experimentality

2012-01-17T20:05:00.001+08:00

Keep biting

They keep biting

Swell before you know it

Thick, blood up to your brow

Arms wide as if

Somehow it would redeem you

Not i, not i,

Little man on a train

No railroads left to travel on

No buildings left to smell the old smell

Concrete kisses in the dark

Just an alabaster tower

Lock yourself in, and never question why

Keep biting

They keep biting

Little mosquitoes

Let them breed in your skull

It’ll start all over again, if we’re not careful.

Better to let the blood rise.

Full moon. Did you see

The eclipse?

Red marble, like a dead eye you could pluck

Right out of the sky

Roll it in your thumb

Pop it in your mouth and chew.

2009-10-03T11:27:00.002+08:00

Conversation

well, hello.
i didn't expect to see you here.
i thought you liked surprises?
i hate them.
ah. well, tough luck.
i thought you left.
i did.
i meant the country.
i did.
oh. why'd you come back?
why do you care?
humour me.
hmph. i didn't expect to see you here.
i know you hate surprises.
i do.
tough luck.
it didn't work.
pardon?
i came back because it didn't work.
it didn't? really?
yes.
what a shame.
don't say that.
why?
you don't mean it.
true.
four years isn't a very long time.
true.
i used to sit on that old couch, remember? the one with the coffee stain across the back. Always up in the morning before you were, when the sun was still a distant possibility, and the kitchen smelled clean. i used to sit on that old couch, and dream of so many things. i thought if i were given the chance, i would leave. i would make it work. i would find them all, one by one, and i would take them. they would be mine, my dreams, and i would feed them, and hold them, and keep them warm. keep them safe. we were so young, once, weren't we. so many things. countless roads.
i miss that couch.
i miss it too.
i remember how mad you were when i spilt the coffee.
you were being an idiot.
i know.
you still are.
i know.
what were you thinking! climbing over the couch like that?
i wasn't thinking. wasn't that obvious?
well at least it was old.
it was.
it wouldn't have lasted.
it did, actually, despite the stain.
did it?
i gave it back.
oh.
they're still using it today, i think.
that's wonderful.
don't say that.
why?
you don't mean it.
true.
you didn't have to come back, you know, even if it didn't work. you had a place there, a job.
you know why i left.
yes.
then you know those meant nothing to me.
i know you could have stayed.
yes.
then why come back? why here?
you always were the curious one.
four years isn't a very long time.
i suppose.
some things never change.
do you remember the route we used to take? 6:55 on the first that came and then straight to the heart of the city- we were unstoppable. you always were the curious one. the people watcher. i remember looking out grey windows and watching the horizon give birth to the sun, and you would watch me, sometimes- but usually it was them you paid attention to; the morning shifters, the early birds, the mothers with groceries, the fathers in suits. you watched them like a hawk. no, that isn't quite right... you watched them like a child; always wondering who they were, really. always trying to figure them out. except for that one fellow, remember? we could never place him. always there, always quiet, well dressed, a sad smile on his face. he never seemed to be going anywhere, never seemed to be following a schedule or a time frame of any sort. we would talk about him and wonder. i remember, along his wrist there was a thin band of pale skin, left untanned, where once there must have been a watch. i remember he would always be looking out the window, like me. but he would be there in the morning. and he would be there when we returned- it was almost as if he was just part of the route. i remember, over time, everything changed in little ways. mother's grew older, fathers changed ties, the driver's traded shifts. only he remained, always, quiet and well dressed, looking out the window at 6:55 on the first that came and straight through the heart of the city.
he's still there.
is he?
the tan line on his wrist is gone now.
i can't say i'm surprised.
other than that, he hasn't changed.
i wonder what his name was. i think i might actually have been a little sad if he had left.
really?
yes. i would have.
i'm surprised.
really?
yes. i thought you put everything behind you, after that day.
i did.
did you?
i tried.
i know.
and you?
sorry?
what about you? how did you...manage.
i didn't.
you didn't?
not very well, at least.
i'm sorry to hear that.
don't say that.
why?
you don't mean it.
true.
you were happy. and to be honest, it was enough. for a time.
you're wrong there.
am i?
i was content. not happy.
it's not the same thing?
it's not the same thing.
and how long did it take you to learn that?
four years is a very long time.
is it.
it is. i remember the smells the most. there was something gentle about it, how he smelled like earth after the rain. he used to hold me by the waist and stroke the ends of my hair back behind my ear, the same way you did, once. i hated it. i remember the way he made love to me, like there was nothing on earth that mattered more than me and the world was a dream and the sky was a blanket and the simple flesh that kept us apart was nothing, nothing at all. or i think i remember. yes, that was how it was. or perhaps these are just words. i do not know. but i do remember the smells. wet gravel and coffee. the damp wood. the earth, after the rains.
you always smelled of that tea you so loved.
did i?
camomile.
ah, yes.
with a hint of peppermint.
sometimes honey.
yes.
you remember.
of course i do.
you never liked tea.
i liked the smell.
you liked hot chocolate.
ah, yes.
with cream.
and marshmallows if possible.
yes.
you remember.
of course i do.
you would make it for me, sometimes, in the morning, and something small for yourself before you went back to that old couch. a sandwich, perhaps.
i would.
yes. four years is a long time.
very.
i think i know why you're here.
oh?
i know why you came back.
do you?
yes. but you won't admit it will you?
you know i never will.
i do. it's terrible.
don't say that.
why?
you don't mean it.
true. yes, true. i don't.

2009-04-28T13:18:00.003+08:00

They fall like missiles,
leaving craters, in their own style,
tiny explosions of grey, too
fast to catch.

It made me remember my birthday.

The warm bed and bare skin.
We were our own blankets.

Outside, the voice of god thundered
terrible things,
but we sat on the floor and ate pasta.

