Redaksi Omong-Omong

Life is a Tragicomedy: Eight Poems

Moch Aldy MA

2 min read


If you tell me to write a book about why I love you, then it’s about 1002 pages with 1000 blank pages.

Opened with a foreword saying that I don’t know why, somehow, the goddamn language had managed to escape from my head. Ended with a bibliography of honesty about how I will never be able to write a book like this—unable.

But I will gather the feeble of all my courage together to say: “I’m sorry”—thence kiss upon your brow. Whereupon stare blankly at those magical eyes.


If What I Wrote in Life Echoes an Eternity

Once upon a time, or once in a while—you will finally try to read my poetry. Then find it’s not too lengthy. Because it has 3 things only: how cold the world of this shitty-reality; the brainless of the language when expressing your beauty; & me who hide the sins of our futility underneath my insanity.


How Can?

You are beautiful. Unfortunately, I’m in the writer’s block. But you are still beautiful. A flock of clock locks on the wistful. But you are still beautiful. The rhyme looks confused until confusedly confuse by confusion. But you are still beautiful.

I soberly sobered up from a sobering hangover. But you are still beautiful. Our head had a rough night to right off through. But you are still beautiful too.

I’m done with writer’s blocks when I finish this ugly poetry. But what I found is the world whichsoever beautifies their nasty & you who beautifully never finishes your beauty.


What is Beauty?

Beauty is when we try to express on tone in music, it fabulously becomes melodious. When we attempt to describe it in words, it poetically becomes poetic. When we try to paint that in painting or art, it marvellously becomes artsy.

Beauty is when we visualize what beauty is; afterwards suddenly we clearly see the invisible—those in the midst of ugliness lay invincible loveliness. Or maybe beauty is soundless, languageless, formless, & unspokenly.

Beauty is when we close our eyes & feel our lips crash; that causes all of conception about what beauty is—crush instantaneously.


Portmanteau > Intertext of Cigarettes After Sex

<web + log> = blog
<chill + relax> = chillax
<electronic + mail> = email
<friend + enemy> = frenemy
<man + explain> = mansplain
<mock + cocktail> = mocktail
<emotion + icon> = emoticon
<stay + vacation> = staycation
<drama + comedy> = dramedy
<costume + roleplay> = cosplay
<your lips + my lips> = apocalypse


Life is a Tragicomedy

What if we’re just a tragedian who is caught in the heart of space-time—or between the illusion of heaven & hell—that is tragically becoming tragical, gradually feels tragic; because we never know the hidden mystery of tragedies—inside every tragedy—before we finally die & mysteriously realize … we’re god’s failure to create a funniest comedy.


No Fucking Way

There are only two ways to cope with a broken heart. Reject it and commit suicide; or accepting it, then became a poet who wrote tragedies on endless destiny—for life, o life! entire life!


& So on, Life Must Goes on

Astronomers say there are 100 billion to 200 billion galaxies in the universe. For more than 3 trillion planets on each galaxies. Revolve among a vast bizarre-universe.

& we’re still vibing—on this tiny blue planet covered by seas. Drowning our ignorance, within hope inside enigmatic-sacred verse. & we struggle to death—to fill the void that we can’t even see. Sown our own dread: buried by all of nonsense—vanity.

& we can’t run, we can’t hide either. & the bad news is, in the end it doesn’t really matter at all. & the good news is, in the end, it doesn’t really matter at all. & I’ll be your Sisyphus; thus you could be my absurdity—who says: “fuck ’em all!”


Moch Aldy MA
Moch Aldy MA Redaksi Omong-Omong

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