//Floating Dreams//

Sheer creamy continuity, silky rain, savouring the taste of pain

Blank white velvety void, transparency, enveloping


Constancy is reality, unlearn the civilised, and colours

Soften fairies, annul scriptures, melting nymphs, let dissolve


Flowing flume, flooding brains, drifting and wandering

Prevail in us, milky dreams, saturating final space, 


The plenitude of elation, the regularity of souls, 



Carbon monoxide, weathering against clefts
Let go off, habitual detonation
Shriek and holler, read minds, contrive complexities in plastic agonist
Fireplaces for the weak, disguise tragedies with teenage rage
Crayons and pretence, purposelessly drew hurricane in craze

Pick up, the unbecoming of the day
phantoms un-generated, herds of sheep, harsh touches and soft countenance
tore down relics of cataclysmic triviality, captured seconds
Dressed up for pity, disinfect mockery while
traversing accelerating train tracks and
broken bodies

Flummoxed, clarity, magicians toppling astronomic solitude
Cringe crash crack cast, collide, the black
Asylums of normality, riveted by two moons, once
Alive dead, feed sensitivity to deprived hounds
Dousing the world of two with perpetual ecstasy
Symphony of derangement, void
liberated us, liberate not us

Withdrawals and flashbacks, continuity and promiscuity
Shooting galleries, strollers possess no better fantasies than ours
Rejection of speech, profound ridicule redecorate the blueprint of our artistic specialties
Languish languish, eliminate systems with daily dose of heaven,
luxury of prayers
the poorest of pain and

barring, rigging desolation with abstraction,
plain hopeless
found rules in fateful

23/09/2017 01:10am

Poetry -For the Violent

Because I, with an unloaded revolver, became a suicide bomber 
While you, innocent, decided to buy terror
Because I, by fated attacks, was injured, but love was not 
While, all the way from death, you came back, but humanity did not
Because, living in the bright, I beg for your darkness
While you, in twilight, pray me even more of self-destructiveness
Because I, with hurtful sins, allow the world to erode me by your lord
While you, with painful respite, defend with an unjust sword
Because I, just like loving many others, love you
While you, just as you hate yourself and the lovers, hate all my world too
Because I, a human, is no angel
And you, a beautiful one, is no devil
Therefore, anything, I will not conclude 
But to leave you to pave your way with your mighty tools 
Therefore my wound may, one day, heal your wound 
but my deaths might not, in any way, give you all the life you consumed
Therefore I am, again, finally thoroughly away, but, regardless it all, again here to stay
Yet unworthy my words may be, and my soul, unnecessary, you may not see
Sordidly, turn on the house light 
Pretending it is, humorously, for a mere artistic sight
Then, perhaps, we could say 
That no words, at all, have been uttered 
No time, at all, has been squandered 
And no lives, at all, have been shattered
Last writing of summer 16′
28/08/2016 04:28am

Poetry -Just As Normal

Why not live with me
In the world where thinking is illegal and feeling is essential
No more will there be philosophical dilemmas or mind prisons
Just us all with our own brainless soulful flesh
Why not drown with me 
Drown deep into the cruel waters of reality with me
We could breathe out oxygen for each other and our dead souls could perhaps live
Live just as before just as normal
Just as before 
Just as normal
Why not write
Just as before just as normal with me
Before Jesus gave us salvation saving us from one hell to another
Before ice sheets melting and polar bear cubs dying
Before scientific intelligence brought stupidity to kill humanity
Before the world lost its grip against corrupt politics
Before our infants’ familiarity with misery
Before innocent children’s first bloodshed
Before you’re here 
Before you’re gone
But with me
I guess 
You would rather not
30/07/2016 05:56am

Poetry -Present

A screeching lamb on the late night tram
Not the mere 3:13am or 8:28 pm 
Rather the touch of an ill-favoured alluring scam
Mellow as the bleeding marionette with a guitar-strummed sonnet
Heavenly as weaving absolute vodka into the Werther-themed opera
Exquisite as binging 99% dark chocolate naked at mid-night tasting nothingness in bites
Brutal as the dark sunrise’s insomniac alarm and its excruciating charm
Numb until consciousness re-appears like murderous reindeers
Seal the foreign arid throat with some unused wooden craze
Bury the quickening footsteps with one eerie killing embrace
How the good old forever stayed among the delicate haze 
Without the goddamn guilt-filled government-funded charity race
12/08/2016 05:30am