That was before everything, of course.

Now, smoke trails
have replaced the bubbles you blew.
When I am finished,
I will flick the cigarette into the rain,
and watch the sparks dissolve.

2009-04-28T12:33:00.002+08:00

You bite-nail heroin bleeder
you blank-stare nothing reader
you cold commuter
you careless dress and dirty laundry thrower
you over-sleeper
you fear-not-authority hoarder
you unmasked marauder
you, always vodka, never water,
you gatecrasher, party hopper
you tall-tale teller
you flirt-seller
you of the never never
you of the ever pleasure
you bad habit, you.

2009-04-24T16:01:00.001+08:00

You were a cheap fuck
with bones like dagger hilts.

You wrote love on my skin with
poisoned saliva.

It took me two years to learn how to touch again.

Bitch.

Maybe if I make you wet enough, one stormy day,
I'll shove a lightning rod in your socket
and watch you hate me,
from behind blue flames.

2009-04-21T14:44:00.001+08:00

Sex

She looks over his shoulder
at the ceiling fan, as he
grunts his love like a man now,
all grown up.
It's dirty, she thinks,
and adds fan blades to her mental list of
things to clean up, afterwards.

2009-03-30T09:42:00.001+08:00

I didn't think you'd call.

It wouldn't be the first time you were wrong.

no, it wouldn't, would it.

No it wouldn't.

Hello.

So. Did you hear?

What?

You haven't.

Heard what.

I really didn't want to contact you.

What a relief.

How long has it been?

How long has what been?

Us.

what us.

Not us then. We haven't really been...well.

what we?

Fine. I haven't heard from you in long time.

Leave it at that.

I'm beginning to wish I had.

Don't say that.

Why?

You don't mean it.

True.

Bitterness doesn't suit you.

True.

So. How've you been? Four years is a long time.

Yes, It is, isn't it.

Yes, it is.

I've been alright

kids?

They're fine.

I heard rumours.

They're all true.

And they're fine, you say?

Yes. They're perfectly happy.

That's wonderful.

Yes.

And you?

Me?

yes. You.

what about me?.

are you happy?

What sort of question is that?

Well I certainly hope you are.

Don't say that.

Why?

You don't mean it.

How would you know?

Four years isn't a very long time.

It wouldn't be the first time you were right, I suppose.

It wouldn't, would it.

2009-02-06T08:56:00.003+08:00

Let me find you in the early hours, before the world wakes.
Not after the moon has set,
and the harsh and the wish have met,
when dreams are easiest to forget.
Let me find you in the early hours,
before the world wakes,
and I will teach your heavy eyes to see the magic of the dark.

2008-12-27T22:32:00.000+08:00

2008-12-04T22:43:00.000+08:00

Three Minutes

three minutes.

that’s it?

tough luck.

four.

don’t push it.

four or no deal.

you’re pushing it.

i’m a realist.

you’re a joke. four minutes.

thank you.

shut up.

three minutes.

wonderful.

is it enough?

more than enough.

good. here, take the towel.

no blood?

no blood.

why?

less mess. does it matter?

no. don’t worry, i’ll shut him up.

thank you.

three minutes.

fuck you.

watch your tongue, boy.

or what?

i’ll rip it out.

bastard.

i said watch it.

you wouldn’t dare.

watch me.

three minutes?

less.

goddamn it.

you’ll thank me one day.

fuck you.

shut up and do it.

three minutes.

i know.

time’s running out.

i said i know.

you’re sweating.

yes.

would you like a towel?

shut up.

you’re pathetic.

i said shut up.

here. take it.

thank you.

three minutes.

no.

don’t worry.

please.

three minutes. i promise.

you’ll be safe?

yes.

you’ll come back?

yes i will, the moment-

shush. listen. just come back, you understand?

yes.

now go. just, go.

thank you.

three minutes.

impossible.

sorry, can’t be helped.

i can’t. it’s impossible.

i could help.

you’re bloody useless.

i said i could help.

i said i don’t want your help.

bloody stubborn.

i’m sweating.

towel?

no thank you.

i really could help.

just shut up.

three minutes.

you’re joking.

i’m a realist.

four.

this isn’t a game.

i’m not playing. four minutes.

no.

four minutes. i promise, the moment-

three.

dammit, look, it isn’t-

two.

what? wait, no. wait.

one.

no. please. i’m not-.

time’s up.

2008-12-03T00:43:00.006+08:00

Did you ever really look at her?

No. Now that you mention it. No, I don’t suppose I ever did.

What do you think she would’ve been like?

What I expected? I don’t know. Someone different I suppose. Quite different.

Beautiful?

Simple. Someone easier to love, perhaps. Someone I could trust.

Pure fantasy.

You think so?

Of course. You’re telling me what you wanted to see, not what you really expected of her.

Am I? Well, I suppose you’re right. I’d always thought she’d eventually prove to be something somewhat breathtaking, on the inside. Like a pearl in an oyster.

An oyster. Fancy that.

You get what I mean.

I've never thought of her as a crustacean.

I didn't quite-

And pearls. You would love a pearl?

I realize it’s not the best-

Pearls are cold, hard. Very expensive.

Yes yes alright. Not a pearl. Something else then. Something softer...contained within a disagreeable exterior.

Nothing wrong in loving a pearl though. Why did you marry her, in the end?

I thought I wanted to.

You gave her pearls did you?

Why do you ask?

Did you?

A necklace.

Really?

And a bracelet.

She’s very pretty.

I know.

Did she take them with her?

Take what?

The necklace. And the bracelet.

No, no. She doesn’t like pearls.

Did she like you?

Did she like you?

She did.

You’re certain?

Fairly.

You’re rotten.

I’m different.

