This is Home

Ash to ash,

Dust to dust,

Now I lay this body to rest,

Among stardust and forgotten ancients,

This is home,

Built of flesh,

Housed in skin,

Driven by spirit,

Powered by dreams,

Broken by pain,

Divided by creed,

Categorized by government,

This is home,

Me,

This caravan of self,

Moving along a path called life,

It has no address,

Saved by a name,

The name, my parents gave me;

And during the living moments,

This home resides in a building,

A house we equate as a home,

But true home is me,

There is no other like this,

Home for a child,

Grown old through time,

And in its twilight years,

To be surrendered to its creators,

This is home,

Some called it ugly,

Short, over weight,

Dark, light, round,

Square or long,

And maybe cute,

It has felt pain,

Felt love, tasted bitterness,

Cherish sweetness,

Been bent by sadness,

Ever changing,

Year by year,

Never the same,

A home in constant remodeling,

This is home,

Me,

This is home,

This body before you,

This person that stands before you,

This is home,

And from here to you,

Other homes,

We are caravans,

Travelling along this road,

We call life, we are home.

Folly for Satire

SIREN ONE

 

Lies,

All lies,

All you believe,

They are all life’s lies,

 

Power is masked,

Behind the idea of strength,

To be equal is strength says the feminist

To be masculine is strength says the chauvinist male,

 

False truths,

Your society fed down your gullible gaping mouth,

Silly ideas, silly, silly ideas,

Small woman, smaller man,

 

You scream strength and ideals,

But control the world between your thighs,

You flirt your way through life, hypocrite;

Your weakness is your strength,

You are the satire,

 

You scream brawns and muscle,

Musky stench, condescending male beef machine,

Big muscles, small brains, egos bigger than your balls,

Your strength is your weakness,

You are the satire,

 

Puny mortal,

Men and Women are all satire…

 

SIREN TWO

 

Lies,

All lies,

All you perceive,

They are all life’s lies,

 

Truth is masked,

Behind the words of the powerful,

Incorruptible leaders, untouchable leaders,

Are the most corrupt, the most vile,

 

False truths,

Your perceptions are all painted fairy tales,

You believe what you are fed to believe,

Truths and perceptions, false men and false women,

 

You believe the painted faces,

Speaking truths through a silicon window,

She’ll say anything they’ll tell her to,

Your truth is what is made for you,

You are the satire,

 

Your perceptions drive you,

To a burning death, sheep to the slaughter,

To ruins, follow the leader, to burn, to burn,

Your ideas will not save you,

You are the satire

 

Such puny mortals,

Your truth and beliefs are satire…

 

MASTER

 

Puny mortals,

Puppets for powers,

Your very life is a satire,

Amusement for the universe,

 

Humans are a virus upon this earth,

Breeding to destroy,

Never content,

Greedy little critters,

 

You devise contraptions,

For the sole purpose of destructions,

The sole reason for elimination,

An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth

And all are left blind and toothless.

 

You are a satire onto itself,

A joke within a joke,

In spite of your religions,

Your religion seems but ONE,

 

Total destruction of each other and everything in between

 

Puny mortals,

Blame the gods when life is bad,

Forget the gods when life is good,

But you serve only one real god,

Yourself.

 

Holy men, hiding behind their masks of religions,

Plotting destruction on each other,

Rewarding each other for death delivered,

Heaven and Hell, filled with the murderers,

 

Your life is a satire,

A joke,

An oxymoron of everything you say you are,

A lie within the truth, you make yourself believe,

 

Satire is your belief,

Religion,

Your very own personal joke,

So are we wrong to say this?

Ask yourself.

I Heart Ciplak

*Ciplak = counterfeit

 

Ciplak, chaplang, cetak-rompak,

Labels invented to create separation,

Between what is ‘real’ and what is not,

Yet, it is the million dollar war-cry by wealthy corporations,

 

Telling us what we can and cannot buy,

I say, ‘Fuck the corporations’

I will choose what I want to buy or not to buy,

Let’s make it legal, remove the ‘ill’ and legal will be well,

 

I heart Ciplak

And if you have a problem with the Chinese sounding ‘Ciplak’,

Let’s give it a nice French name like ‘Homage’

Since imitation is the highest form of flattery,

You will be doing society the greatest service,

 

Help reduce the disparity between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’

Let’s help everyone become equal,

We could live life imitating Big Momma R,

Since she did almost win the ‘Lead By Example’ award,

 

I can afford to buy a ‘BERKINS’ even-though it’s spelled ‘BERKINI’,

Not from Hermes of France but from a roadside shop at Serikin,

I can smell like ‘CHANEL’ though my bottle is spelled with two ‘N’s,

Smelling rosy even if I develop a nasty rash,

 

And if imitation is my thing,

Malaysia celebrates homage like no other,

From Petaling Street to the MO1 famous halls of Putrajaya,

From the Eye of Malaysia that developed conjunctivitis,

To ideas of a Malaysian New York Central Park,

That took a 650 million ringgit donation from the Malaysian tax payers,

 

Heck, we even have Petaling Street, the world’s centre of Homage.

