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.

After the Mists of Yesterday

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.

Drift Intention (Beacon)

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.)


“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”


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.




smoked salmon skylines streak across my sights
while I run back hesitant, bold and unafraid.
the everyday life outside proved to be too much
to handle, with much ado about nothing more
than a soiled hope of things getting better. these days
pass slowly, with each string strummed individually and
with each chord uttered nonchalantly. day by day, winter
slowly comes. there is an abrupt pause additional. and then
I start running back again. posters and persons greet my face
with their equally blank faces, and I fly past them to get back home.
everyday is an arthouse movie that gets no reviews,
an album streamed by one of your two parents, and then abruptly
paused. the same summer song plays on repeat in a foreign
tongue none but some understand, but what’s the point?
summer starts when the silent streams become rivers.


the next monday morning, the hunter enters the den,
and drags out the golden shroud of a lion made un-alive.
of gold the cloak shimmers as it floats down to the central isle,
custom permits its validation and absolution (a right of goodwill),
and so the dead travel to the mountains of old,
enters a pariah, an ambition in stone, a granite passage
emerging from the core.

to him this is everything, everything
it represents. his words evade caution, and need no protection.
his words are true, and truer than true. so be the words
of an undead few. his word is sacred, his word is cursed.
concealment evades the caution it deserves.

upon the mountain the snow lies in stasis, obfuscating
the path soon to be trodden. upon the zenith his words
were crystal, clearer than night, truer than the angels.
the lion stays dead, deader than the deadest, its cry remembered
as a fading vibration. far away, he weeps in his silence,
as he fell below, without his life golden.

what would he do except confide
in the molten truth he chose to relay,
what he believed would save a man
when he believed it would save

Together; Changing Times

there’s something special
about hearing a familiar tune
on another’s speaker; there’s
something cool in those bars
of rhyme and reason. do tell,
why did you not say before?

there’s something calming: seeing
a typeface you use to write
poems each day for a month or
“the quick brown fox jumps
over the lazy dog.” you’re
another with which I have similar.


would it not be better for us
to grow old together; friends
lazing at a hawker center, with
kopi o and whatever the future
can bring us. newer magazines
of chili crab coastlines, a new
design, a sense of rhyme, a
new aesthetic, and a tune of mine