the christmas that visited me last year,
my still being alive make it come back.
while the christmas tree that was not
trashed is glittering again this year,
i don’t hear ‘merry christmas’ from her
and the bridal chamber is still waiting
to be indulged. the dream of honey-
moon that was shattered and scattered
into the universe. the memory of promise
is still piercing my heart with a spear
head, but the picture i draw is a short
kiss and the only thing left is a touch
of her tongue. her christmas is blue-
tainted too or she is being burned red
in a room? my thirty hand motion that
is groping around the glass wall; the
fatigued phantasy of copulation; the
desire and lust that are turned blue.
blue blue blue blue christmas
On a splendid day in October,
Be my bride.
Treading on the fallen leaves
With your bare feet,
Wearing short wedding dress,
Boasting of your beautiful legs
On which moist drizzle is flowing down,
Come to me.
To spend the unforgettable
Last night of October,
Make today a wonderful day.
Before this October passes away,
Be my bride.
To greet ash-colored November
With blue-sky-colored heart,
Be my October bride.
Wondering who this woman would be…
You didn’t send me flowers this time.
I realized you were much more beautiful than flowers.
I am slow, you know.
Would she smell the end from my lame excuse?
She might disappear like a ghost at dawn.
If there is a beginning, then there will be an end.
But the beginning like a volcano eruption
shouldn’t end like an iceberg in the South Pole,
which is melting due to the global warming.
Regardless of Earth’s demise,
we have been holding up against the world
with the memory of just one night?
Who knows what was between us?
Just like a virtual reality with run-out battery,
after being distorted and chopped constantly,
the illusion might pop up to the real reality.
A fantasy in which only the flower is real
can’t have a beginning and an end!
At the end of the world,
What will remain is not
I or she, but
The memory of sending flowers,
The memory of receiving flowers.
Lady poet’s well;
I open its light cover and look into it.
I can’t see anything – pitch black well.
I see why nobody opens the cover.
The hamlet nobody visits;
Not sure why I am here.
Its door is open but
I don’t see any footsteps;
How lonely her well is!
However, however, however,
dark wells surrounding her well –
even without covers to lift.
She wouldn’t be lonely.
In the hamlet for poets only,
They give cuddle to each other passionately.
They provide comfort to each other profusely.
They throw praise to each other lavishly.
In the hamlet for poets only,
I will dig my own well – deep and very dark.
A well for me only.
She gives me a safe-like box.
“Don’t open it!”
I don’t see a lock on it.
Her secret in this small case?
But I don’t try to open it
‘cause I love her
The safe might be empty;
it might reek of decaying bug;
Ah! the container might contain her un-lovable look,
I will still love her, though.
“So, will you open it or not?”
The empty safe will make me laugh away.
I can just trash a dead bug in it.
Her unlovable look cherished in there
will make me love her more.
She takes the safe away from me;
my daydream is broken.
The small box is sinking deep in the pond.
Her secret becomes a secret for good just like this.
I measure the depth of the tarn.
During the last Holy Week
my heart was unusually hammering
not because Mary Magdalene’s heart
was transplanted to me,
which was yearning for Jesus’ Resurrection
but because my woman’s heart was thumping in me,
who would meet me on Easter Day for the first time.
Mary Magdalene’s heart that met Jesus
became the calm Galilee,
but why is the woman’s heart that met me
still whirling like the Tiberias under a storm?
Because of me who was pacing around
in front of the wide-open door and couldn’t enter?
During the next year’s Holy Week
would my heart be pounding instead of her heart?
Why is your face so dark?
Perhaps she is looking at my shadow.
She might be doing a thing called love;
she can’t face my face.
Or my shadow covers my face?
Nah! How could that happen?
What can you expect from mortal creation?
So many questions;
no answers –
that’s why I am still breathing.
What is alive is
My shadow that is not looking for answers.
Am I alive or not? –
more questions; still no answers.
Maybe I am my own shadow…
Am I Adam who is sunk by Eve’s one word
to the bottom of the sea
with a millstone around his neck?
What covers my face is her shadow?
Ah! We seem to be really doing a thing called love,
facing each other’s face face to face.