Imaginary Poem

Tissue

2011-06-08T15:17:00.001-07:00

What was it you said? You said
something about not knowing
what it meant, and then you
wiped it away, with a tissue.
The tissue that you balled
in your fist that last time we met.
Even when I looked away, I still
saw your face. Bright it was
that day. You were sweating.
I was sweating. Maybe I should've
asked to clarify. But the balled-up
tissue in your fist distracted me.

Poor tissue, poor tissue,
how could a fragile thing like you

protect me?

What I Want

2011-03-05T11:56:00.000-08:00

What I want, after all, isn't what I want from you.
I had pretended. Like a broken-winged bird.
Take it from someone with nothing better to do:
I only wanted a look-in, a signal, a tiny dirty word.

So: I'm sorry. I acted like a turd.
You've got your daunting secrets. And I knew.
It's what some people call: being absurd.
But what do they know about being blue?

When you remained silently and perfectly poised
on your beloved island, I tried my best to be rotten.
To lure you back with my bacon of a voice.
I don't blame you for trying not to listen.

In the end, my wanting became a prison.
Karma negated me and pointed to my only choice.
Believe me, it wasn't the world's easiest decision
but I made it. I bought the pain, my Rolls Royce.

In my elegant horsepowered sorrow I found
that all I really ever wanted from you was
divine worship, eternal bondage, bejewelled crown.
I wanted so much I forgot how far my head went up my arse.

So: now: in the aftermath of the farce,
I'm willing to go along, I force me to go down
to the simplest of interaction, only just because
that's the simple truth of it, god help me I'm a clown.

Because: what I want is not what I want.
What I want only you would know.
Only you would understand how it haunts
me so, only you could destroy my ego

and return it, as a gift, a soft silken pillow,
upon which you so gently taunt
me to believe in love once more. How can I let go?
When it's you: who I love. You: who I want.

Cigarettes

2010-11-25T11:03:00.000-08:00

I forget how they taste like.
In dreams, a pale blue thread of
smoke strangles me. Faintly the trace
of another smoker follows me
as I wander aimlessly at first,
then arriving at the site
of my beautiful grave.
I sit up in my bed looking
at the alarm clock.
A bird is singing outside.
I forget how it tastes like.
Amber traffic light at the end of the stick.
The sound that it makes when it thinks I'm not looking.
The stolen glances across the room at the little box I finished last night.
The emptiness, some sort of regret, then hunger or whatever, to pass the time.
Waving it around like a wand.
The sensation that passes
with each dying puff.
Tiny little dragons.
I forget. I simply forget.

The Following

2010-11-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

As I follow you through the crowd, I feel conflicted
by the terrifying possibility you don't want me to.

Suddenly reflections in shop windows display
a desperation not even earnestness can deflect.

I search for any sign at all that you might see me
not for what I stand for but maybe for who I am.

A pedestrian kind of yearning, magnified precisely
as it verges on disappearing in the traffic and the noise.

Would that my hand reach out and brush against your
hair and your cheek; just thinking it makes me weak.

I keep on walking, I pretend to not notice you.
You're a stranger, after all. And I walk into a wall.

The Rise and Fall of the Republic

2010-11-01T00:50:00.000-07:00

Note: In my teens growing up in Sabah, there was a definite anti-federalist sentiment in the air, no doubt inspired by the then-ruling PBS state government defiant actions against the federal government and their former BN coalition partners. Regardless of PBS's true political intentions and ambitions, it stirred up talk of secession, of Sabahan independence. It dominated Sabahans' political talk in the office, at home, and even in school. There were rumours that a state-funded freedom fighter militia were training in the jungle. Sabahan pride flared. The motto was: Sabah for Sabahans. We wanted our state back. We'd been exploited by federalist interests for far too long. And PBS seemed to be the antidote to former state governments that had colluded with the federal government to sell out the state. But in the end, it was not to be. In the end, BN won out. And Sabah politics (and politicians) was revealed to be a sham. This poem is a fantasy based on the events that happened around that time and afterward. It was written to be read out during Ops Bilang on 26 Oct at The Annexe Gallery. Ops Bilang was an event organised by Centre of Independent Journalism featuring various artists responding to key sociopolitical issues affecting Malaysians, held in conjunction with the launch of CIJ's Let's Talk About website and to commemorate Ops Lalang. This poem may offend a few readers. Apologies if it reads rather rough; I had wanted to blunt it with more beautiful or clever turns of phrases... but perhaps I'm still too affected by it.

For more background on how the issue of Federalism has affected the East Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak, please read this excellent introductory piece written by Sonia Randhawa. http://letstalkabout.cijmalaysia.org/federalism/

*
We spoke about this in high school
During the height of the PBS-inspired
Anti-federalist movement in the late 80s
We spoke about leaving Malaysia

But not like Singapore
Not a mere knifefight among political drama queens
Sabahans would form an army, drink a sakti potion
And fight for secession

We would harvest our share of blood
Like the headhunters of old
Except we’ll do it with guns and steel
Supplied by the CIA

We would kill any Western Malaysian
Who did not agree with the new republic
Or we would take them hostage
And trade them for our independence

Because frankly we’ve had enough
The time for talking has come to an end
There is nothing left to negotiate
You have betrayed us for the last time