I think she hated me, really. Couldn’t bear looking at me looking at her. With adoring eyes. An artist's eyes, she said. The way she tried to avoid me sometimes. Small things. Looking up from a book, or meeting me at the door. Something in my gaze repelled hers. I brushed it off as insignificant, of course, but I was blind, then. She was always looking at me looking back at her. Artist's eyes.

You never really looked at her then.

No. Now that you mention it. No, I don’t suppose I ever will.

Pity. Did she ever see you?

Yes. Oh yes. Acutely.

She's a sharp one isn't she.

Very.

She hasn’t changed.

Good to hear, good to hear.

Do you love her?

Do you love her?

Yes.

You’re certain?

Fairly.

You’re rotten.

I wouldn’t know.

2008-11-25T23:27:00.004+08:00

2008-11-14T23:02:00.001+08:00

2008-10-29T22:13:00.000+08:00

2008-10-27T22:28:00.002+08:00

2008-10-27T22:28:00.001+08:00

Crooked and bent,
he keeps the key in his pocket
and never takes it out
for any reason.

A silver locket
dangles from his neck as he moves about.
The seasons
turn without event.

you can do nothing.

2008-10-10T13:00:00.019+08:00

One day, the Keyboard, the Typewriter and the Pencil had a little argument:
Each one believed that he was the best medium for telling a story, and that the other two were not.

"Might I remind you," said the Keyboard, "that I have a backspace button? I give the writer instantaneous correcting ability!"

"And might I remind you," cried the Typewriter, "that I carry with me an ever-constant air of romance? Any writer who uses me is sure to be inspired!"

"I don't suppose," whined the pencil, "anyone realizes that I've been around for centuries? Since the dawn of time, Mankind has used me to write wonderful, fantastical stories. Me, me, me!"

The issue appeared to be quite irresolvable.

Luckily for them, they were all owned by a gentle, old man who loved making up stories to tell his grandchildren.

That day, the old man sat in front of the family computer and began to type with the Keyboard.

At first, everything went splendidly- but then, as time dragged on, the old man found himself less and less satisfied with his work. He would stop after each line, frown, then erase it again with the Backspace button. No matter what he wrote, there always seemed to be a better way of phrasing it.

Finally, in frustration, the old man gave up.

Next, the old man turned to the Typewriter.

The Typewriter's springs sprang to life, clicking and whirring and whizzing with pleasure. The old man was pleased with what he wrote. In fact, he was so pleased that his story began to unravel- it became frivolous and weak. The old man stopped himself. He realized that he had been so entranced by the act of writing, that what he wrote had become less and less important- and that simply wouldn't do.

Then, the old man picked up the small wooden Pencil and began to write.

In an elegant, cursive hand, the old man wrote his story- but as time passed, the Pencil grew blunt and a little too dull for his liking. Eventually, the old man found himself unable to write anything at all! The old man searched high and low, but alas, he simply couldn't find a sharpener- and so he had no choice but to leave the Pencil where it lay, next to the Keyboard and the Typewriter. It all seemed a rather hopeless business.

Wordlessly, the old man turned around, sat himself in the rocking chair by the fire, and went straight to sleep.

When the children arrived that evening, swarming over the furniture, the old man awoke with a glint in his eye. He gathered the little souls about him and, with a voice that was smoldering and rich and wizened with age, began to tell them a story.

From the tabletop, the Keyboard and the Typewriter and the Pencil looked on; they looked upon the faces of the children, enraptured and glowing in the firelight, and they looked upon the face old man whose voice was like gravel swirling about the bottom of a pail, magical and alluring.

The Story was told, and told well, and the three contestants knew their argument senseless: for all their good, the Story was its own master, and the medium mattered little.

Huddled together in the dark, the children listened quietly. The tale and its teller weaved deep into the night. Troubles, both old and new, were swept away by the rumble of the old man's voice, and were forgotten. The Keyboard, the Typewriter and the Pencil were forgotten. For the here and now, there was only the Story, shifting and dancing in the soft firelight. And that was all.

2008-10-10T12:41:00.002+08:00

"My grandpa sells condoms to sailors,
He punctures the tips with a pin,
My grandma does back-street abortions,
My God how the money rolls in."

~ The Monarch of the Glen

Sung to the tune of My Bonnie lies Over the Ocean

2008-10-09T17:18:00.007+08:00

At first he thought perhaps he had finally fallen asleep- after almost three nights of lying restlessly in bed, stiff and heavy; drifting on the edges of dream like a waterlogged plank. Still, the blanket clung to him, frightened and useless and terribly real. His toes and fingertips were cold. Outside, a dog mocked him with shrill, distant yelps.

When he could no longer deny that he was wide awake, he tried to tell himself it was merely the light- a car's headlights maybe, playing with the darkness and the shadows. That happened, sometimes. Punch would chase Judy across the room; two dark shapes traversing the walls. It always ended the same way. After a time, they would simply smash into the floor and melt away into the darkness.

But these shadows were different. For a start, they were dancing.

Literally, the shadows had detached themselves from the night and were dancing across the ceiling. And not just the ceiling, but the walls as well; distended fairy-shapes, twirling and spinning, leaping and diving, running and sliding and falling into each others arms in a wild, merry, festive manner.

A soft glow crept slowly into the room. He could see them clearly now; some waltzed in slow, steady circles- others tumbled about with glee; miniature acrobats swinging from wardrobe to lampshade then back again. Their outlines were sharp and distinct in the pale moonlight.

For the fourth time that week, he did not sleep a wink.

2008-10-09T15:26:00.004+08:00

She found the poor thing lying by the roadside. It was stiff from the cold, and quite dead.

Even in death, the little creature was oddly beautiful; its delicate plumage was a complex weave of shimmering green and bright red, almost pink, and its talons were sleek and black. The eyes were closed, but with a little effort, she could almost imagine its sharp, piercing gaze following her about again.

