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 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.

Among Rivers of Dark Purple


EJ Koh

If I should die, then let my poems live on
Or that they should die and I should
Be free, of the gurgle and of existence

That is so personal and yet so irrelevant
To the cosmos that sings of eternity’s theme
And golden birds of our dreams than burn

Against the sun that is Time’s will
Her signature that I should die
When it is her will, and I will write
Not unlike the sky to the horizon
Of sunsets and the commerce of the living

Where parts the parting skies of hours
Hours that float and rise and lift
The conduct of all pleasing scenes

* * *

All smiles, all beloveds that left
So then, how wonderful is Death
And dying to ourselves, and the spirituality

Of the waning moon that blushes over
The entire world, of heartbreak that lasts forever
Maybe, I’m numb now to the passing wonderful
The subjectivity that was once so intense
Is now a common flower, I won’t mediate

Anytime soon in cemeteries but I ponder
The seasons of my life, that drank in darkness
And could not find the light, whether in myself

Or reach the intimacy in others with
The skin of my soul, my life’s inauthenticity
Is the corpse of my doubt and cowardice

* * *

That never truly knew love, or had the courage
To wrestle danger with a smile or succumb
To the pressures of a common life, perhaps
I will die young, bohemian and a bit wild
Where I feel the breath of Armageddon

In the silence, can death hit me then like this?
When my heart already has some lack
Of oxygen, my heart-beats lack a sturdy foot
What of my brain that drips in lost memory
The better part of who I used to be.

In Muse with Everything 


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In Muse with Everything

Every poem I wrote was
In a way a love poem
Dangled with stars, overboard on
How nature balances our dreaming
With a cruel reality of

Goodbyes and not-so-greats
Much earlier, I was an untamed idealist
Pure in how my poems scattered
Everywhere, with a heart for all things
And still, rain soaked vanilla fragrance

I’m still the dream within a dream
I do not hesitate the life my soul
Needed to live, there are no regrets
In karma, this dark twenty-something
Brawler with gratitude, this epic

Taster of green sparks of spring
The flowers were blue-eyed monsters
To me that I loved, I never had
Friends like dead philosophers,
I related to the gravity of literature

The way a young woman cannot touch herself
My purest joys were private, like that
Every poem I wrote was
About how our limits help us experience
What God could not lift out of us

We were born artists, in the way
Delicious music sings itself out of our sleep
And we awake, to what life brings
The tempo and the sage of us
The faces so sadistically temporary.