Only blood could pay back for the insult
Of not honouring the 20 Points (if you don’t know the 20 Points, please Google it),
Of systemically exploiting the state’s natural resources,
Of clandestinely attempting to Islamise our people,

Of not remembering the geographical difference
Between Sabah and Sarawak,
Of flaunting that Semenanjung arrogance fueled by stolen wealth,
And for sniggering at our obviously superior accent

Sabahans have been reduced to nothing more
Than slaves to the federation
There was no principle, no honour—this had been our education
And so we would teach them what we’ve learned

Our fight would be reminiscent
Of the great postcolonial battles
Of Sumatra, Southern Thailand, Mindanao,
East Timor, Kashmir and West Papua

Women and children would suffer
Half-naked warriors would go down in flames (fully naked!)
The war will be fought like a videogame
With luminous tropical colours and award-winning sound effects

And we would’ve triumphed in the end
We would’ve broken away as a rogue state
Join up with Sarawak and Kalimantan
And maybe even invade Brunei

But that dream of the future all changed in 1996
After the darkest elections in Sabah history
When PBS politicians jumped ship
To sleep with BN the federalist roaders

Why our own politicians
Succumbed to money politics so easily
And how we allowed ourselves
To sigh afterwards so fuckin’ disappointedly

We sink so hopelessly
Until we come face to face
With the stinking parasitic rafflesia
In full glorious stately bloom

And there it was, the answer we were looking for
Our youthful fantasies merely fantasies
Forced to put our imaginary weapons to rest
In the ditch where our revolution lay stillborn, growing over with weeds

Abandoned in greed, forsaken for selfishness
How mistaken we were to think the Federation did not care
They cared alright
They cared that we actually thought what independence meant

Politics didn’t matter anyway
Old friends would say “Buat apa bah kau mau cakap tentang perkara yang sudah bangas?”
There was still the question
Of what to do with the rest of our lives

So some of us went overseas to study
And some of us worked
And some of us got married and had kids
And some of us even migrated, died

In the meantime, West Malaysians had been bulldozed by Ops Lalang
Then Reformasi happened
Anwar was punched, his prostate massaged and jailed
Then Mahathir cried and stepped down

But what do we care
About the rest of Malaysia
When West Malaysians speak about Malaysia
They only go so far east as Kelantan

Sarawakians would know what I’m talking about
The Penans and Ibans send their most sincere regards
To your fattened leaders in Putrajaya
And all the guileless reptiles sucking on their tits

I wish
I could still say
I still have
Those dreams

But I’m not a revolutionary anymore
Not since I moved to KL and saw
How shopping exerted a far more influential influence
Than any plea for equality or fairness ever will

And that’s how I see federalism these days
It’s all just a shopping mall maze
And how we are lost inside it like tourists
Who don’t understand the language

We’re all just passing through
Because it’s just another shopping mall
It’s not really a country anymore
It’s just another shopping mall

Silent Storm

2010-09-28T14:00:00.001-07:00

Where are we on this cold dark night, hands
wrapped around empty cups waiting
for prophecies to arrive?
Where did the words go,
simple words, complicated words,
words that mean nothing,
words of magic and of scholarship?

There is only the silence of apartments
in the hour between death and sleep.

Where is the poet, wrestling with her thoughts,
her double life, her ghostly lovers
who tempt her with thoughts of sugar
and a storm? Should we not be on the lookout?
Shouldn’t we be in a watchtower, or scanning the footage
of surveillance cameras? Waiting at the edge of deserts
for prophets to appear?

I think, I say, I’m expecting someone
or something; or maybe I’m missing
the touch of something familiar,
like the note from a guitar
as it escapes from
my finger.

I’ve never known silence like this,
wrapped around me like walls of cotton.

Even a mirror is no comfort to me now.

The New Palace

2010-09-28T13:59:00.001-07:00

From across the highway, you park your car and watch it burn.
They've broken through the gates and set the monster on fire.
So you leave your old life here beside the road
and walk toward the screaming and the sirens.
You can't help but feel melancholic.
Where are the tyrants?
Where are the tyrants?

You've seen the footage on CNN and BBC before
but nothing prepares you for the taste of flames, the FRU,
the rattling of batons against riot shields.
Or the empty rush surging through your head
as the crowds heave and the ground gives way.
You're holding your breath.
You're holding your breath.

You see an inch-high figure with a loud hailer
but water cannons sweep him clean.
You see kids of every colour, with faces wrapped and raised fists:
the smell of dank sweat as it rubs of on your skin and claims you
for its own, pushing you to the front of the pack.
And then you hear the explosions.
You run.
You run.

Up ahead a girl is being dragged off by her hair.
Another girl is being kicked. And another. And another.
You feel the fullness of your anger like the stone in your hand
and you give it wings, you give it life, you let it fly
from your fist by the full swing of your shoulder.
There.
There.

Darkness burns like an inkstain across the parchment of the skies.
The palace is ravaged and there's crimson in your eyes.
Is it time to go home yet or should you wait
for the last embers to die?
Someone touches you on your shoulder and asks:
Did we kill the king?
Did we kill the king?

The City Is Crying

2010-09-28T13:58:00.001-07:00

(for Benjamin McKay, 1964-2010)

On any other day, we'd look up at the sky and think
"Oh... just another shower."
One would think, we should be used to this by now.
It happens almost everyday;
there's nothing to it--it's just water, the contents of
a nameless cloud, unraveling.