She remembered how they used to hook themselves into her back when she tidied the house, in the old days, when she still had a home. She remembered that gaze well. She couldn't really remember her home.

Stooping down, she lifted the small bird in her hands, and cradled it to her bosom. She carried it back the way she came; past the ditch with the mouldy half-eaten apple, past the streetlamp with the abandoned umbrella, past the brick wall with the old bundle of rags heaped against it. She shuffled as she walked, slowly, deliberately, almost like a funeral march.

No one will tell you who she is, or where she comes from. No one knows why she holds the dead bird in her hands. She will bury its body far from the roadside, in a glen, perhaps, or a field somewhere where the earth is soft and the world is merciful. She will bury her memories with it, if she can.

2008-10-07T12:53:00.011+08:00

"You're all the world to me"

Worlds

It must be very hard
to be a bubble in a goldfish bowl
always being tossed about
by strange fish
mistaken for food
as you rise to the surface

It must be very odd
to be a goldfish in a glass bubble
bumping your nose against
nothing at all
fed by strange shapes
that appear
peer
and disappear

It must be very easy
to be a person
neither bubble nor fish
you need not fear
exploding at a touch
or hitting things you can't see
being eaten by mistake
or going hungry and forgotten
you will not be hunted down
by strange things
that peer at you with greedy eyes
and feast upon your feasting
or your flight

you will not be missed

you will remain outside the goldfish bowl
outside the glass bubble and the world of strange hungers

you will be free to go wherever you wish and do whatever you please

but consider:
Though it must be very hard to be a bubble
and very odd to be a fish
and very easy to be neither

it must be horrific
to be a world

2008-10-05T20:50:00.003+08:00

essential
-
truthful
....................................................................................
truthful
-
essential
.

2008-09-30T22:44:00.000+08:00

Award Ceremony

In the morning bright and gay

The happy sounds of everyday

Begin to fill the empty square

As soldiers start to gather there:

Their trumpets blow a fanfare bright!

Like roosters at the break of light!

And all the faces that I see

Begin to grin so JOYOUSLY,

So full of PASSION, COURAGE and

DELIGHT- they do deserve a hand!

(Despite the way they live their lives-

Besides, it comes as no surprise

That people living in this state

Are happy just to masturbate!)

But who am I to stop and stare

At happy roosters in a square!

Who strut about without a care

And cock-a-doodle everywhere!

I’m just a lonely little boy

Who doesn’t know the PRIDE and JOY

Of fighting for our wondrous nation

(And joining in the masturbation.)

2008-09-26T00:17:00.001+08:00

The War is fought here,

With bitter laughter and tense phone conversations.

Vehicles of Battle:

One plush, black Sofa. Five or six Swiveling Chairs.

Surveying the carnage,

A haggard old clock, battered by one too many hateful glares,

hangs its head in resignation.

The Casualty List

Sits heavily on the White Board, brooding.

The War is fought here.

This is true.

The Battle is of our own making.

2008-09-26T00:16:00.000+08:00

Sanctuary

......................................................................................

The first thing you would notice would be the walls.

Even from afar there was no denying the pallid, pasty hue of ‘Army Building’- it was the unmistakable shade of every other unimaginative building ever constructed for the sake of National Defense.

Everything was bleached a dull, neutral beige- with the occasional sheen of lifeless Green or unsaturated Red (read: a faded, unhealthy looking pink) to mark office sections- it all seemed severely institutional.

Still, from inside, regarding the camp from an architectural point of view was a confusing business; whoever designed the place (probably the same person who designed the buildings in Tekong) had taken the blueprints of a HDB flat, a Prison and an Asylum- and somehow fused them all together into one great, monstrous hybrid.

It was obviously built to function efficiently as any one of the three.

A cheery looking steel fence, fashionably wreathed with a barbed wire-mesh, surrounded the Courtyard (for that was indeed what it was) A massive, flat, unwelcoming Courtyard made of hard, angry bricks.

Encircling the space- trapping it, boxing it in- were a series of gaunt, tired buildings. They stood shoulder to shoulder, rigidly, not allowing even for the slightest gap. Each, in their turn, rose imposingly, for about six stories, before stopping abruptly. There didn’t seem to be roofs or tiles or fixtures of any kind. They simply... ceased, as if once upon a time, they had been great, looming buildings; towering structures that had somehow been amputated- or beheaded- to preserve uniformity.

The doors were another sight to see; a myriad of grainy blues and blacks. They were all heavily grilled, with iron padlocks. You could have been looking down at a couple of second rate barbecue pits. It was a burglar’s nightmare.

Another, and perhaps the most intriguing thing to note, would be that none of the windows faced out. All of them were constructed to face inwards; blank, empty grey eyes that stared at each other from across the Courtyard. It was an introspective existence, a society that walled itself in; a modern-day Atlantis where the ‘Surface World’ was a distant dream- something that people treated as speculation rather than certainty. People were afraid of an Out There being real, being even possible. There would be Hope then, and that would be insufferable.

People here know that Hope is the enemy.

It is much easier to survive, to endure, without it.

For them, there is only the Camp, with its fences; the Courtyard, with its buildings; the Walls, with their locked doors and shuttered windows. Nothing else can be allowed to exist.

This is all there is, they repeat to themselves, in the night.

This is all there is. This is all there is. This is all there is.

..............................................................................

2008-09-24T23:53:00.002+08:00

There's a spider,
spinning a fragile web at the back of my throat,
silver threads laced with
droplets of poison.

2008-09-11T00:37:00.001+08:00

lips. same lips.

a tongue with bumps like braille on blind fingertips.
sometimes it speaks with a voice like a blanket
washed till the color has faded,
and the words are caged animals.

