The clocks disturb
the quiet night
with their tick tock tick tock
sounds of flight
The flow of time
so quick, so slow
holds our lives
as the heat the snow
The ring of life
spinning round and round
never does it stop
it keeps it bound
Faithful to the EndWhen the lurking emptiness sets in
Once I've finally been outrun
Like the end of a story, inevitably, closing in
I told her I'd wait for her end to come
No matter how many eons I'd live to see
I'd wait patiently as her lover should
Behind a closed door, without a key
afraid to enter alone--even if I could
But standing amidst this people sea
weighed down by their polluted sins
I flinch whenever they walk through me
My existence a mere paper thin
Their screams echo from the seams
withholding tears between gritted teeth
I cringe as I count the coming years
When will it be her turn for death?
Morosive FallWe fall into the piles of leaves
fallen from the withering trees
Once alive, and once refreshed,
now dried by the nearing death
We watch as the birds fly by
gliding through the darkened sky
Herded together, and in course,
leaving home without remorse
We sigh in sadness to this all,
mourning for the summer before
Gazing as we reminisce
the glazed summer losing to Autumn's kiss
The SelfThe self recedes to make space for the urgent,
To give room for the latent,
And to welcome the impatient.
His stature is confident,
His manner is matter of fact,
And his demands are absolute.
The self does not cower so much as it allows,
It does not matter, it thinks,
After all, who can resist a restful sleep?
But the self will not awaken,
It will not be given the chance,
For he is now all consuming.
Next time, it thinks,
And the self shuffles back to sleep,
He will die, and I with him.
GraceLovely is the day Grace braces me
Lovely would her scent be
Lovely is the smile she graces YOU
Lovely is the song she sings
Lovely would I be to Grace
if only Grace would look at me
Lovely would be our embrace
if she ever touches me
Lovely is the day
Grace takes care of me
She'll end my worries
Why is HEAVEN
getting lower, and lower?
Why is heaven,
so full of SORROW?
Chip in my ShoulderWhat if I gave you a name?
my chip in my shoulder
What if we played a little game?
Hide and seek. Hide and seek.
One two a hundred
Where are you Chip?
I'm coming to GET YOU
show me where you are!
Little chip, little chip
I'm coming for you!
Your time has come
And the clock strikes ten
One two ten
Doom is nigh
Little chip Little chip
How long can you hide?
Are you in my shoulder?
Are you near my back?
Are you where it's bony?
Are you where there's flesh?
Little chip, where are you?
How did you dive?
Digging deeper, deeper red,
My fingers are drenched.
Little chip little chip
How could you cry?
This pool is nothing,
to the name I could find:
UntitledIn my mind, I am but a splinter of my ideal self.
In my mind, there is an everlasting battle between my egos.
My mind, is the self-absorbed existence called "I".
The battle is hot and cold,from
fighting blindly in the sweltering jungle
to a standstill in the cold trenches.
Sometimes, we seek an amiable peace.
Other times, we fearlessly abuse strategem
to the bitter end.
Success, to me, is always bitter--sweet.
Failure is unacceptable,and
the war begins again.
is when war ends
is the day I'm right
Lovely is the moment
Because in my wasted mind,
in my forbidden rooms
in my shackled heart
there lives Weakness.
Head buried in my busom,
Ears open only to moans,
Eyes too salted to see.
She is plagued by Paranoia
Haunted by Chaos
Tempted by Hades,
and everquestioning her existence,
her weak purpose.
You are a thorn,
Stuck in my achilles
You are a friend,
Who is ever loyal.
You don't need me,
As much as I you.
My Own HomeIn the silence of my empty home
Teardrops fall, with no echo
salty flumes were barely shone
and we all move, with no shadow
In the stillness of my own home
There is no presence, but I, alone
the air is chilling, to the bone
and in my bed, I pray for home
In the bosom of my own home
you are missing, from this room
the scent is feint, but your cologne
lingers while you've gone to roam
For in my bosom is my home
and in my home, I alone
sit, and wait, for you to come
home, to me, my only one.
Shining LainShe heard \'reality could drill into a fantasy\'
Panicked, and dashed to have walls built around her dream.
Will her mind ever return to face?
Take responsibility, stop acting like a child?
Maturity shown only through pride,
Yes, m\'lady, the others you outshine.
They all panic, she\'s about to sink,
Yet she asks the why\'s and what\'s,
Trying to obey her sense, suprise the rest.
She hasn\'t heard the song,
Isn\'t aware she\'s blocking her own ways,
Despite her complains of delays.
About to burst, the words about to flow
She had never thought before,
Why the lies, and why the goodbyes?
Why can\'t she believe her own eyes?
Isn\'t it plain to see?
Maturity would never be her destiny.
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
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
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.
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
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno
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.
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