Chenyu


Chenyu.jpg

I never met a Princeton girl with such a big right brain
Big like the ocean of China’s youth burning for authenticity
I never met an Uber woman who made me smile so candidly
A key opinion leader from Woohoo, Miss Apple with message from Tree-houses

I over-do it, in my weakness for your humanity
Your portrait and words make me believe in China
But you are not a Chinese person, global citizen
Global citizen who loves yoga and being free

Author at the intersection of Entrepreneurship
You are an idiom of the deeper meaning of life
In a world where our values have become so superficial
You are the symbol of a mafia of a new kind of purity

I never met street food from the spirit before
As much as I cry, or howl or tease
It’s this soul-searching that changes the world
It’s these vowels of experimentation from Shanghai to L.A.

Instil the positive values of what makes you whole
The passage from China to expiring visas isn’t easy
And even Wall-street or the Uber Mafia may not understand you
But the world will, we’ll take you into our arms, homes, stories

Because we see a bit of ourselves in you
The wanderer, the creator, the bravery
We would have hoped for our own children
And I cannot fit you into a poem, because you are too wonderful

Chenyu, be hospitable, be confident to your true look
Dive deeper in the artists in you and marry it with the people
You are an ambassador for the people to remember
What is truly important, the human connection that transcends

The journey that ennobles, the warmth that creates
Understanding of how to not use, but experience
Write a book to save your life, paint to barter
Blessed is the way of artists and philanthropists

Nomads that have no fear, fluent in the content their thirst
If only you knew your power to inspire
All deadlines would be achieved
In the manifestation of our innate creativity.

The white globe glows on


We will all tremor in the future
And there will be no mistaken escape
No sense of time after apocalypse
What a strange and magnificent invention
Is the prophecy of our own death
* * *
We exploit so much of what is given
Only to be erased by time’s earthy hands
Forever and for good, cheers to our stay
We who were braver for the failures of our fears
* * *
There’s no comfort in tomorrow, if you know
What is to come, there’s no dawn to sooth the ache
Only the exquisite dream of utopia
Whispers from the Upanishades, of all things
* * *
We will love the future, even if it won’t be ours
It’s better by far than loving the past
The past has its own authority over us
Which we cannot yet control
* * *
We live in sketches that wish to be real
In simulations of quantum entanglement so elegant
The white globe glows on, humanity is a wounded woman
Obliged to accept her role in our decay.

These are the letters of my life


These are the letters of my life
Wretched and nude, wandering and alone
Nobody will open their seal of discoveries
Only I know the contents of my cells
That begged for purity in such a polluted corrupt world
* * *
Hardly even I could find a speck of kindness
In the abyss that separated us here
Only for instance, the smiles of others to each other
Were the letters ever answered?
I don’t remember, I am no longer me, no longer the writer
* * *
I only hope for little things now
For nourishment, and survival and sanctuary
But even these things, I don’t find so easily
Not friends, lovers or helpfulness along the way
I’m vilified by the same people I seek to help
* * *
Ready to feel the doom from my own hands, like is my custom
The unanswered letters gather up in me
Like memories of reaching out for nobody
The universe didn’t hear my call, my acts were too small
* * *
One day I shall reply to myself, glad and grateful
Though I once thought that day was near, now I am unsure
The world collapses upon me like speckled seasons
I am an endangered species to myself
* * *
I long for things I have never found
I have no proof they exist, in me or in others
There is no glimmer of honesty honest enough for me
No spiritual fire that washes me clean once again
* * *
Only the regret of living, only the guilt of wanting
Only the desires that lead yet to more desires
There are no great cities left for me
But the landscapes seem heavy with time
* * *
I am joyous for simple things, because
There’s nothing left of the illusions we used to hold
Those treasures like the burning sun on youthful skin
It’s gone now, as I rediscover myself alone.