But not today. Today the city is crying. The city is weeping.
The streets are drenched with tears.
The white noise of the downpour can barely hide the silence.
A silence that makes everything feel
so sad and low and dim. One would think "How shameful--
the rain is trying to wash away his trace."

But not today. Today the city cries. The city weeps.
Today, in the city, somewhere
in the deep sadness that has welled up and tumbled
out of the vastness of the sky
like gigantic teardrops, someone's life is missing a familiar
face. Come, let me wipe away your tears.

The Facebook Poetry Challenge

2010-03-01T20:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday on my Facebook status update I asked friends to challenge me by contributing the opening line to which I would then proceed to write out the rest of the poem. 12 lines were contributed so 12 poems. (There is a 13th line. But I'm still writing that. I'll update this entry when the last one is done.) I don't know if other people might consider it a fun thing to do but I do love writing poems. The problem is sometimes I don't really have anything to write about. So sometimes I go for weeks and months without writing a single word. So this challenge was basically to write to specs. LOL. So here they are. 12 poems written in the space of maybe 5 hours or something like that, beginning with the first contribution. I admit not all of them are great... LOL. But I'm sure at the very least they're kinda amusing... :-P

+

For Amir Muhammad: Why Can't A Woman Be More Like A Man?

Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Or a tepid jellyfish be more like a clam?
I'm sure it can be done if only Nature
tried harder. But she's a stubborn dame,
if ever there was one, far too content
in her pursuit of evolution to sort out
the difference between women and men.
One under a moon waiting for her prize.
The other finding it gleaming in her eyes.
Infinite mysteries elude us yet again.
I am a child; I do not understand.

+

For Margaret Agusta: Is It You I Miss Or The Faded Possibilities?

Is it you I miss or the faded possibilities?
Futures tested and failed, or
the hands I knew once as yours
clasped in mine not so long ago?

Is it you I miss or our broken histories?
Golden yesterdays that gleam, or
your honeyed eyes I thought
would never look away?

Is it you I miss or that promise of bliss?
Your lips that turned to velvet upon mine, or
that moment before you turned cold,
no longer fated, no longer gold?

+

For Nell Ng: Hold On, If I Could, I Would

Hold on, if I could, I would
be the thing that you want.
A vessel of deepest desires
from posterior to the front.

I would waste nothing.
And I would play the game.
I would strip naked
and find a different name.

A thing of brevity I'd be.
Solid in my transparency.
A riddle no one can undo
except to pour your truth into.

And yet you loathe and despise
everything I've been.
If you could, you would've
torn me limb from limb.

But you could not
and you would not, not
in all your hallucinations of me,
because you knew what you mean to me.

If I were really that thing
you thought you could own,
you would've already known.
You would've been alone.

+

For Tim McCann: Wild Ghosts Hold Fast To Keep The Dreams At Bay

Wild ghosts hold fast to keep the dreams at bay,
howling as they tug on my sanity
each and every damned day.
My edges fray, my eyes turn grey.
Life is a storm in which I am a blotted ray of light
spun into a violent dance,
haunted by the future,
hounded by the past,
pushed up the broken stairs into the little chamber in my head
where I keep time, eyes closed.
This is where I stay.
In the middle of the floor,
back and forth
I gently sway.
To the music
of the waves.

+

For Ian Chew: I'd Be Your Wrist If You'd Be My Blade

I'd be your wrist if you'd be my blade,
bring you my mist to soothe you as you fade.
Lest you'd be the kiss that alights on my frog,
I'd be the comment that appears on your blog.

I shall not be sorry if I cause you laughter.
Your infernal amusement is all I am after.
I'd be your sunshine if you'd be my plant.
To my beloved block of sugar, I am your ant.

+

For Shieko: Busy Bangsar Pasar, Don't Put Si-ham In My Kuey Teow

Busy Bangsar pasar, don't put si-ham in my kuey teow,
those tiny quivering pieces
of boneless, faceless flesh,
like bruised amputated lips staring up,
or eyelids hanging loose over hollow sockets,
winking in between greasy waves of flat noodles and taugeh,
signaling to me with bruised looks,
trying to say something to me
in a wordless language
too nauseating to be understood.
Bangsar, I don't like si-ham at all.

+

For Ronnie Khoo: Let's Do It, Let's Do It, Let's Do It, Let's Do It, And Do It, And Do It, Let's Live It Up

Let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, and do it, and do it, let's live it up.
The oyster said to the knife, as the blade reached under and severed it from life.

Let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, and do it, and do it, let's live it up.
The paper said to the hand, as it crumpled the white surface into a ball like a fist.

Let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, and do it, and do it, let's live it up.
The sin said to the sinner, as it stabbed it in the heart again and again.

Let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, and do it, and do it, let's live it up.
The eye said to the memory, as it retrieved all the hollowness it felt in between.

+

For Asrar Muzamir: God Is A Linguist, Life Is A Book

God is a linguist, life is a book.
He read all my secrets and from me he took.
God is an artist, colour his tool.
But he made me blind and called me a fool.

If I were a fish, he gutted my ocean.
If I were a pig, he roasted my cousin.
God is my saviour, he pays all my bills.
Like a soldier of love, he's ready to kill.

+

For Chew Hiu Wah: Here I Have Seen Truth Crucified And Justice Buried

Here I have seen Truth crucified and Justice buried.
One to feed the crows and the other
to be forgotten.

