One Season Into Man
Yes. Yesterday, the clock soaked a flock
of birds that sang the most noisy song
of silence. Sounds euphonic, but pathetic. Because those tunes; soon be words
in the world like raindrops fell, then echoed in the wells of nonsense. Fate always doesn’t give a damn: like when I was born, thereupon condemned to be a cage—who yearns lifelong for a bird. Just in case, just to answer the question of essence.
When a loner at loneliest loneliness,
they leave a void noise and choice—
so it tends to be easier: to speak lessness,
to feel nothingness, to smell meaningless,
to hear and see nothing but essence that disappears in everything that appears in
the face of burned petals; to hide and seek
inside every verse on the brightest poems
in vasty, darkest, random, absurdly and cold-hearted of this transitory universe.
“Are you a broken pinata? Cause you used to be filled with so much sweetness—but now you broke by unknown bitterness. You’ve taught me to laugh. Have you forgotten or tried amnesia? That you give me a trace to spell grace. To forgive all fate with no regret. To live every inch of life in every sight. Won’t give up without a fight. Like the brightest sun in the solar system. The loudest anthem in this noisy world. Oh my word. But look, take a look: on the outside you’re the greatest guy, now you are just empty inside. Who slowly turns into the worst of remorse.” said the stick that bangs the pinata merciless and the worst part, without even realizing it.
In the morning, a rotten table patiently waits for a chair in the dining room. During the day, a hammer prepares to meet the presence of a rusty nail. In the afternoon, a shabby curtain shielded the windows before the night set the doom.
At night, just as the day wanted to change the sail, I was suddenly pulled out of my mother’s womb—without having a chance to ask her brain: “Mom, what comes first, essence or existence?”
(Bogor, March 27th 2000)
Everything that we don’t care about, again, slowly turns into just a meaningless thing: smelly cabbage in the garbage; crumble can in trash can; new style that already old-fashioned; fashion plate who can’t find another doorbell; fracture door in the midst of broken home; doormat based on shoddy cloth; noble lie in the table of time; time bomb that already exploded; passer-by who pass away yesterday; road map that map out a walk out; wallflower who suicide as like withered flowers by the roadside; my wonderwall that turn into the wall in a little fable of Kafka.
We lie then gaze at the constellation.
But no, the stars that look at us. We
know we suffer more in imagination
than in reality. So we leave the past
alone with memories. But we’re
too often in a long distance
relationship with reality. Like a star,
we are too distant from actuality.
When we look at the stars,
we’re actually looking at a
star tomb; a long time ago.
So we will go toward the future. To
be sure, we will use a time travel
machine. But baby, we only found
each other’s skin. Letter at our funeral, another burial, drifted into an
endless void of misery. Stagnant;
recurring again, again and again.
Without end, cyclical. Dead stars
cynically tell us a dreadful thing:
Both of you need Amor Fati!
The Encounter with Nietzsche
You may feel empty,
at least you still have space inside
: half for the bitter tears of the god,
half for the fallen fate of the devil,
entirely for your gravity to fall in love
with destiny—create undefeated
significance for yourself.
Fatum Brutum Amorfati
He pushes his stone from stone age—until stone-cold. Old and desolate; while his thoughts only for happiness. Down with absurdity, through alpha to omega. O pathetic fate who can’t fade by death. Season changes, but Sisyphus always ends up dead end. Changeless; no matter how, like a Sigma Notation. No exit or without time out. Time after time, time is up. He was up in his arms. Arm in arm with give up.
Up in the air, he was still down and out. Suddenly there was a little knock inside his heart—he found a mighty god that smiled at him, then he wanted to push on his stone again and again because finally he knew: the struggle to the top in itself is enough to fill the void in his heart and the pressure to be happy is too unhappy than to push a goddamn stone more, more and evermore in eternity.