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
a leaf dangling precariously for 20 years
has been finally plucked out.
my heart was not ripped apart, though.
what remain are only broken pieces of memory
in darkish corners of my mind.
the feel of her earlobes;
regret in not being able to kiss;
a bench by the lake in the middle of the night
where we never sat together on;
threatening call to kill herself;
wedding pictures with the handsome younger man;
sultry and clammy fantasy.
the desperate gesture I ignored,
which has become the final one.
final? I look into her picture.
would I want to be a leaf dangling
desperately from her naked twig?
What is that wobbling target?
What is this bow I am holding?
Why am I on this tiny boat?
Why am I staggering on this rolling water?
With a unleashed fantasy and
With a petty sense of guilt thrusted into a hip pocket,
I set out on a trip with her.
Nobody would dare to paint over my painting.
My name and her name are lying side by side;
My winged illusion has become a reality in this fashion.
When my heart that’s been pounding with great joy,
sees a hole in her sock, it picks up a small boat
and rows toward the center of the lake.
Lay down your bow!
How could you be a flower if you act like a hungry bird?
How come you try to uproot yourself?
If you wobble like a reed in the wind,
could you become an easy target for her?
Ah! I too have a fierce life….
You shall be a flower? You were born as
a flower and in your whole life, giving
out fragrance, you’ve seduced honey
bees like street women. You tried to fly
even though you didn’t have wings. Nah!
you’ve been living in despair because
you couldn’t fly even though you didn’t
have wings to spread. You envied butterflies
that were flying around this flower and that,
but you didn’t see honey bees that was
stealing your nectar industriously. You don’t
hear the sound of my wings hovering over
you? I, the Queen bee, myself came to you
being attracted to the fragrance of the sweet
nectar you’ve been hiding deep deep in you.
You think it’s dream? You say it’s a fairy tale?
You believe it’s a fantasy novel? You worry it
would be the end of the world because the
Queen Bee abandoned her hive? They might
be true. So break the lock of the vault of your
basement and wake up your true nectar that
has been sleeping for many decades. Wake it
up! Wake it up! This is a temptation! I shouldn’t
have seen her legs and buttocks in her jeans.
I shouldn’t have felt her wind and frost engraved
in her fine wrinkles around her eyes. I didn’t know
I had a vault in my basement, deep in my mind.
With frolicking colorful fantasies in my mind,
as I am trying to get closer to her;
Stay put right there!
A flower emits fragrance in one spot.
It will die if a flower leaves its place.
Did she see my ugly picture?
Your look –
just stay there as they are.
Do not make a sloppy copy of
Only your songs,
Just drawing any pictures in your head
will be a sin.
When the time comes,
if my ear touches your lips,
Give me a furtive confession.
I will give you a covert forgiveness.
What punishment would you want?
We are too much ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?
We are only just in Chapter 2.
Out of the blue,
I feel I am a swan;
How hard it is to have an elegant life!
You are not a swan.
You are not elegant.
Ah! I see.
Hallucination is man’s must to survive,
but not easy to be living in
fantasy, delusion, illusion, imagination.
If I don’t call me swan,
I would be just a waddling duck.
I see a few old birds
sitting on a branch,
enraptured with me.
Now my illusion has evolved
so I can see young birds as well.
Isn’t swan a bird too?
If you love me, you can have cute fantasy.
Make a white horse out of my ugly donkey.
Turn my run-down shack into a beautiful palace.
Let my rags become a fabulous ball-dress.
A nameless man passing by you
is transformed into a prince by your eyes.
An invisible man loitering around you
is transfigured into a special man by your cares.
Ah! Do not shatter your fantasy.
Your fantasy is
my daily bread,
my real clothes,
my only shelter,
my ever-lasting life.
When you fantasy wears a thick shell and
becomes my unbreakable fantasy,
you can get out of the fantasy and
watch the reality with ecstasy.