple of forkfuls when she were no longer able to finish her meal (my vast experience by having two younger sisters who would never finish their meals has taught me to always be prepared to finish off at least a third of the meal afterwards, perhaps more if the meal is lacklustre, and if that were to be the benchmark, this meal did not make the cut by my friend's standards). she did end up getting chilli flakes to season, as quoted, "i can't get rid of that asian part of me," which is all too easy to empathise with. in any case, the pasta dish was respectable, enough oil to keep the pasta discrete, but not enough to make it 'to greek standards', which may be a tad too much for myself. the amount of mussel and squid was disappointing, though, and having grown up with (the old) south-east asian expectations of having more filling than staple (which does not seem to be the case for my italian friends, who would want more of the pasta), i think it's a preferential improvement that i would have more... stuff in it.

she finished off dinner with a creamy panna cotta, which, i thought, was exquisite. definitely creamy, and gelatinous enough to give that satisfying wobble upon perturbation, a spoon cuts into the dessert easily without breaking or (god forbid) crumbling. the fruits of the season were raspberries, which were well enough, though i would have liked fresh ones instead of the (likely) tinned ones with just a hint too much of syrup to attemptedly mask the mushiness of the berries.

the bad

by some twist of fate, we ended up ordering decent (though not amazing) dishes for my friend, but had no such luck with my own. the baked king salmon was anything but royal, and the following picture shows exactly what i expected from a salmon dish in general (at a fancy restaurant). if i were to prepare salmon myself, which i do on a regular basis, i would go with fillets at least twice the size, and baked very lightly to preference (although i cannot imagine anyone with respectable tastebuds having a preference for thoroughly baked salmon. just saying).

what i received, instead, was a sliver i would barely serve my cat, about the size of a third of the slab depicted above. it was cooked well enough, but for the price paid, i definitely expected (much) more. the salad as a side was actually horrendous, being fresh but with no complementary taste, and the ricotta and balsamic did very little to help the dish. i will not deny that i ended up finishing every piece, but only for that i was famished having skipped breakfast and lunch (which probably makes for a bad food review to begin with), but if served anything similar when i were not as voraciously willing to swallow the worst of my own cooking, i would have probably returned the dish. included were three thoroughly roasted carrots, which are normally to my liking, but again, this dish was able to disappoint. the thick(er) parts were caramelised well (i say thicker only because they weren't even as thick as the ones above, perhaps only half the size, tapering off into what can only be described as threads for roots), but they were overdone such that the taste of charcoal lingers, which would have made my experience worse if i had the misfortune of not keeping them for the very last. i've been to shady pubs and small restaurants while in uk where even disappointing dishes were made tame by the presence of well roasted roots - and for jamie's, i would have hoped for at least parsnips and perhaps a turnip (i have a fondness for the former which might have made me hate this dish much more if it had ruined my perfect streak of having only had brilliantly prepared roast parsnip thusfar). all in all, i would not recommend this dish at all, and having never rated a meal below 2 on a scale of ten, the same way i would never award a 9 or higher, i have to say that for its price (and perhaps, expectations, which may be a slight bias), this one deserves a 2.

i still ordered dessert, though, perhaps if only to provide potential saving grace (i would not have done so had i not been in such wonderful company), and as anyone who knows me well enough will testify, the choices were limited to one of the chocolate dishes. chocolate & hazelnut arctic roll, it was, and, again, it is unfortunate that i cannot say the result looks like the image below:

the sponge roll was average, at best, nothing that you wouldn't buy off the shelves at a tesco or woolies, and the ice cream could be easily mistaken for some run-of-the-mill home brand. i would not expect, perhaps, gourmet ice cream, such as my touted connoisseur, but this was downright dreadful. tasteful only because i knew to expect the tastes, and the purported butterscotch sauce nowhere to palate (or even to be seen), i believe i could have prepared better myself for a quarter of the budget. perhaps i've been too biased by my (somewhat) high expectations of desserts, but even if they were selling a brand name on marginal or average items, this is far from justifiable.

