Hi, and welcome! (Scroll past this post if you’re looking for the updates :))

This is my new thought and fiction diary! Here I’m going to be posting whatever comes to mind, experimenting with whatever I feel like at the time. There will be a lot of first drafts coming through here, but the quality of stuff should reach at least a decent standard. The first post (‘#1: for the sake of flow’) is actually an example of experimentation gone very badly, but you know what? Next time it’ll be better, and that’s the point of this secondary blog!

My previous blog is at ChasjngDreams, a blog that’s taken more of the spin of personal thoughts and rants. If you like what you read here, maybe you’d like the writer behind all of this too!

Hope you enjoy!

- j. NG

162: I would almost say that Poetry’s an old man’s game

I would almost say
that poetry’s an old man’s game,
but not because it’s old fashioned
or expired
but because Bukowski’s whores
and his flabby belly is of far more intrigue
than my rocky relationship with a body that ages
by the tremors of bed-top procrastination
and the eyeball tempering from new age screens
that possess a universal access to everything.

-j .NG 

161: Castle in the Sky

There’s a castle in the sky
resting on the clouds
the flag always on the rise
fluttering in merry song.

The guards before the gates
they always permit me through
into empty halls and fluffy chambers
and quiet dining rooms.

Guests come when I invite them
wide-eyed they embrace the view
They exclaim my praises in excited tones
And in bewilderment leave in twos.

“He doesn’t live there!” they whisper together
gossiping in hushed tones
They eye me fingering my holes in dress
as I travel to a shack of a home.

I pay for this hole
and rummage in quiet alley bars.
I live off the street and hunger at night
without the sight of stars.

Yet though my purse is light
I’m glad of one blessed thing
Freedom’s cheap if all you give up
is a castle where loneliness reigns.
-j. NG

160: There should be more than this


Outside the rain splatters
in suicidal death bombs
muted, invisible craters
of lifejuice on black concrete.


“Surely”, I think, from the shelter of
a blazing corner store cafe,
“There is more to existing than this.”


A bearded astronomer peers at the sky –
Later in the day points at a milky galaxy –
On map, in class and with
purpled exhausted eyes excitedly states:
“There is more to space – than this.”


A boy I imagine flew in blimps in the country
with his father at helm pointing out the short skies
and feeling like he’s funnelled into a coffin
taps at a turtle-shelled curelean hardcover
that he bought with Christmas money –
it says but he bought it for the pictures
and as he floats with the clouds and in a rainbow missile
he confirms at the sight of a wide lake
“There is more to this world than this.”


Rancid, rough coffee
not even black but caramel brown,
vanilla flavored with the supposed hint of hazelnut
sits in a cup with a patterned leaf drifting atop
the concoction whose brother is tattooed with instead
a lantern for an Eastern New Year.
Both cups are on the table of wrinkled hands
and a woollen cocooned pair of squinting eyes
both transfixed on agents of SAMSUNG and an apple.
The world even for the old
has come to this.


When the rain subsides
(as it does)
thoughts wrought by storm
does by drying daylight
(leaving no trace)

-j. NG

159: Haunched Shoulders

I think I oftentimes wonder
about how it is that I’ve gotten here
waiting for your return
watching out the window
waltzing to the door
whenever you appear home.

When you swing open that portal
I even greet you with fanfare,
to the best of my ability.
I’m always wearing my best coat too,
not one that you’ve given me
but the one I’ve had since we met.

I admit I’m not always at my best,
oftentimes I pout but that’s just me
pining for you – if you would only
stay home more, keep me closer
then we wouldn’t have to play
this game of cat and mouse.

And is it my fault that you so often
have company, men unlike you who
treat me just like plaything,
touching me where they please,
eyeing me from across the room,
calling me over as if I were a dog?

Somewhere along the line we all got
it wrong – you help me live but take
my children away, you take us off
the streets and just as quick leave us.
I’ve learned to purr and cry like a child
for you to notice me. Meow.

-j. NG

158: Sleep

On a poetic roll today, been pretty depressed but the source was pretty much that I had been corking up my writing. Or maybe this is the resolution of the depression, or the… thing that’s made alongside of a chemical reaction. Whatever. Anyway, there should be 3 poems in total today, but if you read any of them, I think you should read 157: Bedside Letter. Regardless, this one’s called Sleep, but most of the time my titles… come after, and without much thought. 