This Possession of a Life


I am waiting for a feast that never came
It never arrived and I’m sick of waiting
I’ve been so patient my entire life
Loving a thing that was never meant to come
* * *
It kept me hoping that things might get better
A house of windows, a reply to a heart-felt letter
Never read, a vision never truly disappearing
Of what we thought was the meaning of our lives
* * *
The feast that I am waiting for is impossible
Our masks postpone it indefinitely
Empathy is imperfect and desire leads us astray
And I never was very good at finding common ground
* * *
It’s below zero and the chalk of my poems has run dry
For a good few more than months or years
All the celebration in me has died like an old flower
Into stains of history and a corrupted Earth
* * *
We burn ourselves up in our brief conquest of life
Like a lover, we squeeze every ecstasy from their
Shuddering bodies, every last drop of intensity
We beg for something so totally fulfilling
* * *
But the feast was always a product of our minds
The prize was only a figment of our imagination
The union and sex and spiritual rapture only petty symbols
Of all a human being can do or feel or have.

The Endurance Within Us


We are as names swallowed by the cold
Haunted with the vowels of our experience
We linger in the darkness only to
Decline in the human years of our fragility

* * *

The skies of the wintry sun don’t etch our figures
We are spiritual and temporary as bodies
Star-stuff in our molecules of enchanted matter
Our thoughts bleed universal truths repeating

* * *

Our genius and trials completely unrecognised
Invisible below our surface of privacy and guilt
The years do not succumb to heart-beats
They only accumulate like forgotten madness

* * *

We’ve become as samurai for private causes
Pet crusades, the things we cherish, the few people
The tribe which we associate our blood and water
The vulnerability of our highest aspirations

* * *
We profit from the belonging we create
That which we tell ourselves is significant or important
What we find beautiful is not uniqueness
But something far more superficial and primal

* * *
We are like dusk blowing in the light
Haunted by the framework of what we believed was real
We thirst for light along the paths
Feeble and shuttering, we long for something more.

The After Memory Feeling


For once, I will be left with the shock
Of having lived, and loved in vain
In a series of lives that I was cruelly spoken to
Where even my beloveds, would push me away

* * *

I will not settle after death, you know
I will move from star to star, crystal in hand
Shade of all the eyes I have loved
And it will be perfect then, to die

* * *

And I will not regret suicide, not regret suffering or any meeker joys
The rose spells do not forgive, we only forget
Our hearts will, I Swear it, resemble the torn pages
Of memories, drifting apart barely

* * *
Remembering the taste of our sorrows and failures
That will be it then, a sudden departure
The lift of the blue flame that bid us farewell
From deep inside our dream, I will not have won today
But it will be the end, and all ends taste the same.

The 10th Day of Trials


After a black day, there is no forgiveness

Only the solitary confinement of our mind

And prayer, I feel the little warmth of my hands

Not that I have skin, only a kind of soul –

 

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It’s not what I would have expected, blank

There are no keys left, no passengers, no partners

Only the brevity of this, the journey that felt like nothing

That sounds that led to the sound of falling rain

 

  •                                 *                               *

The way I fell asleep to not hear or hold my own tears

There are no pockets of music, of pillows of love

Only maybe, the sound of myself breathing, the beat of seconds

I lasted as long as I could, given to foolish courage

My calm was a kind of white shade, the devotion for other things

 

  •                                       *                                     *

 

That I myself possessed, it wasn’t that I felt no hungers

For the wider world of experiences, but I couldn’t afford them

I had my obsessions and inner dictates to attend to, and they were rather considerable

The movements and acts of love, they were silently expressed in me

But so passionate, so invisible, so faithful to their course

That I could feel them embrace me like their own curse.

The Betrayal of August


 

betrayal_by_behindinfinity

Fire-flower, there is a sweetness in your cruelty
The abused becomes the dispossessed
The martyr becomes a sadist, I saw it though the colours
Of your ember bows, the way you’d turn, night into day

There, we are all rogues, swash-buckling heroes
Where even the victim in me can repose at the feet
Of another abused child of the world
We are not equals in the games of power

I am not a man, you are not a woman
We are only mythologies, projections, illusions
Fire-flower, I taste raspberry hiccups
When I think of you, the fruitful vulnerability

Of your moods, where like a jungle of helplessness
Is born the more severe and thwarted beauty
An artist needs to suffer to possess their genius
Like a naked child wanting to become somebody

Fire-flower, there is no pain in your adornment of betrayal
When you expect the dog to bite, the wound is cute
The nature of narcissism is entirely predictable
In the traits that define our social norms

Even the women are not truly rebels
They already fight too many battles to disobey
Their sense of pride and back-water morality
Art is not like that, it’s wild and ferocious

I am not a lesson, and you are not my teacher
You are a stranger that I know so entirely
It would shock you if you knew, my deep understanding
Of your own pain, mirrored back silently at you.