Not so long ago, I saw them walking side by side,
sometimes in quarrel,
sometimes in embrace, but never apart.

They lived among the people
and when the people called upon them
they would answer, for they were bound to the people.

Truth showed the people what they've always known
and Justice made sure they were
always in the right.

Where the people would go, they followed,
Truth and Justice, though to be frank,
they were not always wanted.

For the people often preferred Lies and Corruption.
Lies and Corruption made the people feel wealthy
instead of being in need.

In secret they told the people to make a cross
and dig a hole. They told the people,
Deceit will make it easy and Denial will give you courage.

And so it came to be, on that fateful day when the people
called on Truth and Justice for the last time,
when I sought the killer's names, the names

they belonged to me.

+

For Jeremy Liew: I Will Not Succumb To Your Challenge!!!

I will not succumb to your challenge!!!
The Prime Minister addressed his wife
sternly, despite his state of undress.

I will not give you the satisfaction!!!
But she's not really listening to the man
tied up like a sexpig to the bedposts.

I will never ever surrender!!!
He struggles against his bondage as
the whip cracks across his appendage.

I will give you nothing!!! Nothing!!!
She twists his pegged nipples
clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

I will never kow tow to you!!!
He chokes as she tugs at his
studded leather monkey collar.

I will never be your slave!!!
She turns on the electronic device
and watches as he comes.

You will obey me.
You will obey me.
You will obey me.

+

For Azwan Ismail: Lick My Tango, You Rubber Pussycat

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

For years it tormented him.
All through high school and college
and even now as a well-loved literary professor
all he could think about was
that message she gave him when he was 10:
Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

Where exactly was her tango?
Was it code for some secret location
she would only reveal to the members
of the Explorer Club?
And why would she want to have it licked?

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

She didn't even like to be touched,
much less licked.
There was a time when they were walking
along the perimeter of the school field
and he wanted to touch her hand.
But she gave him the look.

It was the look of murder.

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.

She didn't like touches.
She didn't like cats.
Did she tango? He couldn't remember.
But rubber pussycat?

Maybe it's an anagram.
Or maybe it's a warning disguised as a riddle.
Or maybe he was supposed to repay it with a rhyme,
nonsense that it was;
perhaps it was meant to be the beginning
of a transaction.

There was that moment at graduation
when the look she often gave him
morphed into something else.
He was about to go off with his friends.
And she was about to go off with hers.
There was a softness in her eyes he'd never seen before.

He had wanted to call her afterwards
but he was too shy at first,
and by the time he did,
her mother told him
she had drowned on a camping trip.

Twenty five years too late.

Lick my tango, you rubber pussycat.
Why won't you tell me where you're at?
I'll be your mango, my sugar paperhat.
Why not show me your heart, you silly fluffy rat?

Vampiric Youth

2010-02-26T22:14:00.001-08:00

Accept death.

Accept joy.

Accept pleasure as your heart
marches toward doom.

Accept ecstasy in the kisses
falling to the floor of your room.

Accept whispers from strangers,
candied words, amphetamines.

Accept reticence when they remove
the future from your eyes.

Accept the blindness that comes
with eternal youth.

Accept not life, but death.

The Death Of Magic, Of Rock & Roll, And What Lies Beyond

2010-02-26T21:24:00.001-08:00

Explosions. Furious fires. Civilisations that fall from grace.
The wizards and shamans and priests
all beg on their knees with their faces
turned upwards, not knowing anymore what the windfall may bring.
The death of magic in the ruthless hands of logic.
The death of rock and roll and everything else
that might have once made some noise.

Expulsions. Curious wires. Evil angels that rise from hell.
The demons and goblins and priests
all wither to dust with their shadows
smeared across the consequences of our useless actions.
The death of dreams none can compensate for.
The death of sex, as though flushed away
from the cunt of a whore.

But I will walk away from fire
and I will tame the chasm that is hell.
The worried weeping wounds of my wasted past
is just a fable that once made so much noise.

I will not bleed forever, nor die in vain.
And all the chords I ever played on my guitar
still vibrate, passing through light and dark,

beyond this face, this head, this thought that you had to wait so long for.

I am beyond repair, beyond magic, beyond rock and roll.

Cunt

2010-02-25T20:56:00.001-08:00

That night Chloe heard jazz music
coming from down the hallway.
She had heard it before.
The door behind her, she walked
slowly to Isabel's room.

It was unlocked.

She looked inside.

Isabel was naked.
Her wheat blonde tresses fell
across her back, flowing over
her pale round buttocks.

Isabel was laughing.

There was a man with her.

The music was none other than Billie Holiday
singing "That Ole Devil Called Love",
emanating from a gramophone
beside the bed.

The man ran his fingers across
Isabel's creamy skin.

He kissed her lips.

They closed their eyes
as they kissed.

Quietly, Chloe cried.

In between her tears, a word slipped
from under her breath:
"Cunt."