2008-09-09T02:34:00.001+08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GojP4Fe2OlI&feature=related

2008-09-08T22:03:00.001+08:00

idea

2008-09-04T02:54:00.000+08:00

The Harrad experiment
.
.
.
Little man, little man, won’t you come in?
There’s a fire burning here,
You’re looking awful thin.
Little man, little man, won’t you stay warm?
There’s nothing in the night tonight
There’s nothing but a storm.
Little man, little man, come home, quick!
There isn’t any light left
It’s all a dirty trick; it’s all a dirty trick.

2008-08-23T01:30:00.002+08:00

head shot

2008-08-23T00:34:00.006+08:00

he reached for the scissors, tenderly lifting it to his breast as if he were carrying a small child. the unforgiving morning light filled the room like a slow certainty, pushing past the flimsy curtains and gently making love to everything; the floor, the tiles, the barren piano in its corner, the table with its sheets, the man, sitting there with his scissors, unspeaking. he closed his eyes. more like blood welling in the brain, he thought. that was what it felt like. blood, leaking into the back of his head.

he lurched to his feet, heavily, and drove the closed blade deep into the desk before him. the wood splintered and shuddered. papers and pencils hurriedly slid off the surface, seeking refuge closer to the ground. the air settled. he waited for his breathing to slow- a patient man observing a train, heavy with cargo, churning and grinding to a halt on the tracks, allowing him to step on board. he opened his eyes, tentatively, and looked down. his palm was bleeding.

odd, he thought. after all, he hadn’t felt a thing. the deep gash swelled with a dark red that spread along the thin lines of his palm. he imagined droplets of dew dripping down the strands of a spider’s web.

solemn and subdued, the piano eyed him from its corner.

2008-08-15T00:04:00.001+08:00

severing all connection,

he crouched like a prayer in a fat sack;

goggle-eyed plea of

girth and thirty years hanging off

his shirt, leering back

at his fizzy reflection.

2008-08-07T15:58:00.001+08:00

you cannot see them by the day

you cannot hear the things they say

you will not see them side by side

not even if you really tried

you’ll never hear them talk too loud

or see them mingle in a crowd

you’ll never hear them share a laugh

or catch their glances cut in half

you never saw them, never will

not even if you stared until

your eyes popped out- you still wont see

a thing out of the ordinary.

2008-08-04T17:18:00.000+08:00

2008-08-04T17:03:00.001+08:00

the pre-ghost of a drink sits

quietly on the table.

slowly, flirting, society fills

their seats, but i converse well with the corner.

my hat and jacket fend them off,

and label me invisible.

candle flames flicker in

the freezing breath of air-conditioning,

telling me, they empathize.

i manage a feeble thank you.

2008-07-28T19:43:00.002+08:00

she was a picture of false bluster, a rippling of plastic flesh, with pearls that pulsed alongside porcelain teeth and crippled cheeks. she carried a doll’s cleavage, like a gun. she tried to smile a wall into existence, but the news was a wedge forced between the cracks of her face, looking for the tide that was crushed beneath it.

you can never let things go completely. never completely. nothing is ever reversible. what we do, remains, forever, ingrained and unforgiving. and forevermore they will resurface, again and again, to stand in the corner of the room with closed eyes and silent lips.

for several moments, she carried the false intensity of eyes that stop where the mind begins.

she swore she could feel a heart inside her, buried deep, somewhere unreachable, inside her,

ticking away.

2008-07-28T13:48:00.001+08:00

relationships: aspects (2)

2008-07-22T11:06:00.001+08:00

Disha

2008-07-16T12:12:00.002+08:00

"you work as a photographer you find out real quick: people's faces lie"

~ Jeff, Hard Candy

2008-07-14T11:50:00.000+08:00

Ning

2008-07-13T22:58:00.001+08:00

Divya

2008-07-08T22:40:00.001+08:00

2008-07-08T00:21:00.001+08:00

hope

2008-07-05T23:02:00.001+08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmR0V6s3NKk

2008-07-04T11:10:00.002+08:00

songwriting

2008-07-04T10:22:00.001+08:00

the kiss

(off-brancusi)

2008-07-04T09:57:00.001+08:00

relationships: aspects

2008-06-25T22:26:00.000+08:00

i catch the sister-roar beneath witch-black;

two bowls of night-black: laced-milk of weekend,

pin-cushion love and the wet, waiting dart.

letter-supple, mood, and almost-wet drag, sharp,

trailing swing, stick-tip in sand-like.

arc begging hand, but for the glint-hint, i remain Tantalus.

he makes for the moon-

and almost.

almost.

2008-06-19T12:10:00.002+08:00

let the shoulder-borne eclipse refuse me

i shall not flinch

i walk along the mid-tide aisle

a foreign voice rises, dripping with moon

i cannot look

her droplets hiss as they hit the sand

congo drum like black wing beating

i dare not hunger

one face lies behind another

order thorn and urchin bite me

i shall not yield

till i have fixed the sky.

2008-06-17T00:31:00.001+08:00

Universities -- well look i'm sorry if i suck at selling myself okay?

2008-06-11T21:51:00.003+08:00

Miss Havisham

reptilian eye
complimenting stretch of skin, barely recognizable neck-
like an iguana’s thigh

gaseous laughter, scratching thin air in chalkboard wheezes,
forced from a gullet
putrid gullet
sand and weary geyser.

breath a fermenting echo, the musk
of something once beautiful; rags of a pale dress
on the ground, collapsing into its own dust.

reptilian eye, eyeing cards someone else is dealt.

