(You have) no
Pulse (right now).
Brain (function has) ceased.
(No need to) worry.
Just another statue now;
No life left.
(I blame) the winter.
ContentmentWhere camels cross across the sands
In hot and dry and desert lands,
Where just to live's a desperate scheme
We watch a fellow, fevered, dream:
Uncontrolled, his limbs, they shake!
On fire, his thirst he cannot slake!
But as he drifts into the dark,
His febrile mind begins to spark
With visions of idyllic zones
Of castles, kings and queens, and thrones,
The yurts of Khans, the tents of sheikhs,
The Romans, Spanish, and the Greeks -!
He stops then, dreams of nature's gifts,
Of mountain ranges, shining cliffs,
Of rivers babbling to the sea,
Of forests, of a single tree.
And then he dreams of something grand -
His one and only lotusland.
As in his mind a shape it takes,
Upon the sand he sharply wakes.
For, though this man is bound to roam -
No single place he calls his own -
He's as content as he can be:
The camels, sand, the heat, and he.
To My Sister1.
I told you once you had to choose your battles.
You smiled and you told me you'd be fine,
The invulnerability of youth hanging on your shoulders
And your yellow scarf around your neck
And your hair just so,
Much later you had forgotten I ever mentioned those words,
You flung yourself into countless skirmishes with me instead;
In my defense I tried hard to get back at you
But my arrows meant nothing, shattered on your worn and dirtied armour like sugar cubes
Or nothing. Nothing is what they meant to you,
And when I held you off neither of us could triumph, I told myself,
But the weariness I felt facing you could mean only one thing.
I wished once you would let me choose my battles.
Later still was better, less hateful, but I could see the buildup in your eyes and limbs and face
And I worried constantly
And I waited for you to lose composure and get into it
And I wanted to say something to stop the stress building up that day
And I was glad when you stopped on the prec
Colour I: Bluei.
She opened her eyes,
Searched for the sounds of
Information, creating a current of
Electricity through her body,
Eyes to brain and back.
She turns to you, and you read her mind,
Read it through her eyes,
Such a strange
You glance up,
Escaping wrong conclusions/
Black specks in the distance/
Lambs lack all stain (Zounds!)
But you know He was wounded,
He must have been,
And mental instability never beckoned so hard
And you fall, purpose or no,
And you lie on your back
And you live on your back
(And you die on your back).
All above you is the vast crushing emptiness of colour.
It makes a paste of your flesh
It makes a dust of your bones
It makes a delicacy of your eyes.
I open my eyes to every time but this.
The sun beats the uneven surface here
And shatters itself into fools' diamonds
That fall beneath the bottom of the earth.
You would not dare to follow them so far
(Though faith might whisper softly that you could)
But she wo
Rain in SummerThe strings of rain in summer pass
Outside the window, dampen grass;
A pattering upon the glass.
A bird is singing unsurpassed
Despite the grey. The memory brings
The strings of rain. In summer, pass
The places we once caught sea bass.
Fat fish thrashing, fit for kings,
And pattering upon the grass.
We drank the sun as days went past;
Allowed to fall upon our wings
The strings of rain in summer. Pass
Control to me- Too late, alas.
The severed ends of puppet strings
Are pattering upon the glass.
Though we may hope, love never lasts;
The bird must cease, for all it sings.
The strings of rain in summer pass:
A pattering upon the glass.
Red Head with Bourbon and LimeHis idea of beauty was a red head, eleven shots of bourbon, and six lime wedges.
He was drunk and she was too.
They fell into bed after, giggling about this and that.
He slept fitfully, stealing the covers.
He awoke in the night, wondering what a terrible mistake he was making.
He got out of bed; he tucked her in.
3am he left, worrying about the morning.
The next night he was at the bar again.
Reckless AbandonThrow all your worries out the window, yea,
And dash your little ones upon the rocks.
Night comes quick and soon to your detractors;
The sland'rous shepherds will fast lose their flocks.
Your critics will be silent evermore,
The ignorant and liars must all learn
When they harp upon your every movement,
They only will condemn themselves to burn.
So feast, feast! on the hearts of enemies!
So take a life's course best described as random!
So take the things that lie within your reach!
Behave with the utmost impeccable reckless abandon.
Pa, we have a lot of Land...Pa, I know you'd never want to split up the farm.
I know that our family's held on to this land for so long. I know that your granddaddy's granddaddy bought it off a shifty guy they all called Crooked Jim. I know that Crooked Jim got shot here. (I know it wasn't any of our family who did it, though.) I know that your own momma got married here, and that your granddaddy built a little tiny chapel on part of the property for the occasion. I know that the chapel burned down three months later when a local boy knocked over a few candles. I know it was never rebuilt.
