This is your God speaking
the reason you are blinking
want to know why you're sinking
. . . . . .  your thinking . . . . . .

blank your mind
forget the time
its all mine
mow fucking feel fine

there is no peak
so let me speak

this is no joke
your God I have spoke

you want to
you duck

Taiste heaven waiste
embrace my face
find me in every place
this beyond the human race

Heaven's in hell
so death is a
painful beautiful


I WISH . . . . .

See what I will do…….
Among the chenille petals in the pimpernel of your love
Let me add my own among them
So that when you caress the chervil bouquet
The chartreuse will break the silence
And then my heart will be one with your estoteric fragrance

This is what I wish…….
In the cosmogony of the numberless stars
I want to be the lantern of ethereal light
The dazzling one among the brightest
So that, in the dance of the festival of lights
My heart will swing with enrapturous delight
And my life will be one, with your intoxicated smile.



The morning mist kissed the
green pasture, as it spoke of autumn dew.
Dripping a coat of frozen foot-prints,
leaking memories of only you.

I decided the sun was use-less that day. A point-less
picture of misplaced energies. It left me stranded.
abandoned, with frost bitten emotions, a hypothermic

And I remembered he romanced me blind with
a thorn not a rose. Reciting verses of you’s and I’s.
labeled poetry but not a poem. only virtue(al)
reality. A linear brutality of a love spoken upon deaf ears.

A heart home-less, hope-less.
a melancholy space. a trace
of Venus and spun sugar. He
still evolves. Revolving around the sun.

though "we" no longer have "that" gravitation(al) pull.
He told me I never was that beautiful.

So I engraved a picture of a sand-dollar
against the crease of his forehead. Today
I would find the shell whole. A beautiful score
of an oceans floor. Artistry that would last forever.

Then I realized my imagination got the best of me…
Sadly, so did he.



Days of old, in rainy shires of heathen disorder
I look out beyond, beyond my window and I see the blooms of earth into a disaster

I seek to sky, to cry, to writhe out of nothing, to seek the blasphemed border
Of all recklessness, and fakened poise; graceful hearts blackened, from white to gray

Not one soul, not one has stepped forth from Earth’s garden, not one has flowered
To behold in my light a sweet Azalea of perfected candor and blithe
I have read, I have sought, but none have ever taken me to be sapphire showered

Sweet music, so soft and delighted, like drifting thoughts filled with elegance of soul
Melancholy thoughts, truth of the heart, death of the art, my heart it does pull
I wish not to contend, but I wish to know him who weaves this whole
Into my heart, a whole from beauty, a whole wanting to fill with beauty
To behold that face with splendor quietness

So likest the poems with tassels of romance and frightened city

I wish to conjure your presence upon the sad sky
I wish to serenade your heart with hopes of love
It is Valentine, It is of you I do address, to seek of my
Hand in friendship, in love, in peace, in something, to only touch your eyes

The eyes that turns the orchid to blush with embarrassment
The sky to turn bright with creation
The flowers to waltz and the Seasons spread wild
Do not~ on my knees, on my hands~ do not shun
And cast out my plea which is brought forth so riled

It begins with the sound of jazz
It is wonder, it is a drink of a fountain in distress for immortality
It is a way soft, It is prelude to the warm rain in reverse
Leaves twirl in the wind, fall back to the branches of which have disgraced
Storms turn to die, Apollo pulls down the sun with his halo
The ground sheds tears, it falls, smeared paint, it is erased

There is nothing.
Then there is Valentine. A dance upon a sky of purple, a single of hope
It is like the Fur Elise, so melancholy in search of hope
Fur Elise, the old cliché, but new to my heart, pulling with golden rope
Made strong with lush stems of Orchids and stardust entwined
~Of violet skies and rainy tears of bliss do you remind

Will you have this dance?
There goes that warm eyes once again, to touch or to leave
I only wish to see, to know of your beautified cadence
I have fallen through all plunder, through earth’s sieve
It is Fantasia, it is Cannon in D, take your pick,
Hands around your waist, smooth float across the clouds
One turn, one burn of my heart, my soul is speaking loud

I can serenade, your hand in mine, what shall it be?
The dripping tears of the Appasionata
To flower your heart, and open your eyes to my crimson tea
I can pour forth of my own, a deep purpled sonata
Make it like the flowing sea and foamy shores of bree

Happy Valentine's day, sweetheart.