2008-05-20T14:55:00.001+08:00

2008-05-13T11:40:00.003+08:00

everything is illuminated

2008-05-13T10:52:00.002+08:00

hey, mr curiosity

2008-05-02T12:47:00.003+08:00

i do not begin immediately.
i am not dawn.
i will take my time to plaster myself upon the world.
.
.
consciousness breaks, like water
and now the birth pains
are my lids and lips; slowly becoming sticky-notes
meshed on angry, unfinished essays.
someone else’s unfinished essays.
they rub against my papier-mâché eyes and my ink-sodden tongue with
something akin to relish,
and enjoy the friction of temporal attachment.
.
expand, and i feel the sand of my face
shifting, shifting, with the liquid light; currents of sun
that flow through the curtains i know are above me
seeping into my shore.
.
tiny feet scour my cheeks for shells
and i dare not move for fear
of earthquaking her to never was.
.
contract. nesting deep in the throat, an injured bird breathes slow and painful.
.
i try to start.
thoughts coil like infuriating headphone wires
and the dreamlessness of my sleep hours mock me.
‘this is what you left us for? you silly, silly child!’
and i look at them like i would at a once-lover.
.
my words are beaten prisoners, with no more juice in them.
are these what i shall use, to find her eyes in the glare of my hand phone?
.
no.
.
perhaps i shall not plaster after all.
for now, i say to myself,
let this be a stillbirth.

2008-04-27T15:34:00.001+08:00

“I am happy; I knew I would be happy one day. But I am not wise. For the wise thing now would be to let go, at this instant of happiness. And what do I do? I go back again to the light...”

“...but in the end she would have stopped, saying, I have done all I can do. But she would not have done all she could have done. But the moment comes when one desists, because it is the wisest thing to do, discouraged, but not to the extent of undoing all that has been done.”

two beautiful extracts, from Malone Dies.

these are the poles, aren’t they.

2008-04-15T12:49:00.001+08:00

2008-04-15T12:28:00.001+08:00

2008-04-14T17:13:00.003+08:00

no more. no more drama. no more pain. no more baggage. tie the last knot, and move on.

i am tired.

2008-04-11T21:46:00.001+08:00

life

2008-04-11T09:48:00.000+08:00

bookshelf

2008-03-30T12:39:00.001+08:00

peekaboo

2008-03-30T12:32:00.001+08:00

portrait

2008-03-23T10:50:00.004+08:00

the stares of countless many

deflected by his face.

fleeting jabbawockee

here now, then, where.

2008-03-20T20:04:00.002+08:00

i've got this cloud above my head

i've been dreaming i've been dead

and not one nor dozen souls

could see the tears i shed

2008-03-08T20:15:00.001+08:00

"...because there is no better way of forgetting something than by commemorating it."

~Erwin, The History Boys

2008-03-06T15:46:00.002+08:00

though all is still

tinkle dust from point to point across the polish
toes tickle the dark
and little sparks start
awake, make a tap, wait, leap, slide
into white grin-studded spins;
a hide and seek of
fingers, knees, flying hair, shoulders, hips
and lips parting
eyes sprinkling
tinkle dust from point to point across the steady polish.

2008-02-23T18:24:00.001+08:00

sunrise

2008-02-23T18:20:00.000+08:00

2008-02-23T18:13:00.001+08:00

Regimentality

2008-02-22T19:39:00.003+08:00

standing in soft drizzle
growing to a slow
ponderous pour
.
.
.
fall the already broken half thought.
.
.
.
such impressions;
rings of our dregs remain
chained to the tabletop
.
.
.
heads bowed, all, in the same respect.
they struggle for the breath of rest.
.
.
.
marched they,
against bite and burning wind
under night that all about them
settled in its shadows bold;
seeping so from ground to tree,
from tree to man,
from man to tree again,
marched they, impotent infants.
.
.
.
i stood, poised, above passages in formless future, eye baked orange by harsh lamp, skin all chill, stood then, a wavering reed at high tide.
.
.
.
...still they persisted, stubborn without their knowing; prey to the wretched forces surrounding. expressing themselves, sludges of oil on water, in the hopes of catching time by the cuff, and reminding it of their presence still.
.
.
.
in packs of threes they prowl,
peripheral, ghostly in their
green attire, there then disappearing.
.
.
.
thrumming through the mass of men;
a morose, wry and morbid shiver.
.
.
.
grinning on the floor he lay,
sprawled in mocking injury.
laughed he as his brothers played
‘How to save a Casualty’
.
night and day they grew as men
and strongest of them all was he.
brave before the war began
was the Quebec Casualty.
.
now his brothers laugh no more.
slow they write his eulogy,
remembering how on the floor
once lay the grinning casualty.
.
.
.
as a coffin jolts and shudders
as its dead is borne away,
so a ferry from the harbor
bore a casualty today.
.
.
.
whipping tragedy off his brow,
in fiery globules he descends
and splatters on the fearful crowd
his stories of dead men.
.
.
.
the world opened grave,
sunken, as ancient jowls are sunken,
misty, as old eyes mist.
vivacity worn, now
all left is grey.
.
.
.
Dumbbell old, dumbbell strong,
a dumbbells acts are never wrong.
a dumbbells back will never break;
its strength is for its owner’s sake
and for its owner so it moves
up and down, and so improves
not itself but rather, he
who cannot hear a dumbbell’s pleas.
.
.
.
the wild dogs mock us
with visible ribs
and all the world to roam.
.
.
.
oh god. upon everything; the lights shed a smoldering crispiness. oh god.
.
.
.
everywhere,
the unceremonious blaring,
of the monosyllabic machine,
going left right left right left right left.
.
.
.
as a shroud-like descent of foggish fury,
so falls this taut, airborne bristling of senses-
phantom teeth bare themselves
in growling, unevolved unhappiness.
.
.
.
In company heart, so the festering seed of malice bleeds its stark and draining roots.
.
.
.
blotch against black, white wings all thrash and thirst struggle past cold sun, as upon horizon spread; a depression of lines that strike the boiling ocean’s overhead. all else swarms voracious.
light falters, pause,
night falls.
.
.
.
amidst static fireflies, dancing in their own beauteous aspect,
a circlet of ivory claims for itself
the vast impenetrable murk.
.
.
.
you cried for pain.
it heeded.
now cry in silence.
.
.
.
it sprays across my face
the marrow-chilling spittle
of a million cries combined.
.
.
.
and the still air stiffened, like a corpse, stretching taut, around and afar, about and above, washing over the men with a muted sobriety, a coldness, a deadness. as if all the music in the world had been cut away; decimated with relish.
.
.
.
their faces held no mark, no suspicion of the ultimate fate, the underlying end.
all were suspended, seemingly, disbelievingly, or at the very least unwillingly, to consider their function. their purpose.
so deflectively they sat, quite at peace with themselves, and the sight was indeed quite chilling;
as if one were standing in the rain, and looking down at the puddle before him,
and seeing not a ripple upon it.
.
.
.
and he was there to see it all at last the whole thing at last the vision of all the other whole things in the whole as a whole at last now as lights in blackness now grunts in silence and the spaces limitless oh spaces in and between them now sewing them together now cuffing them together into the whole thing at last the vision of the whole thing at last and he was there oh he was there to see it see it all.
.
.
.
wide smiling chair.
frowning bull locker.
.
.
.
set as if the spokes
of a wheel unwound,
meshed shadows of the men
carve the ochre ground.
.

