MASKARA 8

Hujan Sudah Teduh, Si Penyair Belum Mabuk

lewat 

malam ini aku 

melihat ke luar 

tingkap. hujan baru 

berhenti, bulan & 

bintang menyorokkan 

diri. ada kudengar 

riuh burung-burung dari 

rimbunan pokok di bawah 

sana, mungkin menyanyikan 

kesyukuran atau boleh

jadi berdebat tentang 

hukum alam sambil 

mengeringkan tubuh 

serba kebasahan. 

dari dalam apartmen alunan 

violin solo memainkan 

sonata-sonata Bach, falsafah

-falsafah indah menari-nari 

bersama teori-teori sains 

silam saling bercumbu 

menuju keghairahan. cuma 

kata-kata berseni tersisih

terus bergelumang dengan

sisa-sisa agama dalam 

gelas wain kosong 

sabar menunggu si penyair 

untuk mula mabuk 

dan terus mabuk

lagi...

Pertanyaaan Untuk Seorang Penghuni Neraka (untuk Ahmad Kamal Abu Bakar)

wahai 

tuan,

nampaknya 

kau

selalu 

bertukar-tukar

neraka. 

adakah

neraka 

itu 

tidak 

kekal 

atau

terdapat 

pelbagai

jenis 

yang 

boleh

kau 

pilih 

mengikut

citarasa 

atau

mood 

kau?

lagi 

satu

tuan, 

benarkah

ada 

malaikat

di 

sana?

dan

kau

berkawan

dengannya?

jika

ya,

aku

rasa

para

syaitan

akan

cemburu.

tapi

bagaimana

pula

dengan

amalan

fornikasimu?

kerana

bidadari

semuanya

jauh

di

syurga.

atau

memang

kau

melakukannya

dengan

malaikat

itu?

apa-apa

pun

aku

tumpang

gembira

tuan,

kalau

itu

juga

kau

menyukainya.

Poetry Is The Shit

so you call this

poetry, eh?

it is shit!

(yeah, but the shit is real,

and you are fake!)

Puitis Macam Pukimak 4

Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak!

Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak!

Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak!

Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak! Pukimak!

(bila puisi menyepi

carutan jadi seni)

It Is Funny

it is funny.

outside they are

having a political rally.

fiery speeches

in multiple languages 

are delivered,

cute cover songs 

with angry lyrics

are sung,

familiar slogans

not yet aged

are shouted.

but here i am

in this apartment

very aware of 

what’s happening outside

passionately writing 

poem after poem

non-stop for 

few hours already

since i arrive home from work,

have forgotten dinner

and the shower too,

and i’m only clad 

in my underwear!

damn, it is funny.

Sun Under My Armpit

there’s a sun

under my armpit.

it warms up

undiscovered sins

well-hidden for decades

until they all shine

like glowing gems

emanating rays

that blind the hearts.

i feel nice though.

this sun i guess

is specially made

for the wandering soul

too fond of 

searching for meanings 

in everything.

but sometimes

when it is so hot,

sweat starts

to flow endlessly

forming a river

which runs through

all over my body.

once a curious friend

tried to taste it.

he told me

it was sweet

like manuka honey.

he kept some of it

in a glass jar

as a souvenir

that somehow 

reminded him of

taste of purity.

just too bad

that one day

his glass jar

slowly broke,

the liquid quietly

leaked out

before evaporated

like dying butterflies.

i still have the sun

here safely at that 

mysterious part of the body

doing its routine, and 

that curious friend can always

ask for anything

coming out from

or still hidden there

to replace 

the missing one

but that never happens.

i don’t know

whether i should 

continue to wait

for that moment 

to arrive

because there are times

i feel so weak.

the sun 

seems like 

burning my skin 

and

roasting my flesh

that it becomes

so unbearable

it almost makes me

want to throw

the sun away.

or maybe

what i need actually

is a moon

to be placed

under my other armpit

so that everything

will balance out

just like

the day and night

in perfect harmony.

yes now i believe

that might be

a good thing afterall

for this earth

of wandering soul,

don’t you think?