without the vernacular, the poem has to wave its arms around dancing

NIGHT & THE CONTINUING FALLING VERSES OF… (11)

prologue

when there are no more words in the world
will poetry be poetry still?

poetry
leaving the wordlessness behind
in a dark
dark world…

1
without words
the poem has no desire for sleep
will it sacrifice
its melody?
its meaning?

since in death
sleep is dreamless
no one
dives
head first
into a final deconstruction

as the poem
jokes about desire

you remembering that
we couldn’t possibly
construct anything half-asleep
indifferent

as though the poem has no
enemy

2
without words
the poem thought it was an angel
it drowns in a dark room

wrap in layers
and layers of women’s clothing
gosh the hills and valleys
the exhausting breathlessness

the poem’s wrist throbbing
like a river
bulging like a scar
a dam

the ridiculous bauxite bruises
on the head
knees
vista of a shredded map
leftover of a country
bits and pieces of a poem

coveted yet often
forgotten

without words
the poem in neglected
in a room
with the Spratly Islands
continuously
seasick
as are the Paracel Islands
forever abandoned

3
without the vernacular
the poem has to wave its arms around dancing
enthusiastically

it makes you laugh
when you see a poem like that

years and years after that
it would still make you laugh
all those bogus useful catchphrase
and fake announcements
screaming
fraudulence

say if Mr Nick were to live in Vietnam
after a year
will he succeed
in anything of significance?

or by then he
has to learn from us
how to endure
the teeth grinding
drudging evil
his whole life

4
the poem
it’s not just a bloody pulse
or a hardened heart

it’s a storm
slamming you against a wall
and all you want to do is run

not power
it’s the desirability of the spirit
high up in the sky
falling a thousand metres

a window opening suddenly
the poem sticking its head out screaming
something no one wants to hear

or listens to
or dare turn around
to check what it might be

or
they would turn to look
only because they’re deaf

in this country
fear is a mega big favour that poetry
had saved for you

5
without the vernacular
should one trust the silence
followed by the poem falling apart

we can not turn back time
the clock tick-ticking
the second hand frothing

they harbour delusions of grandeur
at the end of the world
the entire South without
an ounce of electricity
and they’re allocating a time slot for the end of the days
careful now
don’t choke on the spit

remain are nothing but
the final step
us holding onto each other
otherwise
we might fall
pushed down
into an abyss

6
when the world is void of the vernacular
it still has light
it has the Sun
you will remain human and erect
drawing a long shadow in the sunlight

when there are no words
the world will be void of poetry

at the height of noon one day
people will pass you by
speechless in the most surreal of silence

your footing
your standing is worthless, hence
the poem will never be brave enough to ever stand up
it’s on its back with its legs spattered
indignantly wide open

7
you don’t need the knowledge of language
if the world is void of meaning

when they set the meaning of “poem” as “enemy”
“silence” as “bleeding eyes”
it’s when you no longer need a dictionary

tears in your kind eyes
aching teardrops

your tongue silenced
without the need for articulation
it lies there quietly drowning in your tears
consumed by your blood

8
there are poems void of words
hence it’s no longer a poem

a room without a window
hence often there are windows without a room
nothing but bars
and shackles for fidgety feet

without the vernacular
still noisy is the poem

buzzing like a bee
searching for honey
wintry sounds of the rain
crying
dying

the poem merely crying
something we’re familiar with
people peeping through
gaps in the windows

it may
miss
seeing
the long tears
mother
allowed to flow
freely

9
without the vernacular
the poem needs to quietly walk away
be as silent as the tombstones in a graveyard

the vernacular will no longer be a nightmare
everyone softer and distorted
like a snake’s tongue

bitter like a distorted dream
deformation of death
strain of the uterus in pregnancy
distortion of our stomach when we’re hungry

What is the point of a poem if it refuses to mutate?
An injured pigeon?
A snake with its head ground to dust?
Scaring us to death?

sympathy for the victims of murders
forcing someone else to do the dirty work
the poem allows the pigeon to perch, rest?
the poem allows the snake to slither through the summer grass?

but the poem isn’t death
people continue to give birth

the poem stands on of its own two feet
the reason why we should open our eyes
look through the ins and outs of the districts
turn around and check where the screaming came from
and not be so afraid
and piss in our pants
…
a window distorted
an email changed
a deformed bar
a snake/bird mutated

mutated distorted
otherwise we may as well lie down and die

just remember that
each poem is a human life
(don’t be so complacent)
none of us cry as we fix our eyes
on the animals
in a circus

10
without the vernacular
it is dark like the nights the electricity is cut
the Sun is at the head of the poem
as silent as a rock

stony and dead
the poem is a volcano
erupts, spitting magma
to after die


Why is there a place where everything is in
the form of a corpse?
Why is your white school shirt
not the bluish pale colour of a corpse?
dares to possess the essence a bird
no, an eagle
soaring, demanding
the son of god not to be the same?