Watching The Sun Rise With 504 Buddhas IN Borobudur.



When in Yogyakarta, you don’t want to miss Java’s Buddhist treasures — Borobudur. Four a.m. is a terrible time of day, too late for night owls, too early for early risers. The exception is 4 a.m. at Borobudur, waiting for the sun to rise over the Kedu Plain in central Java with 504 figures of Buddha. The heavens really opened up, and water, the equivalent of Niagara Falls, Victoria Falls and probably a few hundred other waterfalls combined, fell upon the earth. Or to be less dramatic about the whole thing – it rained like there was no tomorrow.

But I told Arthur and the crew to took comfort from an old Indian belief that says if it rains, you are being blessed by the gods. And after all, we were heading towards a majestic temple complex built in the 9th century. This 9th century Mahayana Buddhist monument has six square platforms topped by three circular platforms, and is decorated with 2,672 relief panels and 504 Buddha statues. The main dome located at the centre of the top platform is surrounded by 72 Buddhas. Borobudur was restored between 1975 and 1982. The temple is 40km northwest of Jogja, and the view you get from the top is incredible. The whole valley sprawls below it as you take in the fantastic 360° view. There were many visitors when we were there but not too many. We still got that sense of calm and peace at the top. The largest Buddhist temple in the world is Borobudur, near Yogyakarta, Central Java, Indonesia, built between AD 750 and 842.”

It says the 60,000-cubic-meter stone structure stands 47 meters tall, with its base measuring 123 by 123 meters.
The temple is one of three great religious sites in Southeast asia
but it's older and more esoteric than Bagan in Myanmar and Angkor Wat in Cambodia. It was begun in the 8th century by the Sailendras, a dynasty of Buddhist kings who ruled central Java for almost 200 years until their power waned and the temple was abandoned.

The stepped pyramid rises in nine levels to a single bell-shaped stupa surrounded by galleries. The pilgrims walk around them, meditating on stone reliefs that tell the life story of Siddhartha Gautama, an Indian prince who transcended life's pain and became the Lord Buddha.

Buddhist use water as an offering to symbolically represent giving up some worldly things, and water is chosen because even the most poor person can obtain water to carry out the ceremony.
A lot of restoration work has gone into Borobudur which suffered extensive damage after the May 2006 earthquake in Java. In fact, many of the inner temples are still out of bounds to visitors because they are not structurally safe.

As we came within sight of the imposing peaks of the temple, it started to rain again. We took shelter at the very small security post that already had three security guards squeezed inside. Soon, many laughing and drenched kids from a school tour, as well as tourists, also tried to cram their bedraggled selves in there.

When the rain eased off, we decided to make the best of our time there. The weather did not distract us from the magnificent surroundings. It was quite awesome to see the black clouds hovering over the tiered temple, which rose to 47m at the highest point. It took our breath away. The shooting started from here.

You can circle the monument with them or climb to the top, but only by looking at a diagram can you tell that the temple is shaped like a mandala, a mystical scheme of the Buddhist cosmos. The three levels denote states of consciousness, from human suffering to enlightenment. Little is known beyond that, leaving the cosmos locked shut while Borobudur reigns, silent and solitary, over the volcano-ringed garden of Java.

The arched staircases from level to level are treacherously steep, overlooked by gaping-mouthed gargoyle water spouts, nymphs (or apsaras), dancing arms akimbo, and niches enshrining Buddha figures, each with hands in different symbolic poses (or mudras). His life story unfolds on the middle level, starting at the left side of the eastern entrance with stone panels of great vividness, recalling the medieval Bayeux tapestry in France. I ran my hand over a carving of Queen Maya in a carriage headed for Lumbini Park, where she gave birth to the Buddha.



