A short bio_Junkies

“Thanks for offering me to stay with you under the bridge, man… but I’m going rooftop with my girl tonight.”

 

All junkies seem to have a certain certainty. They seemed to have certain superiority. I don’t know if the pride comes from a sense of knowing something that the others don’t or a forced necessity from lack of it. Even when they lie, they lie so honestly. It’s like in the house of justice when you see the man in charge going in and out of the room of justice without a single change in their expression whereas their family would cry or shout according to the verdicts of the judge.

 

“He is to be remained in custody until the 25th July.”

 

“Oh my… it’s day after his birthday!”

 

Cracks and browns were reserved for the junkies and junkies were reserved for the foolish, uneducated, nameless crowds. The police told me that it’s dangerous to be here and asked me what I did. I told them that I was a university student. The woman police enlarged her eyes wide open and asked “So what are you doing down here?” But then again it’s not just the police. Even Monic told him off saying, “Why did you bring Cha here?”

 

I remember liking what I used to call “the coke sleep” It’s when I would have trains of images from the real life (in front of me) passing by as an assemblage of strong but unusual images. The images were not telling as to foretelling. I would use these images to have some positive impacts on the reality. We would be in a waste factory – like place with the sounds of electricity just next. I’d say something like “Let’s imagine that we are at the waterfall or at a riverside or something.” because the sounds of electricity to me were like water falling.

 

He would say “Listen to the various languages of stones, walls, shops and dogs then when you don’t hear them anymore, that’s when you write.”

 

He had a body like what I would say Siddhartha; a long and thin but boned body.

Poem_07/2015

I heard at dawn a bird over my head

Saying that we need to express

Our regrets and sorrows

That memory means to lament

That living means to mourn

Little plant that died from lack of water

In the name of Jeon Tae Il

That we’d count the men died for the Roman Empire

1,000,000 men and my grand-mother

Stories of sacrifices are made to console

Yet the girls and boys died before their teachers

We mourn and we cry

Even to that little something dead in my soul

Poem_01/2015

Let’s accept the fact that they are very coincidential, our decisions
Though, the first encounter, always with the bubbles from the predestinations

I am secretly in love with dreamers because I have no dreams

Look at the faces of lovers and they are framed sadly
Desires, wishes all in one scoop blowing away in the wind
We say we fall in love because we fall into the tears, traces and hair
Who ever said that love makes us danse so ever lightly like feathers
We lock our love tight but it might be too heavy and become dangerous
I will be careful as not to do things he dislikes
Rather than trying to do things he like

2015.01.03