by Mari


June 14, 2019 in Poetry/Puisi

when the time finally comes—
where my soul expires and my body retires
abandon traditions or religious regulations
i don’t want to go to heaven— or hell
i don’t want to rest in peace as well
i want to exist as a spirit so i can freely roam
this city i worship, to haunt and to hunt for home.

so when the time finally comes—
bury me beneath the asphalts of the busy streets
of this howling city that never sleeps
where peasants and prophets loiter
stirring among crowds of broken laughter
on their shoulders, burdens rest
and their chests are uncertain’s nest.

the sadness of the city is one i want to embody
even when i’m nothing more than a dead body
so when the time finally comes—
allow my corpse to slip through the bitumen ground
of this city where lovers and sad people are profound
i’ll reside in my very own rome’s catacomb
except that it’s not merely a tomb, but also home.

– mari

by Mari

Sheep Song

March 8, 2018 in Poetry/Puisi

i speak as if there is no god and people are enraged
dying is not a fear nor a destination it is a wish
on lonely nights i pray not for company
in fact, i never even pray
i am content with my solitude
blanketed by somber breeze and polluted skies
spiced up with a classic combination of coffee and cigarette
conversing only with my consciousness, an utmost paradoxical exchange between
the body, the mind, the heart, the soul and sometimes with the bastard moon
isolation is the catalyst for mental destruction i know
i have always been conscious with my actions and decisions
and being alive in the night is just me straying away from the bashful light.

black on black nothingness on nothingness and an endless void;
sleep without dream is a sneak peek of eternal rest but i resist a preview
anticipation wears off as easily as footprints on sandy beaches so
let death come to me in its purest form, a virgin – honest and prude
although maybe not as i imagined, clad in a massive cloak bearing a scythe
but i know black and i know nothingness and i know those two just go together
the same way death and i do, or as i hoped we would do.

because once the orange sunlight forces itself between my tired eyelids in the dreary mornings i question almighty god
another day
another burden
another disappointment
another hopeful wish ignored
another void consumed by matter.

ever since then i can no longer recognise the meaning behind colors;
the withered roses and scarlet drapes laced against woeful white walls
ravishing red like the befoul rivers running in my capillaries
even gold bridges fall so i used to build mine out of rusty blades
tracing the copper edges along purple and green veins on hollowed wrist
the city is a plethora of neon tints civilisation itself is tainted by rainbow hues
colors suffocate colors irritate colors dilute my senses i had to close my eyes
to see black to feel black to to become one with the black black nothingness
still these ears continue to listen to wicked whispers and egging echoes;

“god will decide when it’s time for you to die”
“return to god and he’ll show you the way”

questions circulate my head like the buzzing fly on ginsberg’s shiny pate
did he crafted me in a haste because maybe that explains why i always feel like a waste
and if he has paved me a way then why is my journey put on a sudden delay?
my intention is to question the purpose of my existence, not his undoubted competence
but his name keep slipping off my tongue intertwined with a series of fucks and whys
but never mind never mind because in the end maybe i am just another stubborn human being
who tries to navigate for survival without relying on his holy bible
maybe it is my curiosity that had pushed me towards this meaningless odyssey
searching for a meaning, a belonging, only to realize that everything means nothing.

– ai

by Mari

Epitaph For Kerouac

October 30, 2017 in Poetry/Puisi

dear jack,
home is so far away and i’m looking for a place to belong
i only have fifty dollars in my pocket therefore i am still here
tied to this ever developing city where we inhale smokes and fine dust instead of breeze
the skies are pinkish purple at night it’s pretty but probably polluted from rushed civilisation
planes take off from the west every single day i forget how beautiful the crows and pigeons are
my own expectations are becoming a burden my shoulders are sagging more than they should
the weight of the world is pressing against my reality and my unrealistic dreams are the only one suppressing them from totally crushing me into pieces.

if you ask me to define my life i would say it is a never ending paragraph without a period nor a comma it is a story that goes on and on and on
i am merely a lonesome traveller who abruptly starts but does not know when to stop
the vastness of the world excites me
the abundance of undiscovered things seduces me
the existence of people with their own personal experiences propels me
the different types of coffee beans amuses me
the effervescent neon lights that change color from violet to blue to pink and to green enthralls me
every little detail no matter how trivial or vulgar makes me think makes me wonder makes me imagine makes me prosper.

and with that little but humble knowledge i try to write about almost everything
of what i see
what i hear
what i smell
what i touch
what i taste
what i feel
what i hate
what i like
what i want
what i need
what i judge
what i justify
what i believe
but in the end flowers wither and leaves fall and i dig up the soil only to find roots attached with the letters ‘i, i, and i’
the public don’t like what they read
none of them are relatable since i write only about me me and me
21st century narciscuss i fell in love with the splotched inks on yellow parchment of used books i bought from the store where i frequent weekly
several lines of rhyming sentences later i am still alone, lost and running in circles
the moon’s my only spectator she knows my secrets spill them on to her every single night
because in the end, compared to this tremendous world the one and only thing i wanted to discover the most is actually my own uncertain self.

even though this is written for you jack this is still purely and entirely about me
i am Ai i am rich i am pretty i am famous and i am sad
i made honesty my religion, spontaneity my culture
coffee and cigarettes my tylenol i take them even if my head doesnt ache
jazz music are my only prayers i dedicate them to a past lover who still consumes my mind
he still has my clothes, my ring and my one and only most favourite book
the one that had my heart pressed against its pages and my veins tracing along every line
because we all want to share the things we love with the people we love most
just as much as i wanted to share things with you, jack
i know you’re up there with your angels in desolation but for some selfish reasons i needed you down here with me
to guide my fingers as i write and to decipher my thoughts as i speak, to reassure me that everything has a solution, to remind me that things are gonna be okay even if they go the wrong way
and finally to travel together, adventure, bless, and never be sorry.

i am still lost and running in circles
so therefore i dedicate my life to you jack
my smiles my tears my joy
my lonely days my struggles my sufferings
my bitter words and deep thoughts
my prose and my poems
my lame jokes my petty excuses my vanity
my emotional instability my mental breakdowns
my favourite cheap chipped coffee cup
my cigarette boxes my empty notebooks
my dreams and my reality
my purpose my revelations and revolutions
my past present and even future
because i cannot dedicate myself to any other fellow being
because you are my home.


Note: Jack Kerouac is a writer and a poet. He is also the reason I am still here, living my life to the fullest despite all the many reasons I shouldn’t.

by Mari

Cigarette Smoke

September 10, 2017 in Poetry/Puisi

my first drag was an impulse
at three am with no one to trust
i stumbled alone in the dark
before finally landing upon a spark

my mind’s an intolerable mess
so i’m shifting the burden to my chest
with every breath i savour the pain
hoping i could feel whole again.

my second drag was an experiment
a bitter but pleasurable predicament
awkward fingers curling on cylindrical stick
dusting off ashes with a hasty flick

my days are filled with continuous regret
burdened by memories i’m trying to forget
friends neighbors strangers and lovers
they shouldn’t linger on my mind any longer.

my third drag was a permanent reliance
paired with loneliness, a deadly alliance
smokes in the atmosphere looked so dreamy
made me forget that my life was dreary

people keep telling me this will kill
but it’s always been my intention to fall ill
with the scent of death i want to familiarise
so i won’t be afraid when i finally close my eyes.


Begin typing your search term above and press enter to search. Press ESC to cancel.

Back To Top