Masks of Liquid Fire


space fountain

Lost Inès, fire-bells, storm pixie
How quickly the lightning succumbs to the flesh
And hope is squeezed so silently in our chest
That light, doesn’t flood our vision, but warps us
With a kind of fear and anxiety

Won Inès, there’s no winning in the tragedies
There’s only ambiguity and doubt and fear
The kind of thunder that makes you climb under the bed
Or paint in the closet, or immerse yourself in the unreal

Creator Inès, there’s no season when beauty dies
Because it dies each day and in every person
As we decide to label them something, to limit their light
We kill our dreams to manufacture new ones

Cowardly Inès, there no one left to run home to
Not the night of courage, or the love of art
Not even they can save us, we are just that
Solitary bandits, cats and ambitiously warped

Memory Inès, there aren’t rooms I can go to
Only drawings, a canvas of your success
Where I’m reminded of the days of summer
Where the Eclipse held the potential of everything.

Solar Storm


 Solar Eclipse

Solar Eclipse, how everything changes when you come
I can feel in my bones the disintegration of the past
I, who love too much and too easily the rebels
The arts; the ruins of my creative drives

Abandoned I lurk in a passage to the future
I have no deep friends, no truth in my own eyes
Only the battle of the brain, this misguided heart
That seeks and wishes for stories I never find

Solar Eclipse, how you burn me to the core
I, who have only been a humble servant of the sun
How many lives mush I endure the madness?
How many misunderstandings in my soul?

Brittle light, do you not know how poor I am?
That I die of loneliness each and every day
Like a poet lost in the light, trapped on Earth
If suicide calls me, then will I be home?

Storm-flowers of the sun, give your dagger looks
I, who have suffered already more than you can imagine
Displaced, weak, vulnerable, cowardly
For a few days of magic I sacrificed already so much

August 21st, I can feel your approach
Like a zombie apocalypse on my Venus degrees
There’s heartache in your absence, but only I would know
I who look up at the sun for her designs

I who felt her swimming in my brain like a leopard
I worshipped at the temple of her Art, like no other
Lost in the bewildered shadows of her aches
I know my time was illegitimate, hours and minutes

Like the spiritual thirst for another season
Another era of the heart, that does not exist in this reality
Troubled soul, why do you run and push and wine
When the truth of our being sets us free

In the cold climax of extreme heat, that only a few
Will ever dare to touch that side of us.

 

 

Inès – Daughter of Art


Ines myth

Inès, the wild rush of phantoms of the artists

The lion’s strength that seizes singular moments

The breath of time on the lids of all beauty

O’ how the entire world’s cities spin with thee!

 

Inès, the emperor must know the eclipse is coming

I can feel your fire next to me, like a candle’s heat to the palm

Blessed time, quickening with a strange delight

Of electricity’s rampant swirling sunshine

 

Inès, daughter of the muse, my treasure in the dust

Where radiant suns throw away their comforts and books

There’s no clearer confusion then your passionate moods

That lift me up from my own sombre routine

 

Inès, trumpet of mythology, designer of the dawns

Look up to the sky, this is all that you could become

Breathless expanse, turning on a fragile opportunity

Where the entire world remembers its thirsty beauty

 

Inès, tightly cling to me, make lucid the light that

Can penetrate all the moods of lesser men

The world is enchanted by you, and you do not realize it –

Leave the mourning choir for the future’s puissance.

 

 

 

For Cheeks of Taipei


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In the whirlwind of chance there’s a play

The chemical bath that is my holy reset

A midnight’s prayer of my yellow parade

Inès in the dark, magnet of the Lion’s claw

 

The trance that is our solar eclipse

Waiting for Uber until there’s no recourse

But to burn the bridges we ourselves had made

The Shaman sport of festive waiting

 

Along the margins of rebellion and sensuality

Where art is a life well spent, risks taken

Through rivers of blood, thirst and bruises

We remain true to our heart’s thwarted instincts

 

That dive into dopamine’s fiery embrace

Where time is obliterated in a seizure

Of all the passion we had saved

Where we wash ourselves with our own invisibility

 

To awake with skin as thirsty for summer

As the light of our planet’s parent sun

Who must feast on the idea of hunger

Waiting for the eclipse that ends all suffering.