the ugly

for the expectations i had, jamie's did not deliver even in the slightest. the prices are standard for eating out here in perth (which translates to about 1.5 times what i would pay elsewhere), but the portion sizes are dismal. i never really understood the whole idea of smaller portions when you're 'fine dining', and this does nothing to convince me otherwise (let's be honest, jamie's isn't actually fine dining, either). perhaps it's a (badly constructed) ploy to make you feel you're not paying all that much for something less? perhaps it's so that you can order more dishes and taste more? whatever it is, it's not working for me, unfortunately. i didn't feel i was paying for ambiance or experience, either (the waitresses were very polite, which is expected, but always nice, especially considering perth's unpredictable qualities of service), the bill came to $110, and i would happily live off kebabs and maccas for a couple of months than go again (well, not really, since i would probably end up cooking for myself as per norm, but the point still stands). all in all, i would rate my experience as disappointing, and probably would not go to jamie's perth again for a very long while. i would offer cheaper, tastier alternatives (even bars have some better servings in the central perth area), but this is not a food blog and i believe i've worn your attention far too thin. 

p/s: if jamie oliver should ever find news of this, please, for the love of all that is savoury, change it or bin it.

for an amazing mentor, colleague, and friend

this last week saw the departure of a most dear mentor, academic, and perhaps friend, in the passing away of Prof. Geofferey Shellam. i write only briefly because i know that regardless of how verbose i can attempt to be, no justice can be done to the memory of such a great person, and it would seem a slighting of character to pretend to be able to elaborate on Geoff. his funeral was private, as all respectable ones should be, but there was a well-deserved reception in his memory that was held last week at winthrop hall. i should have found that the event was, perhaps, my first of such a scale, or if not, then the first one in a very long time (i do recall, as a child, some christian funerals in the family that may have been similar); and was in good taste. though i have always been awed and inspired by Geoff’s academic achievements (what with his thousands of publications and the plethora of prestigious positions he had held), what came to light during his eulogy was predominantly his social life, and all his successes outside of work. needless to say, the personal Geoff is just as impressive as the academic Geoff. apparently, he sailed and played the diggeridoo, read and wrote, and of course, travelled (as much as he could) and loved (as intently as one can). i will not elaborate on him, where others have done so more eloquently, but perhaps, if a bit of introspection is permissible, i would take with me not to let go of the things that make us persons outside the academic life (one which i have not even begun, yet, if ever). and to this, i should strive for other ventures - in writing, in reading, in diving, in singing. and, of course, that i should see his widow, Fiona, both saddened at his death, and (perhaps, in retrospect) happy that his life should be celebrated as it was - one can only hope to have (given) the love and compassion Geoff shared for family, friends, and beloved.

p/s: i would normally refer to said person as Prof. Geoff, but to his thousands of insistences that i just call him ‘Geoff’, i am very much happy to oblige, and can say no longer am i to feel awkward with saying so! rest in peace.

breaking (glassware is) bad

today i was teaching a first year chemistry lab. the students were taking a unit where all of them had some background in basic chemistry, so usually they kind of know what to do. sure, i'll always get the silly questions of 'how do i use this (commonly used apparatus)?' or 'what is this (self-explanatory item)?', which is fine, because they're not supposed to know everything (and i definitely empathise with the students who come from relatively poor high schools, and have actually never encountered some of the items in the lab); but generally, the labs are pretty entertaining and it's fun for me to get around and teach some basic chemistry (i do love my basic sciences).

anyway, they were doing some classical organic experiment, which was the reduction of benzophenone to diphenylmethanol, followed by a purification process. the jokers were a handful today, and a group of them were being know-it-alls (which i normally do not mind, as long as they get their sch*t done and don't bother anyone else), which was particularly disruptive today because they didn't know what they were doing and were 'coaching' others to do the experiment wrongly. i just step in and correct everyone, so all is fine. one hour in, so far people are behind and some are looking sheepishly around in lost attempt to copy others. clearly a lot of them don't even know what's going on, which i attribute to not having read the pre-lab (this is pretty common, and i'll admit i wasn't the most studious when i was in their shoes, so all is still well).

two hours in, and so far so good, people are getting some yield, and others are... well, fluffing around. i make an announcement to please keep on track, which prompts some of the students to check the time and work a bit faster. all is well.

fifteen mins to go from the three hour lab. i tell people to start packing up, and of course, some of them would not do this in an attempt to complete the experiment, and some would continue to have their apparatus out in the last 2 minutes. i really get annoyed when i have to stay half an hour after the lab to clean up after them - it's not an issue of not being paid or anything, just that i have other errands to run and have appointments to keep on fridays, so i really cannot spare the time. that being said, i'm quite lenient and let them run 5 - 10 minutes late (i know some of the teaching staff will just walk out and refuse to mark anyone who submits late. i wonder if i'll turn into that begrudging person in the future).

