Allen Qing Yuan

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 17, 2013

Allen Q. Yuan

Allen Qing Yuan, author of Traffic Light (2013), is a freshman of University of British Columbia in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Changming Yuan. Recently interviewed by Nostorvia!Poetry, Allen has poetry appear in Cordite Poetry Review, Istanbul Literary Review, Literary Review of Canada, MOBIUS, Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Scotland, Spillway, Taj Mahal Review, Two Thirds North and 69 other literary publications across 16 countries.


to defeat monsters, he has long since sacrificed his humanity

his heightened sense of vengeance bloats into a colossal skeleton
thick sinews and muscle strands of his frustration intertwine
outreaching like twilight as the sun sets behind great walls

his black hair flowing like crows flocking for food
his eyes glowing green of what was once the foolish innocence of adolescence
his derailed teeth expelling furious vapours between the cracks
his devilish ears pointing towards some secret in the western sky
his narrow brutish tongue spitting nothing but whims and revenge

and as he stomps and stomps, pounds and pounds
all his limbs into this entity he hates
with steam gushing out of the areas of contact
with disintegrating parts of his body blindly slamming into structures

his giant shape finally stumbles down, wondering
whether evil sheds tears inwardly



Foiled Fantasy

I got stuck on a plateau where I couldn’t stay
By the act of confabulation, where my ego was never fabricated

I was just a patch of uncertainties among godly confidence
Judging bad as righteous, or good as guilty

And they wouldn’t stop me; rather, they would keep trying
To turn me into a wicked distortion, a misrepresented shape
Of the gratefulness and the compassion
Long forgotten by humanity

I could feel my power growing by the hour
Yet I couldn’t make a change within or without my body
But I felt a re-setting in the future hidden by time
Inside, there was a big vault I could never unlock

Banging on the locks, shaking the shackles of my own chains
All of the lights, all of the lights beaming through my inner windows
And I was a monster carrying a fallen angel
As I ran away, gradually lost in the wild

A lost cause with a lost cause

And the blame of it all
Was a fantasy so fancily foiled



The Titans

Rampaging and desecrating the walls with the blood of those who built them
they turn all classes into livestock and consume them slowly, not for needs
but for pleasure

They destroy the homes where people felt comfortable
and they make sure no one is comforted

“Show me the money!” they declare; instantly
We see the blood on the money
We see that blood does not equate money
We see the blood of money

But what difference does it make when blood drips from your hands
Any witness would just see the colour of red and not the shades in between



Ventis: Wielder of the Philosopher’s Stone

Under the star-lit night sky
The boy picks up a petty pebble
Aims at a tree
And tosses it
The petty pebble weakly lands onto the dirt

The boy picks up a great rock
Aims at the menacing moon
And chucks it
The great rock heavily crashes over the tree

The bold white circle shoots a spotlight onto the boy
A young aspiring alchemist in the vast land of Aeria
Ventis gathers his belongings and turns back
To his hometown, where there is terrorizing fire

A civilization engulfed in its own creation
Only Ventis can save the day
With his created rock, a rock of creation

Running past the crowd
Ventis breaks onto the scene
With a clench of the Philosopher’s stone
The fire is dissipated and transformed into smoke

But from within the smoke,
A homunculus appears,
A creation not divine
A creation feared by God

But rocks have always been Ventis’ obsession
In his right hand he clenches a hard round rock
In the other he holds a smooth & slippery pebble

With magic the stones bend into weapons
Ventis fights and fights
And the homunculus falls and falls
Only to never rise again

He then reconstructs the fallen buildings
Making them bigger and better than before

After a rejuvenating night’s sleep
Ventis awakens to another fine day

Venturing back out to his usual spot by the river,
Ventis reaches into his plush pockets
For the special rock
For which is not there

No matter: he will create it again
Just like how he created homes,
How he created dreams,
How he created his name

The wind picks up the words and carries them away

Under the sun-lit blue sky
The boy throws the pebble
The boy chucks the rock

The common one falls into the strong tide
While the right one makes it to the other side

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