This time, we climbed to the top levels, which are round, not rectangular, and bare except for their forest of stupas, perforated to allow peeks at Buddha statues inside. Experts say that Borobudur's more abstract upper precincts, especially its empty central stupa, reflect nirvana, a state of being beyond human consciousness.

But how could they know? How could anyone know, even sitting atop the temple watching the pinkness of sunrise pool in a halo around soon-to-erupt Mt. Merapi, where the mystery of the cosmos remains secure? But if there is a keyhole to it anywhere, I'd wager it's at Borobudur.

Just then a clap of thunder thwacked à la Macbeth, and guards began herding visitors to a gate far from the one I'd entered.

It was a good thing that it only started pouring again after we had reached the top. Either we were plain lucky or we were now protected by one of the gods!

And the helicopters are already waiting for us to take us back to Yogya and waiting for our next journey. . . .


BEHIND ENEMY LINES : A Photojournalist.

Photography has brought a lot of truth to the people. Before photography, war was presented to the public as being romantic; you can see this in old paintings of war heroes in museums. Photography made an early great impression during the Civil War, as an early example, as it brought home to many people the gruesome realities of war.

Photography "set painting free." Prior to photography, paintings usually attempted to show reality as well as the could. When photography took over that job during the late 1800s, painters started to express their inner feelings rather than show scenes realistically. The first painters to successfully express themselves in this way were the "Expressionists."

I believe that even today there as been a similar artistic change in photography; it was predicted that the digital camera would eliminate the film camera, but I have been learning that many people prefer the effects of film images over digital images because they can be made to be more expressive.

I personally support openness in information and expression, so I don't feel that there are too many ethical issues surrounding photography. If a person is in a public place where he can be seen by many, I feel that he should not be upset if he gets photographed. In today's world with its many dangers there are many security cameras pointing at us in public places so the ethical issue has become moot in a sense.

Photojournalists bring us many images of suffering, and many people feel that these images are an intrusions. In fact the great war photographer Don McCullin felt great guilt for taking pictures of people who were dying or about to be killed.

He wrote: "I have been manipulated, and I have in turn manipulated others, by recording their response to suffering and misery. So there is guilt in every direction: guilt because I don't practice religion, guilt because I was able to walk away, while this man was dying of starvation or being murdered by another man with a gun. And I am tired of guilt, tired of saying to myself: "I didn't kill that man on that photograph, I didn't starve that child." That's why I want to photograph landscapes and flowers. I am sentencing myself to peace."



So maybe I like spending most of my time
with my hands between my legs
maybe I like a little kink with my love
maybe I'm happiest when i'm in bed
with someone feeling them
slam into me hard, rough,fierce
cum and emotions flow with it
sticky sweet and tender

call me a slut
if it'll make you understand
or say
I'm a free spirit

wanna know
why I am such a slut ?
why I succumb
to slavery to being sacrificed
over and again?

because I don't allow myself
to express feelings
in the canned soup
we call life

I let myself
go bland

but in sex in pure
unadulterated fucking
I can be me I can cry and scream
and let my feelings go
I can be helpless and needy
and vulnerable and loved

and the sweet relief of orgasm
tires me out so that I can recover
from the intensity of feeling everything
I left bottled
on forgotten dusty inner shelves

the comfort of a warm body next to me
makes me realize I'm not alone
and Iam at last untroubled at peace

so yes I love sex
and I could be a kinky little minx
I like my pleasure with a touch of pain
I won't apologize
and this is why sex allows me
to be the person I am within
I can fight I can lose and it's all right
I can be frail weak and it makes me more desirable

Idon't want to be an equal
I want to be fucked
I want to be forced to enjoy myself
to let go

i want my hair pulled as my cunt
is filled with thick hot humanity
I want to be slammed into
I want to be an animal who is just driven
by primal desires reasonable fears
and never ever doubt
I want to be able to struggle and weep
and cry out and yet have my emotions
pour out
in spite

sex allows me to be myself without
having to justify

in the buckled restraints
that I strain against
in the floggings that burn my skin
in the feral way I am fucked

there is




I wants you to remember that one of the greatest illusions is the search for pleasure without pain, praise without reprimand, or nice without mean . . .