anyway, so far, the lab has gone well, and of course someone would have to jinx it - in the final five minutes, no less. in quick succession, five pieces of broken glassware will echo down the lab corridors, and i am definitely peeved at this. they're first year students, granted, but the reason this was happening was because they couldn't be bothered with time keeping or heeding the continual suggestions, and were rushing at the final moments.

and then, all hell breaks loose (at least i would have imagined it to), when a student breaks a mercury thermometer and the contents spill on the lab floor. now, i have to emphasise that thermometers nowadays are pretty robust. they won't generally break if you let them fall on the floor, or accidentally knock them against the table / drawers etc. you really have to smash them with significant force to get the bulb to shatter. so i don't know what this student was doing (the experiment doesn't involve using a thermometer!) to have it happen, but c'est la vie. what surprised me (and dismayed me, mostly) is that none of the students in the proximity seemed to care. 'oh, look, elemental mercury on the floor. ho hum, business as usual'.

guys, i really don't have to spell this out to chemistry students. that sch*t is dangerous, son. stop working at that bench and clear the fsck out, mate. oh, man, i was having a minor heart attack at this moment, and everyone else (besides, perhaps the other demonstrator), seemed to care more about a measly 2 or 3 marks on their lab sheets than the possibility of dying or having mutant babies (ok, this is a lie, the amount of mercury in a thermometer even if you ingested in whole, will probably not be enough to kill you. but still, my point stands. heavy metals coming into contact with exposed skin is not as fun as, say a slayer concert).

anyway, it takes a good 10 mins for me to clear the scene (and there was this one student who kept trying to point out where pieces of broken glass / liquid mercury were, and i know she was trying to be helpful, bless her soul, but really i would have liked her to just move away from the area), and the next thing i realise is that we're 5m over time. half the class is still there.

a piece of me dies inside as i submit that i'll have to remain late, and though i won't miss my appointment, i have yet another (literal) mess to clean up after these students, who, as soon as they submit their handouts, walk ever-so-gaily into the sun while laughing *birds chirping in the background*. ok maybe not so much, but i'll allow myself a bit of a rant, regardless.

anyway, teaching is fun. you should do it for a living.

your face

kau yang muka penyapu,
tidak sedar bicara begitu;
terlalu menyengat pada lidah,
terlalu kasar, tidak petah,
jika cakap tidak tahu selain merapu.

kau yang muka sampah,
jika berlaku salahnya langkah;
tidak tahu maaf meminta,
pula mahu kau bercinta,
sedarlah diri kau akan kena pangkah.

kau yang muka perogol,
otak kecil, bodoh dan dogol;
jika berbuat baik, tak apa juga,
tapi bersalah tanpa diduga,
macam penyakit, air muka ibarat mongol.

kau yang muka jijik,
jika berhadiah pun macamkan sadistik;
usah pinta hati yang lain,
kalau berfantasi bukan main,
kalau kau bunuh diri pun lagikan lojik.

kau yang muka sepatu,
jika berangan kau nombor satu;
usahlah kau mencari,
mengejar pari-pari,
kerana kau sebenarnya adalah aku.

the death of a gentleman

a long time ago, i posted pertaining to the death of gentlemen (although i don't believe that was the post i am thinking of, i can't really find it right now). nevertheless, it has occurred to me that, perhaps, there is little in the way of effort that one can do to change perceptions of others with regards to his principality. when i was much younger, a continual fuel of victorian novels and high culture embedded in me the imperative to act in ways that would not befit the norms of my country, culture, religion, and race; to open doors for others, to stand from one's chair when someone approached his table, to wish a simple and good day, were aberrant practice, and furthermore could be (mis)interpreted as haughtiness, conceit, and even egotism. of course, this lead to the instant demise of what gentleman i could have been, or at least wanted to be.

many years later, after having immersed myself in foreign culture (and i do not brag as if i know any more about these than the average person), and having become somewhat detached from said norms, i am happy to have grown into the type of practices that i used to want. or at least, i was happy to have come into such happenstance. it is with great misfortune and distaste that i would report that, even in the culture of birth of gentlemen, such acts are not warranted or even accepted readily. i have been the victim of disgustful gazes and hefty sighs all too often when enacting gentlemanly conduct to perfect strangers, and not without ill reason. i would easily and happily attribute it to ignorance, or perhaps disdain, or even apprehensiveness, but this would not be the case, as i have found the persons (particularly women) of such foreign land to want for appeasing conduct - except by far from me (or persons as myself).

