Bukowski Jr.

i’ll tell you what it’s like to be lonely

i flip through pages of my favourite book-
about a 17-year-old boy who wore
a stupid red hunter’s cap and likes to smoke weed
in his crappy cheap hotel room
on either the second or third floor.
he carries his luggage of angst
and left pieces of them
in places, he never ought to be.
he tried pursuing a casual conversation
with a whore
and likes calling everything a phony.
i never thought i’d give away
all of my empathy.

how about creating a playlist
of sappy indie songs i have picked.
i’ll stay in the four corners of my own universe;
my humble abode
with stacks of paperbacks, cluttered posters
and sentiments that i have hoarded.
whilst tuning into the missing mush,
i would be stifled
by the whiffs of solitary.
other scents, i hardly remember them.
yet the familiarity
always finds a way to catch me
before a deep descent.

maybe i’m sick.
i do have sickle-cell anemia,
no wonder why i’m so fatigued as always,
but that’s not the only reason why.
maybe i have goldfish short-term amnesia
or whatever medical jargon that is,
i keep forgetting i’m too alone,
even in a school of floppy fishes.
i don’t know this vague disease
that has been bothering me,
it turned me into an all-nighter.
sometimes, i crave
for a nostalgia that isn’t there.

i really hate that feeling.

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Nothing Is Certain but Death and Taxes

⠀⠀⠀ I can’t do this anymore, fuck. I want to get out of here and dwindle myself among the snowflakes. Today was suppose to be a helluva great winter’s night- I had my turkey thawed and ready to be cooked, but the oven became an inferno. So I was left with blackened meat and charcoal-like residues- that was my disaster dinner. Luckily, I’m my own visitor that I had to please, at least I’m fucking thankful to taste a forty-dollar worth of turkey shit.

⠀⠀⠀ I wander around my confined space, lost and seemingly a drunkard among the aroma of burned carcasses and scattered overdue bills. I don’t drink at all, being maudlin is already embedded in my nervous system; same goes for being the most inept at adulting. There are times in my life where I don’t feel like doing shit, and when I do, it’s mostly an excuse to stop going overboard with thinking too much. I’ll admit, I’m a complete chaos; bubbles of emotions are starting to pop- I feel weird as if I’m born again with brand new chemicals in my body. I know my thoughts, they just don’t know my sentiments. Like how I know how to cook a turkey, time was just being an ass to me.

⠀⠀⠀ In all rationality, I want to stop feeling.

⠀⠀⠀ I grabbed my coat and headed outside into the flaky abyss. I was wearing my silky long sleeves, so these tiny particles are turning me into a popsicle. I was cold and pleasantly numb, it’s not that I give a fuck anyways.

⠀⠀⠀ I hastily strolled my way to the park, our local park, where squatters leave trails of their hard-earned, cheapass alcohol and haggard teenagers sleeping through their hangovers. Police would usually report them to the station the next day. Most of the time, their bodies wouldn’t flinch and they never seem to wake up. That’s how it goes in my town, a teen’s life expectancy was all chugged down with bottles of vodka.

⠀⠀⠀ But I didn’t come here to drink nor subconsciously die.

⠀⠀⠀ My hands numbly shelter themselves in my pant pockets- I was freezing like hell as I take a couple of steps. If I were to die from the cold, the townspeople would stick to the assumption that I got killed by my drunkness. It’s a repetitive death and everyone likes to state the obvious. I’d like to sadly think that no one cares about these teenagers. Though, at least they have their honourable places in the obituary section of the newspapers. I’m not here to make fun of death, I mean no disrespect, but these obituaries seemed like they were computer-generated.

⠀⠀⠀ “Elliot Bungshy passed away on June 12, 2012, at the age of 18. He was loved by everyone- his friends, families and even strangers he hasn’t met. They say that he was a diligent student, a great role-model and an innocent kid. He was everyone’s friend, a brother, a sister and even their family’s dog. Sadly, he left his mark on Comebury’s Park, laying on pits of grass with his “Smoke Weeds for Lyfe” t-shirt and his blue ripped jeans, smiling for the very last time. His death was a surprise, nobody knew how he died. Everyone thinks that maybe God has a plan for him-“

⠀⠀⠀ Bullshit. I’m rather too nihilistic to believe in the God-has-a-plan-for-you ideology. I’m not condemning any religions, I’d like to stick to my own skin, but it annoys the heck out of me to see them appear in every death statement I’ve read.

⠀⠀⠀ Now, I’m actually scared.