Ironically it is in looking for those illusive one-sided events in a two-sided universe that many experience so-called suffering.

Sometimes I wonder why we have to endure the things we do, the problems, the pain, the betrayal, the deceit of others when all we are striving to be is a 'decent' human being. Remember that although you may not realise it, you are an example to others and if your example of a decent human being inspires just one person to not cause harm, to not hurt another, to look at their own lives with open eyes and consider change then this is a good thing. All too often we cry 'enough' and ponder that the next straw will be the one to break the camels back.

When we embrace the balance and the truth, love surrounds us.
When we understand this truth, our fears and guilt can evaporate,
and we can begin to dance with our life.




Walk with me into the depths of the night, gently
place your hand in mine, our fingers interlocking, two
twin souls slowly becoming one, bound by love.
I feel the heat from these burning embers.
A melodic glow from day resonates through the torn
asunder haze of this balmy december rain.
We have become something so vascular in nature,
yet so delicate. The fabric of this tryst has become a blood
ridden thing. A fleshy laceration, flapping in the wind.
I know these warm humid streets we walk too well. What
lies ahead is nothing by nightmares entombed in cryptic
words, built on a blue-collar workers sweaty spin.
If the first act was when we met, then when you left
must have been two - “I love you” - was just a lie, with no doubt
to burden my mind, I’d rather live a lie, than without you.
I am but a woman, I am composed of my limitations, the
rest is only animated imitations, but as long as I’ve the light of
the moon to guide my eyes, I will always see you -
as a strong plam tree.
You are no mere a man, you are something more. Every
soul has a counterpart, please stand inside mine, the radiant color
of your eyes amplifies my undying love in between my sighs



Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d’automne,
Je respire l’odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux
Qu’éblouissent les feux d’un soleil monotone ;
Une île paresseuse où la nature donne
Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux ;
Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux,
Et des femmes dont l’œil par sa franchise étonne.
Guidé par ton odeur vers de charmants climats,
Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de mâts
Encore tout fatigués par la vague marine,
Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers,
Qui circule dans l’air et m’enfle la narine,
Se mêle dans mon âme au chant des mariniers.

When, both eyes closed, on a hot autumn night,
I breathe in the fragrance of your welcoming heart,
I see happy shores spread out before me,
Blazing in the fire or a monotonous sun;
A lazy isle to which nature has given
Lonely trees, savory fruits,
Men whose bodies are slender and vigorous,
And women in whose eyes shines a surprising candor.
Guided by your fragrance to these charming moods,
I see a port filled with sails and masts
Still tired by the waves of the sea,
While the perfume of the green tamarinds,
That flows through the air, and fills my nose,
Mingles in my soul to the sailors' song.



I would like to be
the green butterflies you notice
out the corner of your eye
as faraway a drama teacher studies the beauty in your frown,

I would like to be the memory of
watching  the children you once
played hopskotch with
now re-enacting shakespeare and cobain in
rainy carparks as though the two went together,
to be that common and unthought of at the time
yet somehow part of the backdrop
to when you were at your most carefree
like white tigers passing school gates,
like black butterflies
in a jar of honey or
the corners of photographs   
that slipped between burnt thumb and forefinger,
the rest gone to ashes

he thinks what he cannot say, he isn't a poet
all his thoughts turn on a burning rotisserie
but he imagines a trapeze girl tossing a ribboned hoop
over a lion and twilight trying to
find its way through spaces between odd
shaped temples dooms;
all of this in a flick of your hair,
and then that
nirvana tattoo under your December eyes,

I would be inked there forever if I could
while the rain went on dragging the mascara down
mybuttefly white cheeks
like shadow puppets on Chinese lantern paper
you still always smile when it rains
you saw three stars on the sky
it is the tear that will never make its way to your lips,
the salt of someones desire you will never taste.