O how glorious it is for a man to have a space
A place where he may unmolested
Rest under the cover of darkness
And un-irritated, unthreatened
Let his lingering eyelids flutter
Before shutting still in slumber.

O how wonderful the man is too
Who can traipse through a field
And being unafraid lay his head upon a stone
With the stars as his canopy
The lights his patterned blanket
The wind his warmth and the owl’s cuckoo
His lullaby.

Yet tremendous is it also the
Man who walks free
With all his liberties and padded boots
Unashamedly changing his shelters
Restless under one roof
Grey-eyed under the sunniest of same-scenery
The man who walks, flies, travels free
Sates his own necessities.

O how freeing it is to have peace!

-j. NG

157: Bedside Letter

My darling, how could you have sinned against me thus?
I forgive you for the vehicle that
collided with you and sent you from
Wife to dust
into a lifeless doll, a bag of bones
The unclosing eyes, the sudden fire
Then naught.
Our children will cry and their ache will be different from mine
For though I have loved you longer
They will be bereft of you for a lifetime.
Yet I do not blame you for that.

No, I do not blame the driver neither
For how could he have obeyed the law
On everyday except for this?
No, the sin is that you have left me here
Amongst the sycophants and that you
Past two seas have died
And I will die here,
Caring for a son and daughter who will care for
A heartbroken man but they know not
That I am already dying.

I have no longer the strength to raise my pen
For in a wicked twist of the stars aligning
In a wicked knot
It untangled so that I fell
Into a room with a machine and graph bleeping
Counting down my time until I heard about you
How they buried you across two seas
And I know that they will bury me
Here, in our forsaken church’s cemetery.

Irony, I suppose it’s not since we betrayed the heavens
But even in earth our souls are separate
Have you forgotten our promise?
From the trees that grow
Our roots were to entwine and once again
Past death we were to embrace close.
Our birds would sing the same songs
Perch on your branch equally mine
We never had our own house but
We had planned to have a tree.
That is how you have betrayed me.

Our children are too young to understand
But soon they will have new mothers and fathers
My thoughts turn away from them
As theirs will too from me, inevitably.
The only fate we have to work against
Is our clinging from my finger to yours.
Perhaps a pelican
Or an imported, caged beast will bring
Your scent to me or my strength to you
It will be once again an earth-long courtship
And here I will still love you, even across two seas.

-j. NG

This was highly influenced by my favorite poem by John Donne, named ‘The Funeral’. I’ve loved that poem for years now, it is probably the poem that has inspired me to write the most. I didn’t realize the source of inspiration at the time of writing though.


I’d try to explain that my life is fine
except that it’d bore you.
If I open the news to page one or two
I’m going to thank the heavens that hell,
I’m healthy and that my freedom
is not being assaulted by a terrorist
or a foreign army.
If I turn to page four where the news with graphs
dollars and percentage signs are
then I’ll remember two things –
I’m neither broke nor rich
and that the struggle I imagine,
doesn’t really exist.

If I open a book I’ll be assaulted either with
words I can’t stand or words too inspiring,
overly sublime to the point that I can’t possibly keep reading.
If I read a few too many books I’ll eventually reach one
where I’m assaulted with sainthood and
the wrath of a changing, but static God
and if I read none and open up screens instead
I’ll become either the scum of the earth or witness
the cesspool of online bigotry running rampant.

I’m not a porn star, I can’t perform to that level.
I’m not a Hollywooder, a Footballer,
once in a while I can dress up and pretend
that I’m a celebrity wearing shades but quickly,
like one good album dissolving into the depths of
the same artists’ expression on another day
I’m forgotten, like winter clothes packed away
when the white fields evaporate.

I don’t stroke a poet’s book spine with a loving finger
I’ve too many to fondle, and many are opened and closed
with clicks and squints as maybe the words aren’t big enough
now too small – the white’s hurting my eyes
the black’s too sharp, I’ll go for Sepia but Word has an option
for Blue.

Some days I like to swear.
Some days I like to take issue with anybody who jostles me
or touches me on a subway train.
But every time I refrain from speaking out.
Culturally they’re different.
Intellectually they’re different.
Physically they’re different.
By luck and blessing they’re different.
Resist, racist, refrain, refrain.
Violence is never the answer.
Well – why the fuck not?

I guess one thing that I have going for me
is that I don’t like to drink, smoke
or strangely enough, despite how much I think about it,
get laid.
I have few vices, yet I can’t help but feel clamped
muscles freezing
and let sway me the feeling
to drift down to the drains.