Bay Hotel Singapore

She’s checked in. She has a king’s size bed with all pomp and splendor. Wish! Alas! I exclaim in carnal agony; I could have shared the bed with her in rapture.


You stink of
Existential piss;
Your bones are
Eaten worms,
Settled termites,
Now decayed…
The ungratified abyss…
You are a moral of
Heavenly unkindness….
You are raging tempest
Of immoral epiphanies…
My solitude is a tearful abyss…
A hazy psychedelic rainbow—
Sketching in on is a bloody
Blasphemy of ephemeral nihilism—
No mortals understand or
Feel me in my frozen depths…
Yes, I am bloodier than JOB…
I cry Christ –
Woe to you for the created—
My angst plagues me,
Locusts laughing in glee.
Where has love’s
Existence gone?
My body, a question
Without an answer.

Sorcerer’s Writing

English, once the language of the Colonialists has become a mass-meric, (coined from mass and mesmeric) language for global expression. English, written from left to right is sorcery, witchcraft. The diabolic expression can be contrasted with Hebrew and Arabic, written from right to left. Is writing divine or diabolical? I don’t know. Whether it is the left or right, language is always language, a playful undoing of the signs to rupture.


Metaphors of yellow poems lay in a cluster on the tree. I subdued my senses and put it into it. Sight lingered as an aromatic taste. The evening sky lay like feathers, mellow orange, all of them whispering the tales of my feelings. I feel warmth, a sensual one; I lick my lips in the solidarity of profound meditation. I think of Zen and feel like one.


Is a spy in one country.
A gangster in a second!
A double agent in a third!
A pimp in fourth!
A bootlegger in fifth!
An arms dealer in sixth!
A drugs dealer in the seventh.
Seven days of creation are complete. 7 the perfect number. All interesting occupations. I sigh in relief. All a writer’s imagination.


The Sun had a gloomy face. The eyelids of the clouds opened and spread a stream of wet tears. The earth became wet like saliva on the tongue. Rain drops trickled from green leaves as watery wand. I hear the cry of the Rooster, and it’s touching a musical note in my soul. The feathers of birds remained drenched.