Excerpts from a story

Poets write on you, heroes cry of you.
We have come a long way.
Your fragrance still runs through.
What must I do of you?

°

A ponytail, a plaid,
like an old-skool gait;
of nature and of simplicity,
your beauty has said.

°

Oh, wild flower, wild flower!
I know nothing much of you,
but of your beauty, and your smell.
Do I love you? Tell.

°

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
July 2016

Florentino

Today, Florentino puts a mouthful of papers,
of letters, his fingers pushing them down,
peripheral vision tearing up, miserable face, miserable act.

Today, Florentino chews his own letters,
chokes on his own words, whitewashed, white lies,
romantacised, chiseled love, refined words, aged wine.

Tonight, Florentino dips a finger in ink, swims,
moves a leisurely leisure. No words, just lines,
little finger, swaying circles,
a curve here, there, a twist, a turn,
a circle, misshaped, misfit, a crooked rhythm.

Tonight, Florentino puts his face upon paper,
rests his face upon lamp’s lap, warm glow, warm face,
warm light, warm forest face, evening dusk, evening ends,
tearing eyes, tearing papers.
Florentino chokes for his unloved love letters.

Tonight, Florentino weeps, in bullock cart’s rhythm,
heart sobbing in bulls’ bells’ swinging motion,
face falling in face-cupping palm-hands, hair-pulling hands.
Sniffs, snobs. Life’s music — God hums, oh, Florentino,
oh, Florentino, He hums while Florentino writes another love letter.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
May 2017

Flowers’ fate

Flowers are crushed
Stepped on
A breaking stem
Pressed petals
Petals cut
Dust sweeping up
Covering up
Cold cold wind, your hand
Pulling it up
Death’s blanket

People build walls
A fortress around hearts
Flowers and birds
Keep out

— Tales from a sadistic Universe

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
May 2017

Will

When I leave
I wish to leave all, fully
to take away all memories
but then to leave my writings
as that shall be the only story
I hope you’ll think of me
Please forget all hideousness
of the real me

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
May 2017

I’d prefer to not Rekal

I have poison envy for where I put words.
It has ceased to exist.
I have a desire to be so cos —
it can be gone,
and come back in a differen’ name.

So if life could be the same —
memories backed up;
and come back in a differen’ name.
Perhaps a suspended animation like an xml file.

I count on Elon Musk.
I get his pursuits, his endeavors.
Everything else is a saturation;
a dull,
a bore.

Bored?
Bored.
This fly trapped in life’s glass
wants to go to Mars.

But who am I foolin’; I know
when I come back from a holiday from life,
I’ll choose the same name
and the same old bitter memories —
I’ll choose the same game.

For the first HisColumn
Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)

April 2017

The difficulty of a run

Enthusiasm
is the sun
on the horizon
I sail to.
To Earth’s end, I’d sail
to find her up above
in a scornful smile.
Me — dead inside.
Enthusiasm
is the coconut shell
I cannot crack.
I threw it in frustration
to see it smile,
the scornful one,
to snide and bite.
Me — dead inside.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
December 21, 2016