Why must the poem stay still and watch
dare not look around
at the overwhelming number of green shirts

gosh, the fresh green corpses
removing the shackles of a nation
taking flight
students
purifying
blooming
court trials

11
without the vernacular
we are petrified

awe, the whiteness of your school shirt
innocence in the form of a diminished flame

fear taking a step back
as it faces love

12
without the vernacular
the poem is long
lies there dying
perched on the fence
along the dodder vines
in our garden

death
nodding
as though
the poem is like
a child receiving
daily whipping by the wind
refusing to fall
let go

the child in a white shirt
smiling at all the people with pudgy stomachs
slithering around like a snake their whole life

a bloke with a big gut is not a poem
he is a snake along the river
around a stone sound asleep in the shadow of a mountain
neither of them, a poem

like when the wind sings and the leaves would hum
the poem couldn’t possibly be quiet
it’s the load after the poem is hung out to dry in the Sun

13
when void is the vernacular
the world is void of memory

we’re not concrete high rises
with not a finch
Mother’s muddy footprints

the vernacular no longer has meaning
akin to sound
louder yet no one care enough to notice
without the vernacular
summer leans into the arms of a vicious winter
without the vernacular
in a frail light the night will be illuminated
unsustainable through the clouds
through flips of fragile pages
an account of nothing

without the vernacular
the poem has not a home
like the ancient caves
wintry hut
mud home
rising smoke

unlike current cities
only concrete, glass shattering
fearful teeth chattering
the people
bleeding like you, baby

14
without meaning
there’s no need to remember your name or the poem
the poem may be in the form of a river
drifting into dreams
falling slowly into a valley

canyon and wild grass
old dusty road
you, falling on your face
the autumn Mother passed away

forever
a poem
it lies under your pillow
as you dream

15
without words
the poem is void of nipples
on a baby’s lips

the poem draws a beard
bits and pieces of a morning
a man brought you home
to feed on you before he
hang you out to dry
in the light

you won’t leave
and the poem refusing to
let go

as it fall
its falling forever

darkness pulling him in
deeper within you
you thought you’re a romantic
but the poem
evidence of how you were shot, the reason
the poem is stranded on an unseen rock
in the middle of the sea

16
without the vernacular
the poem can’t see
its blind so it plays
with its tongue

fondling love or justice
its moist tongue licking
and the rough papillae
a bit ticklish
making us a little excited
but no longer for no reason at all be
feverish with fear

17
void of the vernacular
meaning is void of interpretation
void of critique

the nation ambushed
by the hidden faces
and the dark

without the vernacular
they now have no use for metaphors
symbolisms, or imagination

destruction and new life
creation and degradation, broken pieces
broken pieces inside broken pieces

a giant inside a giant
a zoo for terrifying consequences

they dare to go on and on about
a pig
a monkey
a cow

the poem
sound in our marrow is a bird
a bird a bird
a bird flying inside a bird
ah uhm that sinking
(feeling)

18
without the vernacular
the world is void of poetry
all shall be in a deep freeze
like the person
lying there like a god

the poem admiring
running down a tunnel
the twisting path of death

encased in glass
you’re a poet
you’ll be a soldier
you’ll also be an enemy
a sailor in a sinking ship

you’re a bird
you’re also a blind hunter
in your tent the Sun will set
your livelihood replace with bitterness
your dreams replace by burden

without the vernacular
if you wanted to be in deep freeze
upon waking
you’re given a cup
alcohol diluted with water
so you’ll be drunk with conceited
hairy ideologies like untamable weed
poetry finds the whole thing ludicrous
without of an exit

19
void of the vernacular
the poem is also void of clothes
it’s naked under the Sun

you will see the truth
it’s not a poet
it’s an imposter’s national pride
a performance opened with the blood of others

they are romantic to the point of evil
the rivers will run red with blood of many
not just you and your lover

20
without words
the poem said goodbye to its tongue

but the poem’s tongue is swallowed
ending up in the stomach
shoved further into the intestines
filtered by the liver
passed by the kidneys
and so on and so on
such as life

without words
mean, saying goodbye to the tongue,
meaning the poem has to die
it will be absorbed up by the soil
dispersed in the air
into the sky it will disappear
become a part of some wordless song
time and time again
the poem is choking on its blood
because of such feat
gosh, the victories

ĐÊM VÀ NHỮNG KHÚC RỜI… (11)