this is a ritual, religious or no:

one is the turning of the house key–  no, it is the fumble prior in locating–    no, it is the dragged steps across hallways.       it is the silence of mercy.

two is your shadow beckoning and the melting into bedsheets. half is half-lit phone screens illuminating. three-quarters is yours alone.  the radio doesn’t know.

three: the narrative is missing. this one is specific. i’m in love with you alone but i’m talking about me and the radio still doesn’t know. in montage or flash cards through seventeenth autumn and this tropical cocktail, my ash-island, my haze-bridge between worlds when you cut through mountains. equatorial arctic portable refrigerator i paid $14 for. there are highlands and crossroads between your creases and a five hour bus ride to your heart.

four– i’ve known forever, darling. no bats here but horn-bills and other primary hued beaked beauties. when i laid on the base of that 8th floor campsite the little square on the wall whispered me home. i stood alone on a dancefloor a while ago. illegal(but everybody was so-). under canopies of teen revelry and blunt magazine my best friend told me nobody does this. but you’re my own and still shining, through cenang the creaky bunk beds to lights pulsating on buildings i can’t reach. from darks to green and crystals. sparkling. this is not religious but it may as well be.

five, is never ending.


a love letter

to the tropics but you’re southbound
in Köppen starting A’s but you’re monsoon this is
dark blue. i see you
in every millimeter counted in rainfall
and mist wrapped hills like shawls
and suburban epiphytes
with the average annual 2000
range twenty-nine, twenty.
triple showers daily
eternal fight against humidity
when you’re long roads and curvature
with hands cradling cigarettes
ash on passenger seat and
the center console coffee cup;
disengage me.
this scent is called new beginnings and


my little brother would scrunch up his face
and say     this is eerie,    right now
because there’s mold on the ground and decaying corpses of
rodents when no one seems to take out the trash right.
breath holds in day break where i learnt
alternative inhalation techniques
where there’s always dirt marks on my feet
plunged into the open sewage picking cherries and
wave at the kerbau through the school fence at six

bule   in  the 
blue    overalls
old enough to be my father
speaks to me in mother tongue.
“you’re indonesian aren’t you?”
“jadi kenapa ngak ngerti?”
return in fragmented response.
not half in blood but half in
linguistics, seems like it
stresses water with a d and   
elongated.      mumbled with the
tradie pains, and aging ache.
color scheme like classic blue boy with the
light beige

You Can’t Hurry Love (Hello, I Must Be Going! 2016 Remastered) –

there is a sixty-four gb microsd in the cavities of my cellular
and vodafone has ceased to reach this corner of the eastern coast.
not quite the full 1700 kilometers .     this is only south-central.
sugarcane-less,            sub-tropical
with dropped off     reception zones
you text when you’re driving all the time with the help of
the other provider, this shouldn’t be public
shouldn’t be published,   she said–      love don’t come easy
it’s  a   game of      give and take      when the
plastic, internal   and i’m tired and can’t read maps
and snap,      no,  you just have to wait
not quite the full 1700 kilometers, only south-central


do you think all storage spaces smell the same
its been raining for a while now here
(we’re only subtropic)


so my garage, my garage, out of all the places, it smells, it smells like storage it smells like
vacancy, like the empty like my father out on wednesday nights for tennis and thursdays for poker, or was it mondays, but fridays for his other, no vehicular occupant, not my mother with empty rooms    it smells like the summer storms i’ve stopped counting when
i tried to reason with my potential seasonal condition but they last three to four weeks, before the switch, you’re dual setting, with the humidity with the heat but always evergreen,   so when it smells like my father leaving it smells like storage without the exhaust, solely cardboard boxes and   the colour      brown,  like       the staircase in your childhood  home, the second  smells  like vacancy and the upstairs smells like the empty
when your sister’s in university and you’re running and another empty room, it’s almost distinct when it smells like lacking human entity   but   at   least   it was temporarily occupied, your teenage bedroom seasoned, three to four weeks, and moved downstairs as soon as i left like moving upstate as soon as we intersect and never stop moving.
it’s not a race with the mercury but its so close. mom in sunday plant markets she picks up tropical endemics, half burnt with no canopy, not the same shade of green.

xxxxxxxxxtra superia

almost found you in a 35 millimeter border.    when there was potential
borderline             is this poetic justice,    white boys with army crops
and connections,     overlapping circles but different media,  they’re all
artists here.  they all make noise.  there’s always grain in the aftermath
and nod heads to hip hop.     communal lounge with things to go around
but you’re my favourite in $35 with extras      in sunlight      never slowed down
barely fast forward         white boys with army crops going a hundred
both auditory.       you’re my favourite in 3 like what he gives me to stabilize
and 5 where we stopped reading scott pilgrim with shared eyes          a
beach-side stolen dream.       almost unreal        please know there is no rewind


of people and types and the things you keep when you’ve
packed your bags, accidental stolen souvenirs he told me, asked
politely,  klepto hands buttered and separative movement
like that necklace i slipped into overnight luggage pockets from my
ex’s parents’ house from egypt i still wear all the time
stuff it in, unknowing
but  less  literal  like
number 3. film classics in moonlight and a slow slip into cafe addiction
because naturally,    this is a yuppie suburb you live in and
the bardon house bitches keep coming in to complain about their
wagyu beef burgers at your store that never existed
and neighborhood coffee roasters have real plants but not bungalow
you only order takoyaki with me. why did you take your ex to our spot?
why did i take my ex to our spot? you dont even hang out at rics anymore
are these the things we keep when we’ve packed our bags when the
northern half of this city is mine but the horizon in the west still scare me
number 5. i listen to anderson .paak without you and snicker to myself
and restraints. nothing too similar when we’re too close like boundaries
we’re in the same boat and never took your word, this is distinct
your household. too used to shared spaces and chromecast there is no
conversation in this blue house on boundary    like the blue unit on brunswick
because it’s always boys in blue, figurative, literal
people stained with other people.
awake at 2 am and the phone rings its
walls of text in vibrations. she wants a quiet sunday
both our ghosts are named hannah but we are not lovers anymore
second time round with extra interruptions but you taught me
to split the bills and learn to  travel so i guess  i’ll also do that without you