i begin to wonder why this is so, and it has dawned upon me, not without little observation, and much enforcement, that the explanation is simple: the nature of a man and his submitting to gentlemanly predisposition is not of utmost import, unless the appeal of such a man is firmly established beforehand; to be perceived as such is not only a blessing, but a draw of luck, dependent upon the sole distinguisher in (what must have arisen many centuries ago) an age of perception and prejudices. succinctly put, without sufficient physical appeal, there can be no gentleman. there can be only the deadened gestures of a desolate (and desperate) man, vying for things beyond him. and for those who appease the eye, there need not be a gentleman's predisposition: even the though, or deign, or want for such action in said person is enough to entitle him that sought and bewildered title of a utopian gentleman. one such thing that a person as myself could never hope to attain, but will always endeavour to be closer to - for if one cannot be that which is the best in men, he can only aspire to be something shoddily made in such image, even though that will never be good enough for the perceiving party. however, is it not enough in the eyes of oneself to know that he has tried?

i would argue not, for the living of astute and handsome gentlemen is a great testament; one that is rarely observed today. on the other hand, the death of such dopplegangers and would-have-beens is commonplace - though unappreciated - and only with their demise can the culture of gentlemanly conduct survive (if not thrive).

i would pass the proverbial baton to all those who are pleasing to the eyes, except it is not mine to give: it never was in the first place, and i can only apologise for trying to have pried it from such worthy hands. regardless, there is only little place left for such musings, for in the death of unscholarly gentlemen, there rises the need, and want, and imperative for his sovereign ruler, his brother in arms of well-endowed looks. and him, i most graciously oblige.

no final pardon

i once had thought that i was hold, to stand, to run upon my own,

but little did i know this fallacy was all but set in stone;

it did not take famine or death, or depraved thoughts of 'ternal strife,

to show me how i lacked in love, was you to walk into my life.

but sorry, i could not impart upon you what should be my all,

instead i fumble, foolishly, and trip then stumble then to fall;

what left after the fretful scorn, that leaves with you such wretched haste,

an unpalatable disdain that warrants hateful, bile'd distaste.

so 'pon this eve, i beg and plead, that nothing more come wedged and 'tween,

that i may ask of you one thing, that absolution from my sin;

and if you will not grant me thus, fear it is that takes my soul,

for nothing more is left of me, and never 'gain can i be whole.

perhaps redemption is too high, and ask of you upon this nigh,

but that you 'tain perfection still, no man, no demon can deny;

instead to this perfection is upon my humble'd beck'd decree,

for nothing more, and nothing less, your pardon is what sets me free.

to what i hope is 'ternal love, and if there's more, than i submit,

that even god cannot but laugh, for this mere hope, should you see fit;

to grant this soul one last sweet taste, a breath of air before i drown,

i crave your word, your sweetn'd smile more than of gold, of life, and crown.

to all who may read, to all who may hear, i cannot love beyond once more,

away.

away.

away with me.

that you should give, i would implore.

the most uninteresting person

a very wise and intelligent person told me that people walk in and out of your life; that persistence, and indeed, love, is a chance of timing. what makes it stick is just like what i find interesting - in a novel, a movie, a piece of art, a song - who can really tell, even one's own? one day you may like kittens, and another day puppies; one day you may like melancholy, and another you may find white noise the most acceptable thing to accompany you, while other days yet, you may languish in eerie silence; one day you may lust for that sweet, bitter chocolate, where another you may find all wanting but for spice and hot of chilli and peppers. who can tell, for the interplay between subject, self and environment is something far too complex for your simple mind to predict, and for my simple tongue to express.

an expression i once came to distinct between wisdom and intelligence is:

an intelligent wizard knows that facing a dragon is folly. a wise one never would.

i learned this from dungeons and dragons.

clearly my wise and intelligent friend spoke in cryptic because she had never come to meet the wyverns and werebeasts of the relationship world - one never can when she is most beauteous and charming. for the few of us gifted and endowed to make steel and spell of unwanted visage or character, fight on!