A huge contributor to Malaysian economy,

And boy do we need to increase the nation’s coffers,

Trying to fake an Arab donation, didn’t really work out well,

 

 

We are a nation that survives on homage,

Never fully achieving maximum homage,

And even lesser than a full out ‘Ciplak’,

We talk big but never copy well,

 

Our so called Democratic-parliament is a poor copy of North Korea’s People Democratic Republic,

And forget paying homage to intelligence,

Our cabinet ministers are so smart,

Donald Trump would pay us to keep them,

 

We say look to the east, imitate the Japanese,

But we went as far as copying their porn industry then industry itself,

We laughed at China for their crazy ‘ciplak’-ing skills,

Yet flaunt our ‘Made in China’ iPhones,

 

I wear a 500 ringgit Seiko 5 Pepsi watch, Made in Malaysia,

Poor man’s Rolex they say, an attempt to imitate a great watch,

But if we were both late to a meeting,

Mine will be a cheaper mistake than your 30,000 ringgit Rolex GMT Pepsi, Made in Switzerland,

 

I heart ciplak,

Like how you watch ‘Train to Busan’ on DVD,

The week it was released at the cinema,

So we’re both cheap and looking to cut corners,

“Jimat cermat dengan perbelanjaan rumah,” kan PM dah advice,

 

Embrace ciplak, and you remove all status standings,

Because is not that what it is all about?

You hold status by the original item you purchase,

A rub in the face, that you have more money than me,

 

All because you can afford it, thus you’re higher, greater and better than me?

I heart ciplak because even copies have a place in this world.

 

THE END

 

I Hate Diaries

As a youngster, I thought keeping a diary was cool. Popular and mainstream and the in thing to do. A thought perpetuated by mainstream media and the agony of trying to decipher an identity for myself.

As a youngster, keeping a diary made me a fool. Invasive and disastrous are less words to describe, the horror one gets when others read your entries and use them as blackmail to curtail your behavior.

As a teen, I swore off all manner of bookkeeping. Of writing experience and chronicling every day incidents, choosing instead to keep in mind what was important and flushing out what was not.

As a teen, mistakes were plentiful, and red was the color of my ink. Demons would come for dinner, down the whole bottle of wine and speak whispers of memories, I thought I forgotten.

As an adult, I abhor such manner of writing. As if you decide that creating a paper trail of evidence of your life would add value to your seemingly incredible life experiences.

As an adult, your diary is fodder. For when old aunties come visiting at festivals, and instead of cake and tea; you place a book and invite them to dine on the juicy elements of your delicate being.

I hate diaries.

Only because, I rather that my inner world be kept away. It’s private.

Only because, it’s simpler to hide thoughts than a book within your bedroom.

Only because, those that know me, know me and not what I think of me.

Only because, parents should talk to their children and not read their diaries.

I hate diaries yet I keep a diary, of sorts.

Diaries in all instances are trigger objects.

Objects that conjure up a spectral of memory. A ghost from the past that haunts you; either malevolent or benevolent. It waits in ambush, in the dark crevices of your soul.

Objects that force reminiscent emotions to plague your thoughts with ‘What if’ even though you know, you can never change your actions of yesterdays.

Objects that mark milestones in life. The first love, first kiss, first argument, first breakup. And the first thoughts of how utterly stupid we are when perfect vision is only through the window of hindsight.

So I kept other things as trigger objects.

‘Memento Mori’, inked to remind me that nothing is permanent.

The Chinese words ‘Kind-hearted’, ‘Fearless’ and ‘Persistent’, are etched along my backbone. Words to prop up my character, personality and mannerisms.

Tribal symbols on my body, to remind me of my heritage. That I may stand visible in the after-life among my ancestors.

I hate diaries, the book that others can read.

But spend time with me and I may allow you to read me like a book. And I will tell you stories, no mere mortals can pen.

THE END