Each & Every One A Disappointment, There Was No Exception, Not A Single One

2010-02-25T08:08:00.001-08:00

They're just words. They don't mean anything.
If you stop to consider them against
the absolute wonder of nature's decay, even news
from someone whom you always knew
was never really your friend
can no longer hurt.
Words you can always forget.
In between all the other meaningless things,
the crossed-out sentimental gibberish,
aborted thoughts of days, like any other,
unmemorable, except for their dull brass,
their cookie-cutter flavours,
their dubious romance
with the most common of common.
Nothing unique about them at all.
After you've unraveled them and laid them out flat
for all the world to see, what special specimen have they got for you?
Did they bring you anything resembling a lost continent;
a quicksilver verse or a dish of recovered innocence,
some microbe that just might stay?
Nay. They all sailed away, didn't they?
Words, words, words.
Language that you thought could
have at least understood.
Those poets and balladeers
with their empty hearts.
They left nothing behind. Except for all this junk
that doesn't even have the decency to fill.

So:
tear that paper in half.
Tear that useless piece of paper in half.

Bitch

2010-02-21T06:38:00.000-08:00

Isabel had already fallen by the time
Chloe struck her the second time.
And then after hitting her another five times,
Chloe set the stone aside.

The stone was the size of a grown man’s fist.
Chloe had wrapped it carefully in a towel
and placed it in the basket
beside the sandwiches and soda.

Chloe kneeled beside the body,
her heart racing like a thoroughbred’s.

Isabel’s body was trembling.
Chloe looked down at Isabel’s deformed face
choking on its own blood and mucous.
Then she reached out for the ring
on Isabel’s finger and pulled.

It was made of gold with silver filigree
and a 24-karat diamond heart.
The ring came off with surprising ease.

There was no one around for miles
out there on the lonely beach.
Blood from Isabel’s wounds seeped into the sand,
staining her blonde hair crimson
and her blue swimsuit maroon.

The sun felt warm on their pale skin.
The seabreeze teased with its coolness.

As though afraid it would lose its shine,
Chloe wrapped her hand around her prize.

And then she leaned over Isabel’s body
to whisper in the dying woman’s ear:
“Bitch.”

Last Dance

2010-02-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

(for Caecar Chong, 1974 - 2010)

Alone on the stage, he sleeps.
His final gesture as a dancer
is as a foetus.
Instead of placenta,
flowers surround him.
He dances without movement.
Without music.
The lights flicker like
so many tongues of flame.
Yet he remains a lotus.
After so many curtain calls
and rehearsals, finally
his body obeys him.
He is as still as a building
lying on its side.
Eyes closed.
Hands clasped.
Dancer of darkness and light.
Alone, asleep and alive.

Light The Way

2009-12-30T10:01:00.001-08:00

After losing and gaining and losing it again,
we return to each other's protection.
My friends and comrades.
My masters and commanders.
Experiences of life may wear us down
but polish our souls to a shine.
The deepest part will find its spark.
The gold within the core.
Where the value of everything is kept.
We shine with all the sadness, true and infinite.
We light the way, we light the way.

Silver In Mouth

2009-11-30T04:49:00.000-08:00

Like slivers of light
Or the sun rushing past
To taste molten diamonds
In the heart of the mouth

Moonlight that comes
The tenderest crush
The tongue's hidden shine
Silver in mouth

Her Body

2009-11-26T11:12:00.001-08:00

(for Toni Kasim, 1966-2008)

Why did her body lie back into itself—to where
did she go? Why did the body crumble into itself?
Like a blackhole opened inside, and pulled the tissue
and the organs, pulled the heart and the spirit, back
to wherever it came from.
Why did her body fall apart? How could she change?
From a breath traced to its source to a snow flake
melting in reverse. She was only sleeping. There
was a dream of darkness, a deep dark lake.
The surface was like a mirror made of ebony.
She stood there staring at it for an eternity.
That oasis in her mind. Then she took her clothes
off and stepped inside. How could the soul drown
in its own firmament? Is there an explosion of
light? A flushing of blood? An arrow returning
to its bow the journey of its arc?
How can she go and leave no answers?
Memories only riddle and belittle the heart.
An emptied-out vessel. A house no longer there.
A temple abandoned. For what? For a journey to where?

Master

2009-04-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

There is no colonisation.
Our asses are free.
Our lands belong to us.
We are masters of our own destiny.

We control everything that happens.
From refugees to golf courses,
from resorts on beaches to Highland Towers,
to former political aides.
And astronauts.

All these things are ours.
Nobody else owns them.
We are rich beyond our wildest dreams.
And not ten thousand virgins would deny.

I am your master.
As you are my master.
And I am your slave.
As you are my slave.

We are married to ourselves.
Together our colours are ours alone,
from 1948 to 1957 to 1963 to 1969
to 2008/9. We are bona fide.

We are real. We are bona fide.
Finally we have a name.
Neither master nor slave.
But both. One and the same.

So move unto me, my love.

I can taste the curry on your lips.

It's the ecstasy I feel
when you’re tied up in my bed.
It’s the pleasure you feel
when I’m burning in your head.

Silence The Thought

2009-03-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

Silence the thought.
The thought is silence.
When I make something out of nothing,
it is upon silence I’m intruding.

I must keep still.

Like a tree against a chainsaw.
I must stand my ground.

Like protesters against water cannons.
Amid the screams of technology
and doomsday recriminations,

I pay my debts in silence.

I let go in silence.

My days of sadness will be lived
in silence.

When they come to draw blood,
it is silence I shall call upon.

And silence will answer.

Silence the thought.

The thought is silence.