you carry it with you, and  you only think of it
when you see green butterflies
I'm not sure how the two go together,
its a long distance thing,
a marriage so liquid and ribbon like,
forever breeze and moment caught 
that there is no way it will ever solidify
there  is always thepromise of watching
the sunrise from the rooftop  of the blue seafront house
where you grew up
waiting for dandelions to grow one month out
of the year on the way to school so that you could get all your wishes
in at once before Christmas

it is something I will never do without you there. 
still, ill fall  asleep sometimes
not at the beach but on the docks
and  listen  to the water, not quite the sea where you  are
but a sea inside when I close my eyes and
think of all the gr bueen tterflies flittering over
its dark silks
reminded of how i would listen to you fall asleep
from across the lines
your smile is a postcard, an empty bench on the pier.
if you were hear i would watch you sleep in the  same way i watched 
the trees from my window where

I was kept  secluded as a child a thousand  miles from home
not with sadness but longing, not with  love  but wanting
wanting you to know that there is something more than love
will ever be, a conversation  that goes so deep  into  the night
insomnia and adrenaline sets in, and longing becomes so caught up
in itself, in telephone lines and sighs and good byes
so drawn out they have bled into the morning
more stark than Arthur fellig photography and December suicides.
I remember being so tired at work, the thought of you
still clutching my chest

I didn't even feel the  anxiety and the trauma set in,
you kept life at bay and promised to take me away
while I went on breathing nostalgia and clementine
until the days I started to collapse
breathing  the thought of you but never getting close enough
to feel your breath, the thought of your hands 
in gloves  and the polka dot scarf that somehow matched your eyes
stir in the sky, along the course of migrating birds,while the sky   
caves in, and  pulls in the city with it
that you almost don't notice you have moved
nauseating, living 
to go on living after coming close to so much beauty
condensed to a single black tear,
all my universe in a parallel life;
its singularity the weight of all oceans
just above your cheek
where your smile is the  last thing to shatter me completely




Untreated medical wastes are drained into the sea

Globalization is often touted as the solve it all solution of the problems this world faces today. However there are several very highly toxic effects of globalization as well. For instance these seemingly dissipating borders means that the western world has been and even now is engaged in dumping its plastic and medical waste to third world countries. They are able to do so as there is a lack of whistle blowing as well as checks and balances in countries like Pakistan, Indonesia which has been subjected to dumping for the last 30 odd years.

On my visit to Semarang two days ago I along with some other media friends of mine took a drive down to Banyumanik which is the scrapyard heaven in Semarang. I see crushed plastic, piles of medical waste, IV tubes and infusion bags lying on the ground in warehouse and people coming to buy them, I caught hold of one of the kids who works there, to my utter shock he tells me that local manufacturers who make plastic products even down to utensils come and buy this scrap to reuse!

One begins to wonder, how are Indonesian’s authorities allowing this dumping of hazardous materials on our soil? The case though is a multilayered one with many of these materials being passed off and misdeclared in our customs under "plastic scrap" and other categories to be cleared and sold off by importers. What they cannot sell off they dispose, so they are hand in hand with the whole process. Many of our hospitals too are often found disposing medical waste in their own backyards or adjacent rubbish heaps, to the extent that several unborn fetuses have been routinely popping up all over Indonesia in waste heaps.

Although a strengthening and overhaul of customs law as well as more diligence on control of such imports will prove useful. It is of utmost importance that local communities get involved in keeping our country clean of such products. For this purpose reporting such waste piles are key, too long have we been exposed to harmful diseases due to lack of vigilance. The effort will require us to not drive past burning heaps of open air rubbish in our city and stop to ask why and who is exposing us to these hazardous materials. More can also be achieved by organizing community cleaning drives and not restricting them to beach fronts.

Only if we ourselves show care for the environment around us can we effect change in keeping it safe and livable here in my country, Indonesia.




My hands are stained with blood, as red as
the surface of the sun, from which I ripped my
still beating heart from my cavernous chest, for you.
I tore open my rib cage, and mercilessly thrusted the
jagged ivory into my wretched organ. All in the name of you.
Your preservation. All for you. Before you go would you be so kind,
as to drown me face down, in my own bright red blood? Oh, would you please?
Turn.Turn. Now, who are you?


