do you remember that first swipe on tinder
that was made unreceived like a foraging wasp
spreading its toxicity as an unwelcoming sight?
the lone yellow star of the dim forest night flounders
in the kindled heat of its anxious plight; do you remember
that night seven years ago? or maybe six?
the night where you cried yourself to sleep, blessed are you,
the vulnerable and weak, or so you seemed in the moonlight
as the scars of that morning grip you by your ruffled mane,
as they proselytize you to their own version of the truths that remain

do you remember when your thoughts were your own
before the solitary wasp gave way to greater pride?
I do not.



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

loops 101

def am_i_fed_up(learning, language):
if language == "python":
print("No more.")
elif language == "japanese":
if learning <=4:
print("But when?")
print("Not any time soon… But when?")

am_i_fed_up("this is too", "hard")

>> “Yes.”

golden logic are etched upon neo-green walls of microcities.
towering plastic structures are home to more than one instruction
binary state, upwards battle, uphill climb, electric saddle
it’s time to learn, one more language, one too many, magic puzzle

one one zero zero one one one zero zero one zero one
this fancy rhythm; it means fun; three thousand, three hundred, one.
algorithm, one more done, one more error, no more fun.