Three Kinds Of Freedom

2009-02-22T05:49:00.001-08:00

The First Freedom was difficult but
inevitable. It was a lesson
we all had to learn: that escaping from the womb
comes with it
an obligation
to breathe.

Some of us didn’t understand.

But those of us who did would go on
arrogantly believing
we’re free,

that is,

until Freedom Number Two.

Now Freedom Number Two is not inevitable.
But, as in all transactions in life,
requires of us a payment.

Payment for the knowledge that placates
each passing of the day.

Payment for having to decide
what freedom really means.

Payment for having the terrible freedom
to choose.

For we won’t always choose for happiness.

Choose knowledge instead.
Or solitude or survival.
Or even wisdom.
Or at least the violence necessary
to break
someone's heart.

Whatever the cost, freedom will never be enough.

The Final Freedom, however,
is not a choice.
It is the thing that matters the most.

It is knowing the word that can cut through flesh and bone.
And finding the silenced thought in the skull
where the beloved resides.
Until the heart that bleeds
finds another way to die.

It’s freedom itself.

Freedom from pity, despair and strife, but one
defeated all the same. Not because it's
joyless. But because
it understands
freedom offers

nothing. Nothing at all

And that’s when it happens:

when the Final Freedom takes over,
and our last breath of life we surrender,
we close our eyes and realise
we have always been
tethered to each other;

guarded and pleading,

haunted and needing,

each and every single one:

a prisoner.

The End (Fini)

2009-02-20T19:52:00.001-08:00

And so it ends. The credits
appear. Even though we know
the story continues, it ends here.
Because it cannot go on
and continue to make sense, or
it would be boring, and
it would be sad, or
it would be
too much
to bear.
Costs have to be considered.
The heart can only admit so much.
And the audience has to leave the room.

And so it ends, like a plant
that bears fruit has to let go its fruit,
to be borne away by water, wind,
monkeys and birds. There’s
nothing left to be curious about.
The story expands but
in different forms and shapes.
With new characters
and a new trajectory,
with the past only serving
as some kind of nostalgic grotesquerie.

And so it ends, a death
is recorded, a finale
allowed. Beat to beat
and breath to breath, this exhalation
stops. No more kisses left
to be given.
No more aching pronouncements
to cry.
Only a sigh.
And a sigh.
And a possible backward glance
that lasts but a second.
Because it had been beautiful
and worthy
but no longer.
For the light needs to be switched off.

And so it ends.
When friends leave comments
that leave no doubt.
When life is asking you
to reconsider your sorrow
with a question that turns
dark into light, or some other
optimistic blight, like tragedy into might.
When the other person no longer
gives you that backward glance
and you’re just staring
at the shadow of a shadow.
It is the end.
It has ended.
There is no more to say.

Except, somewhere, with a step
onto an uncertain plan,
the end turns
and turns
into a beginning.
The fruit bears a shoot.
The movie bears a sequel.
And Lazarus awakes into the same world
with the knowledge there’s still
another who could save him.
From beat to beat
and breath to breath,
the body rethinks its instincts
and decides to live again.
And so it begins.
And so it begins.

For there is no end
without
a beginning.

The Loneliest Profession In The World

2009-02-17T10:04:00.000-08:00

There are many professions in this world.
And though work occupies us in ways
deep and shallow,
not all professions are equally

professional. Some people get paid

to kiss. Some fall in love
for money. Some even do it
for free. And yet I’ve always done it
willingly, albeit slyly,

brokering my deals with the lilt of a pout
that suddenly breaks into a smile—I have
always loved this part. Falling in love
with the customer is, after all,

the glissando flourish of the heart.

Ah... if only it was as easy as the song
and dance about it.
Night after night
of working on one project after another, like

“What to say and what to do
when there’s nothing left to say or to do?”

Who’d ever thought love could be so taxing
on one’s capital and imagination?

Not to mention the competition!
And jealousy that stoic opportunistic constant!
To have just one or to have it all?
Questions, questions that burn...

And the answers that sting... like the blitz of champagne
on the severed tongue of a memory...

Back at the shop, some days the business
pours in. Some days
it’s adequately lean.
But we soldier on, my heart and me, in the service
of one plan and then another,

wearing our battle stars
like stigmatas and scars. Scars
from listening too closely. Scars from
pretending to care. Or caring too much
for someone whose emotional cheques

just bounced and bounced. It’s no joke

when the laughter is broke.
But this IS the loneliest profession
in the world. And it doesn’t matter really

if there’s no bonus or pension at the end,
when the loneliness has itself been
the means to
an enemy.

An enemy and a friend.

There He Lies, While I Lie To Myself

2009-02-16T09:52:00.000-08:00

He’s lying there thinking.
He’s written me so many messages
he wonders when he’ll be able to write
something else.
Something about the weather maybe.
Something about how it makes him dizzy.
About what happened today
instead of what happened yesterday.
Something to make him forget.
Something to let it through.
Words that have the cure of a pill.
To ease his constipated soul.

While I lie here thinking
of when he forgets me, then
maybe he won’t write to me
or about me anymore.
I would then be revealed
as nothing but the scum left behind
after words have outgrown
the squelching sounds they make
as I make my way out of his mind.
Words that no longer have meaning.
Something already forgotten.
Someone no longer there.

The Storm

2009-02-04T02:27:00.000-08:00

I held you tight.
Because the lightning
frightened you. You had been talking but it
silenced you.