that name i could not remember

this name i hear you mention, as if i’ve heard it before,
sworn to speak it in ill light, and thenceforth nevermore;
although i think now i recall with passing memories fond,
a sweetened smell, like oranges, with mildew wiped upon.

surfaced now through thickened thoughts like ether made of tar,
beyond my loathsome recesses or mayhap from afar;
i see it now, but then it’s gone, this visage of a face,
that haunting smile with playful grin, like hallowed death’s embrace.

say it now, but one more time, that i remember yet,
was it a child? was it a friend? someone that i had met?
upon a family dinner or in a vivid dream maybe?
or was it underneath the stars, over a cup of tea?

ah, yes, i see, i recall now, the times were not but one,
they spanned from moonlit, humid nights, to days under the sun;
that time we spent our lazy hours, skipping stones by the pool,
all the while just waiting on ourselves to be made fools;
while turning fronds and browning leaves that from the treetops hung,
where colourful, wild flowers hid and careless mushrooms sprung;
and in my hand - that name it sighs - a wreath of soft, blonde hair,
its silken gleam of angels’ tears for sight, my soul should bear.
then came the foretold drizzled drops, to cleanse our tired eyes,
lay giggling like mad children waiting for this earth’s demise;
and when my breath would catch upon a glaring, spiteful breeze,
i’d clench that lei of hopeful strands, and leave my heart at ease -
let chirping swallows, buzzing bees, to lead these eyes astray,
like leaves whisked on a gentle wind,
away,
away,
away…

remains yet but an image, poor, beyond my feeble mind,
a sorrowed tune, so sickly sweet, a memory i can’t find;
how would i to describe this feel, a sordid jamais vu,
that tells of past and future tales before they have come true.

a glaring blanche to pierce my eyes, that squinting sightless blind,
bedazzled states, and wild-run legs to lead a clueless mind;
as i recall, a daisy ‘pon a sun hat that she donned,
a jewelled glow for silken skin, that prances with light shone;
it seems so faint, but all too real, that brief ephemeral touch,
that meant nigh all to one, but to the other, nothing much?
yet paled the light in contrast to what grainy sea-swept floes,
that makes it hide and slinks with tide between less nimble toes;
oh, of the sea! i recall now! through which we ran at pace!
and when we stopped to catch our breaths, it reflected her face -
a perfect smile, and nonchalant, i hear her laugh so coy,
my heart fills with the same she had;
that mirth,
that gay,
that joy.

as if it were to prey upon the unwitting and slow,
the sun had set, the tides had gone, the grass had ceased to grow;
but in their stead, fall ochre leaves, and rustling winds like mad,
if change is all that we can hope, it must be good (and bad).

those sanguine leaves that creeped upon a bridge, a stump, a wall,
had she been sly? had she been quick? had she been short, or tall?
it must have seemed a little dense, how with the undergrowth,
what lies beneath her perfect smile, was just a bit of both;
’twas not too dinned, that starry eve, just like her person true,
but misconstructed shallow gifts, would make the day i rue:
for this, you see, is how her name, now tarnished, to forget,
i weeped a against the shallow tune of crickets at sunset;
how could it be that twilight came, sent shivers down my spine,
to recollect her name instead, when she’d forgotten mine;
i see it now, etched in the clouds that whisper through the night,
i’d lull upon her fingertips,
i wish,
i may,
i might.

but warmth evades this very thought,grows tenebrous and cold,
it haunts me even in my sleep, as sure as i grow old;
but seasons turn, as minds do fade, just as her thoughts of mine,
but who’s to say that in mine stead, is something less sublime?

for in that final hour or with its fast encroaching fare,
my hopes for one last stroke of luck, i beg of this you spare;
as holy as i clenched upon that golden lock of hair -
but how could i to cherish what was smeared beyond repair?
you see, what once was temperate to the touch, is now so icy cold,
as if her sun-touched mere embrace is now bereft of soul;
and with it borne a frigid stare, what piercing blue-green eyes,
such that all that had been our truth is now but paltry lies,
yet who could blame such detached glance, that skewed and sent away?
for all that would to speak my name had perished with the day.

but how would it be described now, this decrepit, white shame? was it a truth? a mere facade? a folly of a game?
if you permit, that it should have no bearing all the same - ’twas love, you see, that’s what she was; indeed, that was her name.