my alarm parts the sea, a miracle of demise. grand,
effervescent foam splashes in creamy waves of textures,
on my face the wrinkle-stained dreamlike state. of good,
even futures left to the natural. they progress fantastical
into boxed-up fears, adorations, envies. they cross my mind.
they run, they run from enslaving evil as the image
grows sharper still. gone are the plagues of endearing love.
they run as it hits hard like the stone. totalitarian reality
opens my eyes. silence deafening and dim light blinding.
light seeps through the silent guardians. they watch me
as they block the light from striking me. I hear my breath,
moist like dew, as utterances of suffering. but the shine
must rest on the promise of the day. I violate the guards,
push aside the fabric, bask in the hopeful warmth of being.
reality sets in like the homogenous sea. our freedom to be.
with the sun still ringing in my ears, I scale the sky, ascend.
mind like a horse through a great open field, wilful ignorance
of stones and rough edges. a large mass of muscle pulsating
through the very reality where the weak keep on rummaging.
serotonin skyrockets, ballistic impact, they cumber the act
of a raging blizzard. like seasons, I run with diluting speed,
to act upon myself the need of depressive winds. an embrace.
the caustic engine runs itself dry. collapses under the heat.
silent under the sun. brown pelt torn at the seams with
no one helping to sew. infections, but for the host, peace, and
termination of the daily blight of inhumanity self-propelled.
rapid sample loops distorted
beyond a recognizable degree.
those jabs piercing straight into the edge of
music. differentiated balloons hide
a white smile and those unseen eyes
but they’re always seeing through the walls.
it tastes like sin. (spikes, spikes, spikes)
the hyperactive podium of a white blood cell
and that multi-colored warping bottomless pit.
ears with a frame rate, decibel counting eyes.
off the charts, melon gave it a ten.
“it must be good.” open break.
pop. last in first out. modulated springboards
microsecond breathing space, sweat-dropping
hothead. I make myself different.
music tastes like sin, or so they say. get out.
185 seconds of standing on spikes.
my talent, my limit, my exhaling shrieks,
my experiential experimental
(inspired by spikes – death grips)
will the mahogany walls withstand the monsoon strain?
or will they buckle inwards and outwards, beat under strain?
silence. not that of remembrance, but that of hushed opinions.
doors closed like lips, sweat builds up under a tolerant strain.
fellow human, young or old, to you I say, “leave me be.”
like gears to a bicycle chain, control is lost under strain.
clothes drying out in the ultraviolet manifest. it’s burning.
away the stains of the far-reaching spot! reward for my strain.
windowpanes. in low light a figure arises from the glass.
liquid in form, it stares at me. and I knew it was to strain.
pillowcases soft, softer in the night. here I am lying.
ascended, above. this is how it is. for a while — no strain.
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.