There was the sudden flash
and then the crack. And since no one else
was there for you to hold on to,
I held on to you.

And because your head was in my lap
and your little eyes so afraid, I held you closer
to me, the pink spiral of your ear
drawing me closer.

But not out of fear.
I held on because I wanted to;
because I wanted
you.

Jom Tengok Bintang: Poems in BM

2009-02-03T01:42:00.000-08:00

PENEROKA

Hari ini aku lepaskan bahtera
penuh ayam betina dan peket-peket Maggi.
Selagi keyakinanku cukup makan
kenaifan berlayar sekali lagi.

Inilah drama yang saya impikan:
melanggar gugusan Hawaii suatu hari,
kasihanilah mereka yang dirogol lanun
ataupun lemas ego sendiri, tetapi

bukan aku,
bukan aku ataupun kau semestinya.

Pulau itu tak seharusnya sepi tandus.
Badan kita tak semestinya bergolek-golek
di atas pasir hitam gunung berapi.
Tapi mungkin. Mungkin boleh.

Dengan suatu pelukan.
Suatu kucupan.
Suatu ansuran
kasih bulanan.

+

TEMAN BARU

Teman baru berbaju cokelat.
Kulitnya putih, bibirnya ceri.
Bersama teman baru berjalan-jalan hujung minggu.
Naik motor. Makan McDonald’s.
Minum latte bersama adik comel dia.
Bila dia pelawa tengok wayang,
kami beli tiket filem ketawa, dia suka lawak lucu.
Aku gigit butang dia.
Aku koyak baju cokelat.
Teman baru aku pandai berjenaka.
Aku pegang tangan dia.
Aku suka dengar dia ketawa.
Aku bermalaman di rumah dia.
Bapa dia tanya pasal kerja aku.
Ibunya masak kangkung belacan.
Aku suka senyuman manis dia.
Aku selalu beli dia cokelat.
Aku jilat belakang leher dia.
Teman baru aku pandai, suka aku.
Aku pun suka dia.
Aku mahu hati dia.
Aku mahu jari cincin dia.
Aku mahu bibir dia yang dibasahi liur.
Itu semua aku mahu.
Dia teman baru aku.

+

BURUNG

burung-burung terbang ke mari
burung-burung cungkil kedua-dua mataku
dan terbangkan lari

aku gantikan dengan guli,
dengan gula kapas, dengan sesudu
bulan, dengan liur mulut sayangku putih

+

LANGIT ITU JALA

Langit itu jala dan bulan itu ikan.
Jala perangkap perak kayangan.
Jika engkau bulan, aku nelayan.
Sisikmu menyilau, aku senyuman.

+

BUTANG-BUTANG

butang-butang diselotep kat langit malam
gundik berkelip, mata berteknik
tekan, tekan, satu, dua, malaikat moden
itupun tahi butang tersungkur
ke dalam pelukan

hangat rasanya, hangat boleh dipegang
tidak pun terasa sedih
walaupun tersungkur, walaupun disembur
butang-butang yang dipakai
sepekat madu

dan jawapannya seperti tak sempat nak
memburai tanah di mana kita bergolek-golek
kita seperti butang-butang
tak sabar nak ditekan untuk merakam
masa ini kita pergi lagi

kita berlari lagi
satu, dua, lampu kereta menggelongsori bukit
berkelip-berkelip di dalam baldu
menarilah kita di atas jurang
kita gila berlari, jom, jom tengok butang

+

KEBAS

kepala berfikir sendiri, bermain sendiri

mata seolah memandang garisan-garisan
yang berselang-seli

tangan kebas, kaki malas, mulut lumpuh, tetek beku,
bibir tidur,

buntut pun bermimpi,

perut seperti rumah yang kosong
tapi jantung masih berdegup

+

KITARAN, PERTUKARAN, SHOPPING, CINTA

pintu sudah luas terbuka
buat apa lagi kau berdungu
pergilah, bertolaklah, tukarkanlah cadar perjalanan mu itu
tilam baru boleh dibeli, bantal baru boleh dijahit
tidak mustahil setiap lima tahun TV baru
diusung ke dalam bilik, remote control di bawah selimut
jangan lagi diungkit sifar-sifar masa kebudakan
yang usang didermakan, yang sudah dipupuskan
dakaplah benda-benda baru berwangi kilang
ciumlah puas-puas kesegaran sementara
semuanya sementara, perjalanan pun hanya sementara
proton model baru remuk buntutnya
gambar cimpanzi comel pudar warnanya
kehidupan pun akhirnya jemu
teman lama hampa tak tentu
teman muda seperti hiasan perak, kilau berfesyen
bagaikan pameran bergerak di shopping mall, mulut mereka
tersenyum lagi—
apa lagi yang harus dilepaskan?
apa lagi yang sepatutnya dah luput?
pergilah, beredarlah, carilah yang baru
jikalau sanggup, semua boleh digantikan

+

PUJANGGA SERANGGA

kau pujangga, aku serangga.
aku lelaki, kau serambi.
kau Madonna, aku banana.
aku jejari, kau berahi.

+

EGO BUNJUT

1.
Apakah celupar itu selipar?
Mulut tak berzip atau renda menular?
Keluar ular, aku tak sanggup
bersigup disini, atau menggugup
dengan suami yang tak berseluar.