2008-02-12T23:59:00.000+08:00

eyes look upon the flower,
and it is no longer a flower.
it has become, at once;
.
kisses in the dark, and swelling red lips,
like so many folds of a rose,
or is it flesh?
.
at once glove white petals, in the wind, falling all about
in kamikaze flight,
committing suicide on the pavement.
.
at once her hair, and the smell of sweet love
(which was Pantene and L'Oreal),
but with a hand-picked, light pink exotic,
in the bun now, resting, alien.
.
it is, at once, grandma,
smothered in hospital linen,
but happy, oh yes, quite happy, for the flowers! the flowers~
the flowers in the garden bright where the army ants raged up his invading leg,
and him begging, begging-
then the comforting fingertips of a girl in a floral dress,
soft, tremulous, oh loving, loving- but essentially nothing,
like a meaningless print on the back of a hastily bought valentine card,
as meaningless as an orchid on a dollar note, abused, like a true patriot-
claws in the air- for the bride has thrown the bouquet, presently, yes,
high up, thrown it out of sight, like that baseball, not soon forgotten, and the vase,
oh the vase! petal pandemonium that was,
falling like, like, American Beauty, in sweaty, sweaty desire-
wait, though, all play, of course, all play-
forgotten origami game, never played since 12 years young,
then the painting, in a clinic where he
cried and cried and cried and cried and wallpaper like with Gilman all yellow but flowery goading him as he sat inert but was in fact an ocean of deep soounding trouble,
walking in and out of dark dreams;
amongst smiles that followed lilies,
tulips, daffodils, lavenders, daisies,
and rose after rose after rose after-
.
it is, at once,
the edelweiss on a dead Nazi soldier,
clinging desperately to his chest,
as the last agreeable scent in the whole bloody affair.
.
.
.
eyes look upon the man.
and he is no longer a man.
he has become, at once.

2007-12-10T01:28:00.001+08:00

in stark, now, all bridges, crumpled;
their bones stare heapfully at me.
i have none the strength to heave them back
yet none the heart to leave them be.

2007-12-04T01:14:00.000+08:00

2007-12-04T01:01:00.000+08:00

2007-11-30T12:22:00.000+08:00

sharp words still
crawl across, moon spill, fill dark,
stretch marks, residue like satan falling, star falling,
snail juice, tracks tracks tracks,
blood bleeding bled, but not far crawling;
the scarring kisses off-shade,
moon spill, and fades into
dark once more,
the blinding,
a blinding- great eye shrieking
as hellish, half-sucked to clotting fuel,
this word shackled window grows fatter.

2007-11-17T20:05:00.001+08:00

how it should be

from dawn till pale dusk

a young girl was seen; bag hoisted over shoulder

and pacing the length of the beach,

bent double, eyes to the sand.

avidly picking shells.

night fell, and when asked to show which shells she had picked,

she opened her bag, to expose

hundreds, of crude, damaged, dirty, misshapen shells.

leaving them, she twirled back to shore

and stretched out her hands in glee

sweeping over all the thousands of glittering shells left

as if she owned them all.

‘isn’t it just so much the beautifuller!’

she exclaimed, smiling.

2007-11-17T20:05:00.000+08:00

desperately, she makes love;

toxic tongue and body yielding,

all curve, lapping generous,

swallowing what he has to offer.

clad in only fallen petals;

yellow, pink, green aftermath,

nothing else but scented salt

of sweaty desire.

she undulates and ripples,

sinking into while caressing,

melt without restraint and sting,

declaring herself: lover.

the sandy shore relents.

2007-11-17T07:36:00.001+08:00

private airs in a public space; social law of interweaving- we can abide but cannot understand.
the invisible thread that defies this:

cups in pentagram

single girl with Trump in hand; A Success Story.
partnered with black bag glamorous, louder than herself,
sipping juice- no spectacle.

gaunt man.
thoughts and coffee black,
leaning front, to stare intently at
the empty seat across him.

aging women,
careless dress- friends, probably.
both leaning back;
the animated right, mouth and lips, arms, fingers.
left just listening with latte.

boy in corner,
six, seventeen? no doubt student;
muted here i am too fucking busy to
be busy fucking, like i should be.
papers, pen and discontentment
even with the slurpy.
earphones keep him under.

lonely young woman
preoccupied with the
unoccupied seat, across her.
small, sad bites and a lifeless phone
she eyes, beside the tea.

then the cleaner, old, presuming
himself transparent;
rag, tray and can i clear the cup please.
all decline, distracted, absent.
but he clears up after them anyway-
juice, coffee, latte, smoothie, tea.

