it was a much better than before
a scream laced with mucus and
stitched with irony. the piercing itch
of a carpet of quills. each syllable
a velcro ripped from hell. I was
addled, and most of all disturbed.
down with the sickness,
and I’m making it worse.
we are there,
in a sea of floating specks of dust.
the deep pink impact has set us free and we
are drifting with the cold, callous wind.
from realms of green, gray and blue,
our minds wander carelessly around
the subsonic, subterranean totem pole figure.
“the one who gives the future.”
organized clumps of undead mite matter,
we are colored swabs settling on a book’s front cover.
anxiety, and dread.
the life we are meant to lead:
we float on.
(a boat in an unlit path stained with granite teeth,
one without an anchor to stall in waters waist deep.)
incandescent memories breezily rush
towards the mirror of an assured finale
it has occupied my mind, those mixed rice
memories and 4 by 4 melodies. I’ve worn
adjunct laurels of disregarded victories.
I’ve had the joys of camaraderies pave
a newspeak way. it wasn’t meant to end
with a laser of spit-shine reminiscences
or the encapsulated rot of an unused mind.
it wasn’t meant to end the same,
like a wiper cycle for an endless cloudburst,
the dismayed cacophony of hopeful aims.
but maybe that’s fine.
disquiet shrouds my pink diamond joys;
we can no longer call ourselves boys.
a sense of despondence and hollow strides
towards an unborn future with blinded eyes.
how sad it is to see a romance on screen?
sappy piano tunes exhorting bad decisions,
public displays between conventionally
attractive persons we’ll see once again.
it’s hard to stay placid with all the maroon kisses
being laid and exchanged without a downhearted
phase. unrealistic yet we don’t accept a change
how sad it is to be jealous of pixels, of ultraviolet
tendencies and LED loves? our vicarious urges
lead us once more to another form of potency,
and so we never, never move on.
“I like my lattes without sugar; thank you very much,” I said, before realising that statement of preference was about as necessary as the roots of a rose. I grabbed my coffee, and sat down under the false ceiling sprinkled evenly with the multicolours of Christmas cheer. It was a simple wooden chair, made cold with mass-production and an over-reliance of air conditioning. In front of me, a computer merely a few years old, yet betraying me at every click. And so there I sat, on that warm December Day.
Continue reading “Roses”
the changi sky a colorless blue as it
cracks with the shine of a raging dawn.
another day back at home with an imperfect set
of teeth and lips, chipped off by fiery slip,
a violent kiss, a bloody spit, driven off,
discharged, home by one at night.
another dark hour I sleep without
sound, the morning brings lesser hope:
I am tainted. by my own set of imperfect
wishes and expectations, the lingering sting
of Mr. Brightside. I never (I never) expected
my pain to sustain me through these tough times.
“don’t outlast me” my scream an echo
my wishes are fallen, redundant shadows.
the ornament has shattered, the damage is done and
no damn resin can fix the gates of the past.
back again. it would have happened sooner or later.
the familiar mist of the morning march and the brakes of a
/ stopping train / through the hours looking upwards as
the gray clouds drift in our favor, for now.
back again, the melancholy of the afternoon purging downpour,
the alternate plans of static exercises, punctuated with collective endurance.
back again at the plans and preps, into that territory unfamiliar,
unburdened at the climax of first light’s march.
back again, the weekend shorter than ever before, each minute a moment.
back again, on a wet sunday evening before the everyday begins once again.
happiness comes from being a better person:
get fit, get ripped. that’s the first way to be happy.
hit the gym, lift, sweat, push yourself. your results
will motivate you, push you towards more.
more happiness: niceties. gifts. cards, and love
push yourself towards goodness and you will get
it back: this is true happiness: wealth. manage
your money. if you can’t afford one, money’s your
child. your net worth is your worth, your worth is your
joy; never stop to think. this is what you want. everyone
knows what you want: this is what you want. this is
it was the third month of satisfaction when I started to run
with the wind caressing my face as I push on
towards the front. I was, for the first time,
in a long time, running. past the rare green
open space, past the polished school gates,
past the landed properties and traffic breaks;
it was the day I started to run.
it was the feeling that I missed, to be between
the parks and roads, to be under the MRT tracks.
I was running through all those sights familiar
for the first time in a long time, catching my breath
along with the memories of the day that I stopped running.
day by day, they flew further and further away,
from pigeons they became the tints of a rainbow,
lost beyond those granite-paved ways.
once I started, they were all too far for me to believe;
those scrapbook fantasies of easier days.
the alarm went off at six in the morning,
and I woke and rose up grudgingly to the rooftop
of the mediocre, satisfactory hotel in Kathmandu.
I was there to watch the night turn into day.
from a distant view came the shine of dawn,
surrounded by the airborne tint of brown
up above on the rooftop, no one could
hear us sing; but we didn’t need that.
perhaps daybreak is what we needed for now,
with its glow descending on each picture taken
perhaps for now, this is what a miracle is:
the fact that we are here, that we were there.
and those few seconds of break
soon will be over, and what then?
it’s no matter; another day begins
the sun won’t shine on the summits much longer.