Laksana Tinta

Aku merasa seperti abu yang bernapaskan air
Yang mengalir di kanvas dimensi lima
Tubuhnya laksana tinta
Yang disapu oleh waktu
Apabila waktu adalah bulu kuda

Aku merasa tua ketika tubuhku tertinggal di masa lalu
Kemudian mengering menjadi rupa
Seperti kerak, seperti jelaga

Aku merasa pudar ketika cahaya melemahkan ikatan molekulku
Satu persatu pegangan mereka lepas, dihanguskan panas
Sang abu menjadi abu-abu, sebelum akhirnya putih
Putih oleh waktu

Apabila waktu memanglah waktu
Aku tetaplah seorang abu, yang bernapaskan air
Tubuhnya laksana tinta
Mengering seperti kerak
Mengering seperti jelaga




Tercium sengat luka terbuka
Sungai membelah lembah kulitnya
Lidah yang menyala-nyala kelaparan
Kita adalah debu angkasa,

Kuncup-kuncup tumbuh di tepian
Tepian pemikiran, di mana duri menjadi pagar
Dan cahaya tidak bisa melarikan diri
Diri dari tarikan kedalaman ini

Lidah yang menyala-nyala kelaparan
Kita adalah debu angkasa,

Yang berharap air mata kepuasan
Yang berharap kehidupan merintis
Lalu merintih di permukaan kita
Merintih di permukaan kita

Kuncup-kuncup tumbuh di tepian
Tepian pemikiran, di mana duri menjadi pagar
Dan cahaya tidak bisa melarikan diri
Diri dari tarikan kedalaman ini


Bandung, 2018

[Transcript] This is how she makes me feel – Anis Mojgani

This is how she makes me feel
by Anis Mojgani

This is how my wife makes me feel

Like a nuclear reactor power plant that harnesses
not any strange harmful energy
but rather the energy of the sun
of daisies
of golden marbles
filled up past my brim

Behind me there is a rainbow
The nuclear reactor that I am, harnesses the power of rainbow
Capturing the whole spectrum of color and light

This is how she makes me feel

Like a great grey stone tall tower rising up out of the ocean
From my room at the top of that tower
I watch the world
There is nothing but ocean for so far
From up here, the ocean looks like it is the biggest thing in the universe
From up here, it is the universe

From my window, sitting atop the top of universe
Watching its waves of water moving, unison, together
I feel like maybe,
I am bigger

This is how she makes me feel

Like I was seventeen
Running slow-motion through a field lit with light
Particles of dust, moving through the air
The sun burning their bodies
Perhaps, it is dust
Perhaps, it is magic dust

Perhaps, this magical dust is what I am made from

I open my eyes, and
everything I see floats
I’m on a boat
It is night
The world has calmed itself
Just to hold me, inside all that is dark
Just to rock me gently

This is how she makes me feel

The subway chamber of Moscow
I am vaulted,
I have giant chandeliers hanging from my underground ceilings
I glow with so much light,
I am a ballroom for the trains of Russia

If you happen to be a child that has climbed down my steps
to yell into my body
Those echoes will bounce their way across those vaulted underground ceilings
This happens all the time

My dark tunnels are filled with these sounds

This is how she makes me feel

Like I would live forever
Like there is nothing that could possibly harm me
Like this body will somehow stay so young, so perfect

There are cities growing inside my chest
These cities all look like New York in the 50’s
Every building is tall enough to touch a cloud
Every automobile is a convertible
All the men wear hats and neckties
The women all have beautiful shapes of color upon them

Someone has saved a baby
There is a parade
Someone has saved every baby
There is the biggest parade
moving through my streets

The skies explode with ticker-tape
Strangers kiss on every corner,
their kisses are what make me live forever

This is how she makes me feel

Like honey and trombones
Like honey and trombones



Jalan di atas
di atas

tak pernah,
si anak pulang.

Ibu tenggelam,
tanah ditelan,

21 Februari 2018

Dalam pikiran.

via Tim Labfor Bareskrim Pori melakukan olah tempat kejadian perkara (TKP) pasca runtuhnya bekisting pierhead pada proyek kontruksi pembangunan tol Bekasi-Cawang-Kampung Melayu (Becakayu) di Jalan D I Panjaitan, Jakarta, Selasa (20/2/2018). ANTARA FOTO/Aprillio Akbar.

[Transcript] Nora Cooper – I Won’t Write Your Obituary

I Won’t Write Your Obituary
by Nora Cooper

You ask if you could call to say goodbye
if you’re ever gonna kill yourself.

but I won’t write your obituary.
I’ll commission it from some dead-end journalist
who’ll say things like ‘at peace’, ‘better place’, ‘fought the good fight’,
maybe reference the loving embrace of capital-G god at least four times,
maybe quote Charles ‘fuckin’ Bukowski, and I won’t stop them
because I won’t write your obituary.

But if you call me, I will write you a new sky, one you can taste,
I will write you a DIY cloudmaker, so on days
when you can’t do anything, you can still make clouds,
in whatever shape you want them.

I will write you letters, messages in bottles and cages and orange peels
in the distance between here and the moon and forests and rivers and bird songs
I will write you songs,
I can’t write music, but I’ll find Rihanna
and I’ll get her to write you music,
if it’ll make you want to dance a little longer,

I will write you a body whose veins are electricity,
because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks,
but we will find you a good shrink,
I will write you 1-800-273-8255,
that’s the suicide hotline.

We can call it together and, yeah
you can call me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay;
that I forgive you.
I won’t say goodbye, or I love you.
One last time.

You won’t leave on good terms with me.
Because I would not forgive you.
I won’t read you your last rights,
absolve you of sin, watch you sail away on a flaming Viking ship,
my hand glued to my forehead,

I will not hold your hand steady around a gun,
and after I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts
you would have left specifically for me,

I’ll get a call like, “Ma’am, what would you have us to do with them?”
and I’ll say, “Burn them, feed them to stray cats,
throw them at school children,
hurl them at the sea.”

I don’t care, I don’t want them,
I don’t want your heart.
It’s not yours anymore,
it’s just a heart now.

And I already have one.

I don’t want your lungs,
just deflated birthday party balloons
that can’t breathe anymore.

I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento.
I don’t want your ripped off skin,
a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel
like you’re still here.

You won’t be there.
There’s no blood there,
there’s no life there,
there’s no you there.
I want you, and I will write you – so many fucking dead friends poems before,
that people will confuse my tongue with your tombstones
and try to plant daisies in my throat
before I ever write you and obituary,
while you’re still fucking here.

So the answer to your question is,
“Yes, if you’re ever really gonna kill yourself.
Yes, please, call me.”