Author: hotsurf

Like to travel, read, play cello etc.

New Year’s Eve.

I walk alone,
on the street near home.
Ahead I see a red jacket,
like the one
my mother wears,
the person in it
is taking stuff outta her white van.
Who else can it be?
“So she’s giving us food again.”
I think while shaking my head.
She’s going back to the car.
I start running.
Suddenly feeling happy watching my feet,
one goes after the other.
When I raise my head
expecting to see her
she’s not there.
The van’s just ahead,
now in rest.
My drive-way’s empty.
It’s the neighbor,
another asian lady.
I hung my head
and feel like crying.

Traditional Holidays.

I have to turn off my sense of guilt
just so that I can live my life.
Lay your hand on my stomach
like I’m just one of your properties.
No, there’s no child inside
just my flat, hard, give-no-fuck abs.
Mad respect for your old ladies
but get the fuck off of my case.
Don’t wanna have to deal with you
cause your world view is fixed.
Yes, your son’s the golden-boy with some linage.
Bitches, I’m first born of a provincial officer
and got some leftover from the Mongolian race.
You don’t see me trying to pass those on
and it’s for your own damned good.
Keep thinking the real noble men & women
are long gone & left no trace.
Is it irresponsible to be critical of the world
before bring a child into a questionable fate?
You just want us to reproduce,
have you been brainwashed?
Do you like doing all the work
and not being seen and treated as a person?
Now you making it your job
making others miserable.
Maybe stop gossiping
and see if there’re real issues you can solve.
You must think we are having it easy,
thanks to not having to live
with an oppressive tradition.
Our marriage was not even arranged
so what do we have to complain?
Have a child, keep the jobs
and bath in the golden mist of
the old ancestors smiling.
I know you have a brain,
why don’t you switch it on more often.
Maybe it’s too late for you,
but I’m not gonna waste this opportunity,
of not being a slave, but fill a role that I build.
Don’t wanna become a passive-aggressive old lady like you.

Overcast.

I used to like this
leaning against the door
listening to the motor sea
thinking not thinking
of a world with out of me.

It’s like hearing a prayer
out in every directions,
looking for answers.
So alive, so vibrant,
mixed with the symphonies.

The roars of the whirlpool
deafening yet unaware.
The fallen leaves are still.
The rain comes and goes.
Can’t I just be one of those?

Crazy meme.

What sustains me
is a shout in the dark
I’m afraid of that dark
like I’m disappearing
filling the space with
What?
what are we but vacuum cubes
The muffling sounds from a distance.
But Which direction?
If I cry enough
will they listen
the waxing and waning
still stir something
That something is pain.
This yearning,
Its always been too painful
to live.
No one finishes their story – (why?)
A messy beginning
an exhausting middle
a neuron endingWHAT’S THE QUESTION?

CrazyMore – the son.

The hills are silent. So is the wind.
Mary Marilyn has been contemplating her fate.
It’s not her fault that she’s beautiful and friendly
that she now bears the seed of an Imam.
She searches high and low for a docile man
to marry, be protected and to deceive.
As she puts her hook on Joseph,
she thinks it’s a good deal indeed.
The Imam tracks her down and askes for the son,
she says, “oh, no, this one belongs to God Himself”.
Imam thinks this to be proper and convenient
and blesses Mary for her piety and chastity.
As for Joseph this he says:
“take care of the baby, or else.”
With the backing of her men,
Mary is happy, her baby well taken care of.
The Imam decides to call their son “Jesu,
because, you know, why not?”
As time goes, Jesu rebels,
it’s always “who is my daddy?” everywhere he goes.
Mary and Joseph are deeply concerned
so the Imam keeps lining their purse.
Everyone knows the truth and the Imam’s power,
so they sing the glory of the mighty and pure
while doing deeds that are dark and vile.
Gradually Jesu comes of age,
for some reason, thinks he’s above the law,
as he goes around shooting off his mouth.
Pretty soon, there’re others hanging out,
drinking wines and telling tall-tales.
“It’s not like I know what I’m doing,” he says,
“but it’s all in good fun and stuff.”
But then the road goes tough and people dies,
all the suffering touches Jesu’ heart.
He wants to use his influence for his pals,
that’s when shits start to roll because
only the legitimate can do so-and-so.
His friends scatter and he’s killed
for his Imam father’s dead and luck runs out.
His friends feel sad that the party’s over,
so they take turns writing books about it.
Mary becomes the holy mother and a whore,
one interesting person split into two.
Oh, and they missed another tiny detail:
Mary has been the true Messiah,
she just doesn’t give a shit.