From the Broken Hearts Notice Board

It’s just that I wonder

if she touches you like I would –


trying to read you like a map,

seeking for the places

where pain screams under skin,

so she can lure it out

and make it her own.

It’s just that sometimes

when I get lost on evening streets

it takes a moment to realize

I’m there alone.

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They Should Know You by Now

I’ll have to remember

to buy some peanuts

and try to tame the ravens.

They should know me by now.

Like the cats know me –

begging for food

in mezzosoprano voices.

Isn’t that what we all want?

I know now

that air is god-shaped,

but my guides are all beggars

and they are all blind, even if

they should know you by now.

I get these goosebumps on my skin,

whether it’s cold outside

or the sky is orange hot.

It’s ok, they’re just

tiny dents in the machine, but

they should know you by now.

Sometimes you don’t want

to count the roads –

that’s one song I got tired of

before I even learned the words.

How many seas? Who cares?

To hell with them –

they should know you by now.

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Old Painting Reworked

NOTE: Hope you guys don’t mind that I’ve also begun to post my paintings here. This is a reworking of an older piece of mine:



Here is the old version for comparison:


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I remember your baggy jumpsuit –

an armour or cocoon, you said,

to keep the uninvited eyes away,

but you wished for the fashion sense of the damned,

the wing in the corner of your eye

that would never stay.

You would pack up Pandora’s suitcase,

with mangy hope still at the bottom of it,

refusing to suffocate under your jeans –

and, by the way,

you packed too many pairs again.

You would wheel it over

to the glamorous streets –

not for the gold, just for the being there.

Big yellow dogs would come

to sniff you hello,

making you grin and forget

what you were about to do –

You were about to light a cigarette,

pretend not to look

at men who are too dashing for you

and call yourself

something worse than invisible.

I wish you could stop your thieving.

I wish you could stop betraying me.


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Hel (Poem + Painting)

NOTE: Happy New Year, everyone! Sorry I haven’t posted in a long while. The reason is that I’ve taken up digital painting again, after some 8 years, and it’s very time-consuming. Here’s the first painting I completed. It represents Hel, the Norse goddess of the Underworld. I also wrote a poem to go with it. (Also – I know what the painting looks like :/ The good news is improvement is inevitable if one keeps practicing.)




They’re digging underground again,

working on the new subway line.

They won’t find you.

They’ll only drive you deeper

into the heart of your damp palace,

where your hounds,

fierce though they may look,

have inherited your sadness

and turned deaf and mute.

Your cold palace

where orphaned mud puppies

drink the watery milk

from your breast –

that is, the right one,

your living breast.

The left side,

where your heart is supposed to be

was frozen even before you were born.

I guess that makes you safe.

I guess that makes you cursed.

As a child my grandmother made me read

stories of eternal fire –

this was before I found out

there are many ways one can burn.

And so, it is not fire I fear now –

It is your home I fear

where there can be none.


And here’s a detail of the face:



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The Enlarged Heart

NOTE: This poem is about the death of Jimmy “The Rev” Sullivan, on December 28, 2009. He was a musician best known as the drummer (and occasional vocalist) of Avenged Sevenfold, and also had an experimental rock project called Pinkly Smooth. I used to be a huge fan some years ago and recently got into their music again.


My friends used to snub their noses

when I played your songs.

They rolled their eyes

when I chuckled at your vocal acrobatics

and Back to the Future references.

You were too uncouth and reckless

and they, the refined ones,

sought to educate me.

That winter, I tried to be respectable and bored.

I deleted you from my playlist.

and got into new wave revival –

it was all the rage among young intellectuals.

It didn’t cross my mind

that there was enough room for both.

In the days after Christmas,

the non-time of the year,

a page open by reflex,

a breath suspended,

a complete stranger dying.

You were 28.

It was ruled as accidental.

You had been born with an enlarged heart,

and maybe you wanted to have the upper hand,

maybe you wanted to show it

that you were the one to write the terms.

Hey, Jimmy, it’s been seven years,

and I’m older than you ever were –

this is no victory,

but maybe it is some extra time

to learn not to pretend.

By the way,

I’m listening to your last song.

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Rather than die

before asking your forgiveness,

I would live forever

with the gift of your silence –

that pearl knife

blurring the difference

between a blessing and a curse.

(Anyone who thinks this sounds nice

is a fool).

You are not cruel –

I am wrong,

and I am selfish.

I have scattered my thoughtless words

like glass beads

all over the world.

Thank you for making me see

that it is I who have to prove myself,

before even thinking

to ask anyone

for anything.

My friends, they keep

thinking of reasons

why they should be worshiped,



never contradicted.

If it’s not too late,

I will beg to give.

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