I know, too, the ins and outs of farming, Pa. I know why we need so much land and I know about rotation, soil fertility, topsoil, overgrazing. I know you were thinking about retiring. I know when Ma went you threw yourself right back into work. I know you have doubts about me taking over. I know why.
But Pa, I know farming like we do doesn't bring in as much money as it used to. I know the economy's bad. I know we're running in
Mary CelesteA month later they found you, alone.
No violence upon you, silent and desolate;
Your abandonment, unreasoning.
Terrified, they passed you around:
17 men in 13 years-
The oldest profession for your kind,
The Amazon type (if you know what I mean).
You were ruined by the last,
A greedy fraud and conman,
Left for dead for 100 years and more.
They found your bones in the water where he left them,
Hard and cold and rotting.
If you only had talked to your rescuers,
David Morehouse and his faithful Dei Gratia,
You could have been better used.
You could have been a rescuer.
You could have been proud for years.
But when you died,
You would have been dead forever.
Haughty death claims all,
But your haughty life keeps your spirit in the world;
None, perhaps, may ever be allowed to forget.
She Wore PaisleyShe came by today, the message on the door says.
She was wondering whether you had her scarf.
She didn't want to call you, it seems to say.
She worried that would give you false hope.
It was a different scene, that night,
(Just three weeks ago, but it feels a lifetime!)
When she came up to you in the hotel bar.
She didn't know you, but she liked you then,
Liked you enough to let your transparent flattery get the best of her
And get the best from her in your bed.
She left it there then, the scarf she had been wearing.
It was still there in the morning when you woke up and she had gone.
You kept it on your bookshelf against the time when she would call.
But she didn't call, and as the weeks melt away you know the scarf is all you will remember of her.
Pity you weren't here when she came by, said the note, you could have seen her face.
But all you will ever remember now is she wore paisley.
and we found...we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold grudges and we refuse to die because
the world can not stand the sight of our scars and
cloud-colored eyes filled with a malady called freedom.
we are believers and dreamers and scared to death but we
are not done yet. we are dusty library windows and thunder
raking through bones and leaving eyes glowing, skin shaking,
burning whispers of 'I'm sorry, but this is
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:
giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from crescent couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --
burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.
it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moon-raker,
swishing my bait-lines with tobacco
squished in your shallow gums
as you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
and beg you stay.)
time enough for a kiss-
and-never-tell, for a stumbling waltz
to the dissonance of crystal-shatter odes
to the summerlong i knew you --
we were(n't) meant for more than this.
morning goes right through you,
and breathes a thousand fortunes in-
to shards of (our) stranger starfall.
hushi'm done wishing
on shooting stars, and
i want to be done with you:
i'll let dust settle
on my telescope,
let dust settle in
my throat, my lungs.
twist your fingers through
my vocal cords,
press your palm to
my lips and tell me, hush
don't wish on things
falling too fast
to hear you
maybe i'll wish
they are quiet houses
for muted ghosts, though
more alive than you
have ever been.
i'll let you
pull me under,
paint my eyes
with salt, blind me
so you can murmur, shh
even dead things
can be beautiful
Six Words for a SlumpSix Words For A Slump:
You're tired, unable to create anything.
You feel angry; the anatomy's wrong!
Why won't these words come together?
"Nothing's right anymore, my hands tremble..."
Yet the solution is fairly simple...
I'm showing it to you now;
Break up your ideas, smaller sized.
They come together, like in Tetris.
Rotate the blocks; shape your art.
Draw chibis and stick figures too.
Instead of epics, try a haiku.
How about a six word story?
If your mind is blocked, overheated.
Let it cool; take it slow.
By attempting all the smaller things,
Your art is sure to grow.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th January 2013
Sea-Salt Ice Cream Recipe
Sea-Salt Ice Cream
Wire whisk or fork
Medium sized saucepan
Medium sized bowl
1 cup measure
1 teaspoon measure
Ice-cream maker or ice-pop molds or a cooler of liquid nitrogen (optional)
1 heart (optional get it)
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
blue and green food coloring (optional)
1. Re-arrange the letters of your name and add an X somewhere.
2. Crack 2 eggs into the bowl and whisk well for a few minutes. A wire whisk works best but a fork can do in a pinch.
3. Add the cup of sugar into the eggs and continue to whisk well until creamy.
4. Heat the milk in the saucepan over medium heat until warmish hot while constantly stirring with the wooden spoon (do not use a metal spoon it will scratch your pot and make the milk burn easier). The milk should be right before boiling, but do not
Slutit implodes on the walls of your skull
and slides, sickly
off your tongue
like the body of a slug.
when it hits the floor
it is not quiet,
but sharp as a slap
and totters out of
they are disgusting
and you are ill.
there is no more room
washed away by the slime
coming out of your pores.
the fault is yours
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block