⠀⠀⠀ With all these thoughts of stupid obituaries, I switched to distracting myself by staring into the lonesome twilight. I noticed the Christmas decorations hanging loosely around the streetlamps; there was also a superficial gingerbread house on display, it was obviously made out of recycled cardboard and other miscellaneous you can find in a D.I.Y. kit.

⠀⠀⠀ I went closer to further inspect the insides. Before I could do so, it tumbled onto the ground, mixing with the snow. It was like witnessing an avalanche. I kind of felt bad since the gingerbread man must be suffocating inside. I’m empathetic enough to see my life being squashed by own edible home. If it was entirely made out of grandma’s delicious oatmeal cookies, I would rather die, thanks.

⠀⠀⠀ Before my burdensome thoughts were about to hop into my brain, I heard a raspy voice behind me.

⠀⠀⠀ “Hey, dude.” I turned around to see that it had belonged to some young guy- he’s lanky and he’s wearing a hunter’s coat. He reminds me of what Holden Caulfield would look like, especially the fact that he’s smoking while sitting on a crate that says Cumbury’s Sex Toys.

⠀⠀⠀ “Hi,” I replied.

⠀⠀⠀ He handed out his cigarette pack, “Need a smoke?”

⠀⠀⠀ I hesitated for a while, I’ve never smoked in my life. He threw both the lighter and the cigarette without waiting for my replying. The lighter had unicorn designs- how cute is that. I flicked the lighter and watched the flames engulfed the butt, I was like the modern-day of the little match girl.

⠀⠀⠀ Then, I make my way towards him to give back his lighter. The closer I got, the more his features became distinguishable. I’m not gonna lie, he’s a good-looking kid.

⠀⠀⠀  “You must be feeling the blues, eh?” I coughed as I took a puff.

⠀⠀⠀ “Yeah, I dropout outta college from a political science degree and I got kicked out of my dad’s house for snucking in some good shit.”

⠀⠀⠀ “Good shit?”

⠀⠀⠀ “Drugs- well, cocaine, basically.”

⠀⠀⠀ “Ah, I see,” I said.

⠀⠀⠀ He looked at me with his sinful eyes. “What about you? What’s up?”

⠀⠀⠀ I’m not good when the conversation spotlight turned to me. My thoughts are in charge of my mind- my comfort country, but they aren’t good at keeping a democracy with me.

⠀⠀⠀ “Um, I feel like killing myself.” I thought it out of nowhere. Fuck.

⠀⠀⠀ He gazed at me with a skeptical look and nodded, “Why?”

⠀⠀⠀ I thought of my depressing turkey dinner, my thoughts, the obituaries, the gingerbread man, my thoughts, my thoughts.

⠀⠀⠀ I simply let out a shrug.

⠀⠀⠀ “Depression?”

⠀⠀⠀ “Way worse than that, I feel like the world is killing me. I can’t stand being here.”

⠀⠀⠀ The silence stood there, creating a boundary between us- he felt like miles away from me.

⠀⠀⠀ But I chimed in, anyways. “Perhaps– God has other plans for me.”

⠀⠀⠀ “Dude, you must be fucking high.”

⠀⠀⠀ “I’m not, I’m sober and my drug tests always comes out clean. What I mean by that is, I could probably be His janitor. I’ll be mopping the floors around Heaven. Sounds holy and therapeutic to me.”

⠀⠀⠀ “Heaven’s already clean, dummy. I don’t even think Heaven has floors, fuck that. I bet everyone could fly there. Wouldn’t that be better?”

⠀⠀⠀ “Yeah, I guess.” And I puffed again.

⠀⠀⠀ How strange that is, I’ve been told, when I was little, that I can overcome anything. But it’s tough to see where my life will stop and when it will begin. I can’t even tell if my skin is my own skin, I’m drowning in bodies of waters when I should be sailing freely into the seas. Even when I tried many ways to fall down, I couldn’t, ’cause I already hit the grounds.

⠀⠀⠀ Maybe it’ll be better in Heaven. Or maybe it’s better if the night won’t rob me away, but I know He’ll come for me and other people like me.

⠀⠀⠀ However, this random, helpless stranger reminded me that I don’t actually mind being on the ground. The world has so many floors, I just have to learn to pick myself up and continue walking.

⠀⠀⠀ Wouldn’t that be better?

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Sleepy & Shallow

My fingers are hesitating as I’m typing this, I barely shed a sweat from the tip of my fingers. My hands are pleasantly groggy, same goes for the palms, resting against the heat of my laptop like a crappy cheap furnace. I could be the modern-day version of the little match girl, except, I’m being comforted by the warmth of some technology. That sounded millennial to my ears.