WHEN . . . .

When water turns into blood
When the sun fades into black
When my heart pounds for the last time
When I will see you go.
I’m washed to the shore
Breaking into the rocks of loneliness
Aching my empty life without you
Drifting through memories of us
I know life would be easier
when you talk more to me . . .



we all carry a few pounds of explosives in
our heads -
the sniff dog in wait can't smell it -
the sniper on the roof can't get it in his sights
we carry it though - and we saunter
through their detection blockades -
and we can't be stopped
some of us think it's simply precious cargo -
like some wedding night sheets rolled into a ball and
protected by skull plates - comparison parties with the
girls from work - love the love you own
or like there's an antidote in there - like
anybody ever gets better without blood on their hands -
that designer placebo was tested on runaways
or even an anectdote that's worth a fuck - like i said ,
then he said - and then we said - we said , and said -
and said .... all day - so we can say it again
we're simply wired to go bombastic -
that's the only truth that comes -
and at any point we can take out a city block -
with a flippant split decision
we can't help with the same whim - cause
we're not designed for joy spread healing humility -
we're about the train wreck onslaught crescendo
we can catpult ourselves into someone else's oblivion
and pull all the pins - cutting them to pieces
but we can't give love - without keeping score
the flower you picked for your love fucking died -
but the lie you told is still ticking away -
we punish , we bring hell to , we cut the daisies
god , we even rape
we're all simply eachother's obstacles -
we will clear the way for our pleasure
- daisycutters -
kill babies so we can fuck without someone
crying in the other room
mother invalids so we can sing about lovebirds
set fire to the homeless so you can own them
forever - keep them locked inside the smirk on
your ugly cannibal face
i saw the scorch marks on the pavement and
the twinkle in your eye
i saw the mutts invade the dumpster outside the clinic -
while you humped like dogs - i heard you say yes 
a thousand times
and i saw your grandmother's make-up smeared all over
the pillow case inside the coffee can -
don't sing lovesongs about sparrows to me ... it won't
exonerate you - i'll just show you -
there is DNA everywhere -
that's what we're about -
it's on your bed - your floors - your doorknobs -
it's on your lips , it's on your streets - in your dumpsters
it's even in your coffee cans
we leave a trail of what we are -
every step of the way
where are the rose petals
where is the pixie dust
where's the fucking confetti
only in poetry




Walking into the next genocide,
Of a million minds at once,
Upon the falter of a life enraged by thoughts of love,
A loving gaze into a daze,
That summons you to dwell,
Upon the thoughts which summon you to heaven or to hell,
A life denied of chaos,
Entropy into the sun,
The sun of which your soul is born, a mourning never learned,
Into the faithful sun you burn,
Into the moon you cry,
As nothing comes before you,
And never leave another life inside your mourning star,
To cry for everything that all us zeros truly are.



Photo By Will Meinhart

With heaps of prayers I'm sending you
A birthday wishes
May the road of happiness and more
Which leads you to the stairs of bliss
Make a wish and give it wings
Dreams of bright and beautiful things
Each life you’ve been blessed to touch
Reminds me to persevere,
If not for your birth day
I wouldn't have someone
who is always there for me,
helping and supporting me
making life easy and peaceful.
A special way of knowing that someone is always there
A special understanding that has time passed has grown,
And today cherishing all those things been above,
I would love to bring the world to your feet on your Birthday as your present,
but let my wishes suffice with a genuine prayer for your happiness and well

About Me

My photo
We yearn for some explosive, extraordinary escape from the inescapable and, none forthcoming, we put our faith in an apocalyptic rupture whereby the inevitable is solved by the unbelievable grasshoppers, plagues, composite monsters, angels, blood in industrial quantities, and, in the end, salvation from sin and evil--meaning anxiety, travail, and pain. By defining human suffering in cosmic terms, as part of a cosmic order that contains an issue, catastrophe is dignified, endowed with meaning, and hence made bearable.