2007-11-16T00:32:00.000+08:00

the silvering hand in the mirror
is not mine.
both by sides, they have no business
yet assigned-
yet aligned with my remoteless eyes;
a silvering hand in the mirror.

2007-11-10T22:32:00.000+08:00

red sky in the morning,
sailor's warning.
red sky at night,
sailor's delight~

2007-11-10T00:51:00.000+08:00

flowers in the window

2007-11-01T21:49:00.001+08:00

with earth in hair we giddily go
through hollow trunk of fallen tree
over stones of moss and nettle
till in shadow, settle we

gracefully afloat on green
peeking past the canopy
noses nestling underbrush
rest we, gently, silently

2007-10-20T00:57:00.000+08:00

jazz so sinister

with a snazzy snare flaring

in puddled hurts

at back of an alabaster skull-

like a dripping heart.

like Hamm.

like each planet, each rock, each pause, each plop, each fucked

love

then like, again, like, heart again, drip

drip dripping drip

like a reverberate shriek

from tap half-turn-shut, but not quite-

so sinister it-

one. never quite notice. it, sly by.

2007-10-20T00:55:00.000+08:00

Text given Life, in self-afflicted second-person

we find in the void, in the absolute dark and dustiness of every voiceless try, the fantastic, mindless copulations of a hundred others before, and a hundred others to come, and then we try to find the best mates, the most sonorous pair, the perfect curve of thread in eye, each cancellation, defiance, and nothing meets nothing, finds nothing, in nothing, and dies there in the void, in the absolute dark and dustiness of every voiceless try, the fantastic, mindless copulations of hundreds before, and hundreds to come, and then we find the best mates, the most sonorous pair, the perfect curve of thread in eye, each cancellation, defiance, and nothing meets nothing, finds nothing, in nothing, and dies there in the void, in the dark and dustiness of every voiceless try, the mindless copulations of hundreds before and to come, and then we find the best, the most sonorous pair, the curve of thread in eye, each cancellation meets nothing, finds nothing, in nothing, and dies there in the void, in the dark and dust of every voiceless try, the copulations of hundreds, we find the best, the most sonorous, the thread in eye, each cancellation finds nothing, in nothing, and dies there in the void, in the dark and dust, the copulations, we find the best, most sonorous thread in eye, each cancellation is nothing, and dies there in the void, in dark copulations we find the most sonorous thread, each cancellation dies in the void, in dark, we find the sonorous thread, in void, in dark, we find, void

2007-10-15T02:43:00.000+08:00

astride of a grave and a difficult birth. down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps. we have time to grow old. the air is full of our cries.

~ :)

officially 18. whatever the hell that means.

2007-10-13T16:23:00.000+08:00

day opens.

my lids break and i see

how the light has smashed through the glass

and left a present for me;

dark, broken.

2007-10-05T14:05:00.000+08:00

CANT REMEMBER, SHANT REMEMBER, CANT HELP BUT REMEMBER NOW

fuck, Lethe's all gone dry,

drained now, like a

listen to the ugly crow cry

like a bone with the marrow sucked out,

the hollow, porous now, and

as it flies over the waste and drought,

and cracked like a

creeching all the while,

like a child screaming in the glassy air.

now there, now there, don't despair.

2007-10-02T10:37:00.000+08:00

i starve my words to a fault.

the descripts die, and so do I with every

jolt- the essence of this train ride.

i empty gaze and wall up, small.

mute and deaf to all who speak and listen.

no seeking now, just hide.

2007-09-29T13:01:00.000+08:00

damn sense.

wallow. wallow. fuck feeling.

i’m not emotional.

neither, strongly cold.

no, crabble away, labels.

you all scald me.

i’m hot i’m cold i’m dead i’m not.

stop it. stop slashing at this corpsed thing.

i am your words.

and god said, let there be- and it was so.

god saw all that he had made, and it was very good.

so fuck off.

i can’t go on. but i’ll go on.

2007-09-28T22:25:00.000+08:00

chair, scowlish shades, scratch the walls, there, scar now every turn of mind, scabbing all my, days, furious sti-itchings try to rise imagination from all else fucked, yay!

2007-09-28T22:11:00.000+08:00

i am darkling,

sharp ugly

frothy in, out not quite.

i smile with thin lips

and disarm you.

but i hide hannibal.

my eyes warm your mask

with sweet, longing reflected in

your own, to say, yes, I

am not alone.

yes, you are not alone.

yes, love, you are not alone.

2007-09-28T22:10:00.000+08:00

flick upon the back of eyeballs

i see a sore

where my heart should be.

2007-09-26T19:45:00.000+08:00

i die here,

on this plain paper

and dribble my fire

into a gnawing stomach,

with a sore swallow

i die here,

though my foot was on the stair

a moment ago, upsetting the dust

in my ascension

or descent

i die here,

with ink like blood,

and repetition, or rhyme perhaps

dams the flood, perhaps, but, really,

it's only a dribble of lead.

i die here

in cancellation.

think again.

begin again.

i, now, here, am dead.

2007-09-23T21:23:00.000+08:00

rainbows

2007-09-23T20:35:00.000+08:00

just a shade of what was once upon

2007-09-11T13:35:00.000+08:00

if only i were

i could away

from all

2007-08-26T20:54:00.000+08:00

2007-08-25T17:38:00.001+08:00

five footsteps, then faint

acid shadows crawl across the walls, dragging shine across my heated face like-

gone now, then back again so- now gone again.

.[ eyes shut ]

All about me stillness swaggers, like a drunk, or a bewitching as I stagger from sober corridor and class-

the frame in rushing want for speed, the mind-

a wretched waking farce, a-

stasis, violent at last.