Then, there are my eyes, wandering around the gloomy four corners I called home. The main focal point is my laptop’s dimly lit screen, but my eyes seem to space out into the abyss. When I snapped out of my dooze, my eyelids felt heavy- it was doing so many push-ups in a row, that’s how fucking exhausted I am. So, what’s the solution? Go grab a cup of coffee or some energy drink? Well, it’s practically useless, I’m picky about what caffeine goes into my system. Basically, I’m not a coffee person.

Still, I’m sleepy and it’s a pretty feeling. You give no absolute fucks about anything. Your thoughts, memories and conscience are sleepy, they are enclosed in a box, only to be open when you’re fully awake. The world will feel new and hazy like you’ve just been born. Wouldn’t it be peaceful to forever be sleepy? Strange, it makes me want to relive the days of preschool napping sessions.

It’s 4 AM, I seriously need to sleep.

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Spilled Milk

i.

i walked; people stared,

i stared back at those

with crumbling homes,

rotten habits and defiance

among the dewy-eyed.

ii.

i walked,

imitable power pumps

the gullible, the soft mould

into a mere impression

of our shadows.

no one is recognised.

iii.

i walked,

with bottomless revelations

of human exploration,

had our angsts carried

inside of suitcases

and erroneous decisions

inside of unzipped backpacks.

let there be traces

of us.

iv.

i walked,

repetitive in circles.

thoughts collides

with our turmoil of emotions.

like an implacable tsunami

that will wipe out the infrastructure

of our rationality.

animals, as we had always been.

v.

i stopped,

too exhausted

to extinguish the flame

of yesterday’s havoc.

to scream in silent agony

is to simply yawn

and let slumber turn off

my conscience, my sense of time

and everything that makes me human.

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Good Feeling

where do emotions go

when they became animals?

emotions of college dropout blues,

emotions of getting a midnight flu

emotions of a dysfunctional love,

resulting in getting papercuts

while writing divorce papers.

remember, the worst thorns of cuts,

will never be just a cut.

there’s a difference between being stabbed

and an accidental slice to the back.

but emotions can’t tell.

they are people too.

⠀⠀⠀
emotions of having a papercut,

emotions of petty political debates

between the corrupted and the cynic,

emotions of destroyed destiny,

emotions of the urge to kill.

but conscience made us the nicest people

when misanthropy hid behind heavens.

emotions of emotions of emotions

layered on top of one another

resembling sugar-coated thoughts,

dripped in blood and salty tears.
⠀⠀⠀

i hate everyone,

i hate everyone.

that feeling will disappear.

good feelings like this

are a spoonful of apathy

in endless conversation pieces

stained with spilt coffee.

i just hate everyone,

what a good feeling.

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Ah, Golly

tensed, hands clenched,

posture straight up,

“you have the floor, ma’am.”

straight ahead, to the middle,

direct observations

of envy, whispers and thoughts

of “what is she going to do?”

breathe in, breathe out.

recite, hands flapping around.

and ah, golly fuck,

i forgot.

continue on to the end.

perfect, a little awkward.

walks back.

fuck.
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Run

foreign meekly mind of mine,

travelling miles with horizon’s smiles.

back there, i couldn’t bear

to spill myself and dance with gloom.

my heart has a vast of space

to blast off great days,

leaving a room for a dark embrace.

i guess we don’t need the rain

when eyes had completed the water cycle.

puffy, reddish and rubbed from pain.

i don’t have a fucking bicycle

to ride away in great distances

because those clouds’ existence

up in the blue bed of the hidden,

don’t seem to look the same.

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To Kill Grandfather’s Clock

reality’s tales

plays its trails

like a cassette tape.

spools rotate,

hitting repetition

and mistakes

goes into collision.

⠀⠀⠀
time never likes

to go back into reverse,

it is timeless

of your shenanigans,

it does not pity

what you’ll grave.

expect forward first,

straight to oblivion

or sinking in

unfamiliar skins.

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Love Letter

i unfolded his letter,

his toddler handwriting

blind vigorous eyes,

those ink-blotted words

are like accidental pies.

they could’ve been better,

others would say.

⠀⠀⠀
to me,

his fingertips swooned

a little too tipsy

and his words trapped

an air full of perfume.

i love it all,

i want it all,

but i folded the letter anyway.

⠀⠀⠀
i created creases

to each edge, side and center

streaks of lines increases

when i made a paper plane.

after loads of papercuts,

off the plane, it goes.

soon, it will be gone,

but those folds

won’t go away.