love, the word

I awake thusly

by illusion or by mistake.

But either way, it is your doing.

There’s blood everywhere;

oxygen is scarce in this no man’s land,

and I am fighting an enemy

that I cannot see.

Are you satisfied now

as I swallow the shards of my dreams

that you’ve fed me

while spooning out

my fleshly beating heart?

Are you finally letting me go now–

are you done?

Oh treachery

cuts through cries of despair

like a hunter’s gutting knife.

I ask myself:

is this what you want?

Is this

what you want?







a gorgeous

summer dream

like my sordid lie

an ugly wanting


butterfly effect

Most of the time

something that is detrimentally cosmic

such as the wrath of God,

the so-called karma,

the measure of one’s fate or

shit-out-of-luck situations,

is the result of a dishonest word

from someone you trust.


She wore madness on her face like an

expression; those self-induced flickers

of uncertainty inside the pale hues of her iris

represent something dark, some trembling secrets

sewn across the edges of her mind, of chaos. She

wrapped herself in her beauty and vulnerability,

a blanket of stars and fire and so easily,

she caused the unrealities to become realities

with her meticulous alchemy, securing, augmenting

tears and melancholy with chemicals

distilled from her poisonous past, the everlasting

genesis of justice, the immortal core of reason—

where she first died, emerged, and gave birth

to herself—where she rejoiced, celebrated

her own diabolical victory—feeding her

dreams to the devil while her heart—lost,

forever, in her own silhouette.


Don’t Fight the System

You heart recognizes it before your mind does. Over

the years it has decoded the language of your soul, deconstructed

the patterns of your behaviour and systemized your

various reactions and thoughts. In order to ensure survival,

it strategizes your emotions and efficiently segregates

your truest feelings so you react appropriately to

things that it considers too good to be true or

things that will certainly do you more harm than good.


Its calculations are nearly always exact, immutable

and indispensible and just as your heart masters

the mechanics of your internal chaos, you

indulge yourself in its loyal service and you feel safe

wrapped in this dependence, this self-deception. With

continuous practice, your faithful servant tackles the difficult

maths of life, what you call, bad shit that always

happen to good people.


Like any intellectual being, that little piece of beating

flesh inside of your chest gradually comes

to its own wistful conclusion: to simplify

the equations and formulas and to reduce the

constant complication of its computation—it begins to

defragment its hard-drive, erasing the unnecessary files,

memories of joy, of love and of hope. Those things

are not needed. What good have they done so far?

According to its calculation, humans need only

one thing to survive, and that is thing is fear.


So it teaches you to be afraid,

To live in fear, to become fear itself.

Only then, can you be fully and truly

protected from pain, from unfulfilled wishes,

from one job to the next, from one lover to another,

from the shards of your broken relationships,

from the dawnless sleeps, the nightmares that

do not end, the devil that is life.


Memoirs of a Geisha (afterwards)

When you looked at me

The teapot acquired a mind of its own, and

It pushed away my rigid fingers

Broke free from my trembling hand

That was yearning for the side of your face

And something to hold onto


All of a sudden I could hear nothing

Nothing at all, nothing

But shards of porcelain-screams

Smothering my heart in monstrous bites

Its blood, the blood of the teapot

As brown as the bark of a tree,

Trickled down my palm and

Carried away the little, frantic pulses as it passed over my wrist and

Splashed ruthlessly onto my kimono

A hot stain branded onto an unfortunate nightingale

Slashing its neck with its liquid, careless brush

I could do nothing as it reached

For the soft-pink cherry blossom trees

Making them wither


I could do nothing as it ruined

A perfectly stitched world

And took away its stillness with an alien colour that was both

Permanent and destructive

A colour that matched your attentive eyes

Noticing every single move that I made


I apologized for my clumsiness

Bowed away the heat that was burning my hand

My onesan, my older sister, my mentor, dramatized my silliness

By stressing that it was my first time entertaining a group of men

As an apprentice geisha.


“Why, Chairman, look what your charm can do to a girl!”


You only smiled, that generous smile that gave me hope

So many years ago, when I was just a little girl

As much hope as a thousand paper cranes could carry

Into the sky

I listened as I wiped away the spilled tea from the table with a cloth

Drying the mess on my hand

As a maid came in to do the rest


And I blinked, and snuck glances at you

I wondered if it was possible that

You figured out my sister’s protective lies

Flung out skilfully, jokingly into the air

Lies that were spread elegantly on the tatami floor

Half-shining with a golden hue that both sickened me and frightened me


I wondered if you knew that behind the painted paper fans

A geisha put on a smile like she put on makeup

Affections might as well be frustrations and disgust

And the kinds of persons we geisha allow you to see us be

Were as real as any illusion on a hot summer day


And I wondered that despite all this—

If it was possible for you to have the slightest suspicion

Just the tiniest bit of doubt that

Those words, spoken by my sister

In her act of mending the discourteous

And ridiculous gesture I conducted—


“Why, Chairman, look what your charm can do to a girl!” 


Had it ever occurred to you that

Those words, coming out from a mouth of a geisha

Could actually and accidentally been the truth?


This poem is closely based on the story of Memoirs of a Geisha, a book by Arthur Golden, which I just recently reread. I think it’s a beautiful story, and I was inspired to write this poem. It’s not exactly the same as the original story, but it’s very closely related, anyway.

Also, I read my poem (this poem :D) in public for the first time. It was a small, friendly crowd at West Minister, the Great Wall Tea Co. I was really nervous before I went there, but I loved the experience. I will be more active and start spreading my name! 🙂




In my hand I hold a piece of sunlight.

It crumbles. Pulled to the ground by the gravity of its love.

Its love for earth. Like golden cookie crumbs and a child’s toothless smile.

Back in those moments when we knew nothing at all. Ignorance is bliss.

Back in those moments when the sky was just the sky and it was vast because it is was.

That was before we tried to understand everything. Before we lived by the so-called reason.

What good has reason done for us, so far? This reason. Ha. We think it is the truth.

We point at it and name it the truth. It becomes the world we live in today. It becomes our vision, a kind of blindness. It becomes God. It becomes Evil. It becomes whatever it needs to become so we can exist.

Like the Matrix. You have seen that movie? I just watched it last night.

And I think that world is not so different from ours.

Who really is our enemy?

How can you tell what’s real or what’s not, what’s love and what’s hate, what’s life and what’s death—

You’ll know it’s real. No, seriously.

Tell me if this is real. Tell me if your life is real.

Tell me this world isn’t what I think it is. Tell me.

Tell me when it’s all over.

Tell me that we live in a utopia and not chaos.

But hey, we are.

Don’t you know?

We are in a utopia. Of course we are.

No, seriously.

We are in a utopia.

And that’s the truth. That’s the reality.

Why am I so sure, you ask?


I have my reasons.