Prose -Last Words

There’s some kind of addictive mystery in the passing of time, some kind of irreplaceable beauty in the fluidity of moments. It is a sort of charm that is particular to the observance of the flight of seconds, a helpless sight of the accumulation of self-loath, and an awareness of the formation of revelations and the departure of skies.
 It is a meditative serenity that often propel minds towards a rumination of unreturned beings, recreations of unreturned moments, and imitations of unreturned sensitivity towards human emotions. It is also the sentimental geometry of void, in the colour of tranquility and the sound of ocean blue, that is, however, resistant towards futile disturbance, harsh progress, or any irrelevant form of force. 
It is an unfathomable spectrum of vibrance that heals itself above the surface of earth, without struggling with the philosophical question of heaven, or obsessing over the favorable existence of pandemoniums. It is, moreover, beyond literal language, but does not cease to immerse all souls into the impalpable curse of extravagant metaphors and the invasive hymn of figurative speech. 
 It does not fail to retain the capability of bestowing suffocation upon minds, or to cast upon torsos the experience of falling from the infinite heights of mountains. Yet, before the return of any sort of human consciousness, skulls are often, as they are destined to be, smashed into the gruesome ground of stones. 
All you will be able to recall is, perhaps, the way unpleasant screams gradually traumatise the running child, the manner in which the scrap of wound frightens the newborn infant. But all they will reiterate is the way blood is left forgotten among the passage of beings and the passage of time. 
 In this moment, where all worldly matter become unfathomable, you will be allowed to let go of meaning. In this moment, where all vile hearts become gentle, you will loosen the grip of pain. And, in this one last moment, you will be persuaded to let go of your current obsession of last words, or your imagination of flamboyant funerals.
 The only certainty will rest in the unstoppable flow of time, the darkness among brightness, and the beauty among condemnations, who will draft a genuine poetry of insanity, a peaceful paragraph of death, and, one day, some sheer words of anguish and pain, just as I and my soul did, on one drunken night of the day.

Poesía -Por Qué (Una versión española de mi primera poesía)

Por qué no vives conmigo
En el lugar en que el pensamiento sea ilegal y la sensación sea esencial
En el lugar en que no hubiere dilemas filosóficos ni las prisiones de las mentes
En el lugar en que solamente estuviéremos nosotros con nuestras almas sin sentido


Por qué no te ahogas conmigo
Te ahogas dentro las crueles aguas de la realidad conmigo
Tal vez podamos exhalar oxígeno el uno del otro
Tal vez nuestras mentes muertas puedan vivir de nuevo
Puedan vivir como antes, vivir como normal


Por qué no escribes conmigo
Escribes como antes y escribes como normal
Antes de que Jesús nos diera salvación rescatándonos de un infierno a otro
Antes de que el Polo Norte se esté derritiendo y los osos polares estén muriendo
Antes de que la inteligencia científica trajera la estupidez para matar a la humanidad
Antes de que el mundo perdiera su agarre contra la política corrupta
Antes de la familiaridad de nuestros niños con la miseria
Antes del primer derrocamiento de sangre de la inocencia


Pero conmigo
Que no podrías

Words For You, My Friend

May the sky caress you in a language we do not speak
May the clouds traverse the border of your world and ours
May the tranquility of blue complement the all-encompassing colour of your precious mind
May you rest not in peace but in the nuance of your childhood dreams and the vibrance of your everlasting words

Good night is not a tearful farewell but a mindful celebration of our togetherness and your love
Good night my friend, goodnight my dearest friend
Have the most beautiful night until the end of time and until the awaited day of our reunion

Poetry -Confession

I am a murderer
I made my soul one because death is justified for a crippled sinner
I persuaded her justice that I am one for I’ve known minds 
that cannot be truer consciousness
that cannot be gentler 


I am a reckless man slaughterer 
I stick knives into thoughts at dawn and watch the tenderness in my throat 
gradually shatter
I will threaten innocence to bleed for my emperors’ pleasure when 
freedom eventually becomes our kingdom’s ultimate censor


I am a spectator to my own crime
I kill with ignorance by seconds to the delightful rhythm of Paris’ chime
I bathe my tainted lungs with the last words of victims and
cleanse my culpable soul with blasphemous hymns 
step by step each time


I am by definition merely a human being
I robbed these words from the love letter she was 
secretly carrying
She is the culprit of  guilt accumulating glasses of apathy permeating 
the witness of sanity perishing the pandemonium’s christmas carolling 

//My Insomniac Take On Activism//

It is always easier to put the blame on others, especially on politicians, because it takes us no more than five seconds to express hatred.
Try blaming ourselves today.
Try putting the burden on ourselves and take little actions today. We do not have to start Black Lives Matter to be an activist. Activism is just about spreading ideas and taking action on ideas.
Activism is human.
To I myself, being an activist is merely about attempting to understand what being a human being means. Being an activist entails a humble recognition that we are not the center of the world and a realization of our greed and fragility. Being an activist also means that we still strive to work towards redeeming our own crime despite how futile some efforts may feel.
After all, activism is just self-reflection.
This wall was my activism a month ago. No it did not save Palestine or Hong Kong. But if it taught at least one more person on this campus about something or motivated at least one more person to spend two minutes a day to read about the occupation, it still IS activism.
Beyond Hong Kong, Palestine, and the US, I hope we all are building towards our common human project of saving the dying bits of humanity and attempting to talk to human apathy in the midst of the growth of isolationist policies. It attempts to talk and it is waiting to be heard every day.
I tell myself this every day – be patient and take baby steps. We don’t have to care about the whole world – no one can. Let’s admit that we are barely taking care of ourselves. Care about ourselves, our family, our friends, and plus just ONE extra thing for now and act on it.
That’s all I ask tonight from myself and from people who still feel human inside them somewhere.
I am not cool. Bernie Sanders isn’t either. Caring about politics and acting on issues aren’t “cool.” It is just human. Don’t make “corrupt politics” our excuse to be apathetic. Politics isn’t corrupt – we are.
Let us blame ourselves once more tonight and turn the passivity of blame into practical actions tomorrow. Goodnight my fellow human beings who read through the above.