2.
Terung mamat berpindah-randah
Perak Selasa, Sabtu ke Sabah.
Kancil dipandu terror di kampus,
mata terbeliak, hati nak mampus
tapi tak bersen, stim pun patah.

3.
Jangan peduli bisikan si lawan.
Bulan bertetek tak semestinya kawan.
Coretan bibir boleh gak pas
walaupun senyuman bagaikan tandas
tok jaguh daerah penyebar kuman.

4.
Cepat-cepat si sayur kundur,
lagi cepat bangsa kot mundur.
Yo, yo, yang berfesyen negro,
tapi hakikatnya tahi kopi-o.
Itulah kisah si mamat ko-lumpor.

+

GARU

logiknya terlus, logiknya terlus
rahsia itu mesti dikotakkan
ini ruang, kau perlukan ruang,
jangan digaru hati yang ruam

+

AKU DAN TUHAN

kadangkala aku menyakitkan hati
jiran menyerang mintalah ampun
teriak aku macam direnjis najis
“Aku telanjang di genggaman Tuhan!”

kadangkala aku terkehel sendiri
melihat orang berada, berpangkat,
menjilat punggung yang lebih keramat
“Itu muslihat Tuhan bermonyet!”

muka ditampar kerana bersumpah
kulit terkupas balasan akhirat
tapi masih di sini sedap bercangkung
“Bukankah Tuhan main daki di pusat?”

+

NIAT BAIK SUATU HARI AKAN TERBALAS JUGA

Setelah selesai membaham kucing tiga warna,
pahlawan tersesat itu pun sampai ke garpu jalanan

Burung Gagak di atas pohon menguak
“Siapakah itu? Siapakah itu?”
“Tunjukkanlah hamba jalan ke kota.”
“Kalau penyoal niatnya baik, susur ke kanan.”
Gagak pun tersungkur terpanah di dada

Sehari semalam pahlawan berjalan
sehingga Kota Emas berkilau di mata
Putera-puteri bermonyet menyambut dia
kakinya disabunkan samsu dan sutera
“Cukuplah dengan semua itu. Kehendak aku hanya
satu perkara.”
“Silakan,” Raja Emas tersenyum
lalu tersungkur ke lantai ditikam
“Jika kau mati, siapa yang mengganti?”

Dayang-dayang teriak apa gunanya
Niat baik memang ada caranya

+

KAH KAH KAH

bukan lagi mentah, sudah tak segar
macam pelita buruk, paku yang tagar

macam nasi semalam, sayur masin kelmarin
bulu sudah botak, keredut macam katak

bukan lagi semut, bukan lagi lintah
sudah jadi belut, pandai hisap dadah

+

PENCUCI MULUT

dia datang, dia sampai, dia membawa Clorox
untuk menggores impian ku
untuk mencuci mulut ku
kemanisan ayat kelamin karat
perang rasanya

dia datang, dia warnakan semua deria ku
kelabu

+

MENGAPA

Mengapa takde kasut
untuk dijilat lepas terpancut?
Mengapa takde maksud
yang tersangkut dalam selimut?

Mengapa kau berbisu
lepas mandi berahi?
Bukankah kau tuhan
seks berapi?

+

LUTSINAR

pada suatu malam, ingat, mereka kembali pada aku, untuk aku,
pada masa itu aku renungi laptop, aku sedang menunggu
seperti mereka sebelum mereka mula bergerak, tetapi kerana
aku menunggu terlalu lama untuk bebas dari belenggu
aku tersuntuk masa, aku seperti disentak senja
dan mereka pun mengangkat aku pergi, aku pun mengangkat kaki,
aku pun bersiar-siar ke dunia lutsinar,
di mana tanah itu kaca, di mana dinding itu syurga,
sejarah sehalus sekeping kertas dibelah cahaya,
aku cuba menulis tetapi tulisan ghaib di mata,
mereka seperti tak akun berhenti menyakinkan aku
yang masa itu telah habis, sudah sampai
dan mereka tiada lagi pilihan, jadi aku pun kembali

tengoklah baik-baik, aku hanya segenggam pasir berwarna
yang terbeku dalam perspex lutsinar malam,

tengoklah baik-baik, kau hanya budak menggeleng kepalanya,
bedak seperti salji sekeliling mu, pada suatu malam,
ingat,

kau kembali pada aku, untuk aku, pada masa itu aku intai
lubang di karat pintu,
aku sedang menunggu

Forgive Him

2009-01-31T02:07:00.001-08:00

And so it was...
that the dog appeared,
licked my face awake
and told me “Forgive him.”

Startled, I sat up.
Felt around for my glasses.
And what did I find instead?
Tears. Goddamn tears in my eyes.

So I’ve been crying.
Again.
Fuck this shit.
Fuck that dog.

The mornings are hardest.
At night, at least,
I just drink and pass out.
But mornings the dog comes.

His hot breath in my face.
Panting like he’s training for a marathon.
Begging for forgiveness.
Fucking dog.

And yet he is sweet.
And I know it’s because
he just wants to be happy.
But I’m not happy.

I’m angry.
And I’m sad.
There’s a dog in my head.
And my thoughts stink of dog breath.

So, alas, try as I might,
I cannot forgive him.
And that’s when the cat comes
and says, “Let him go.”

Under Your Skin

2009-01-29T00:11:00.000-08:00

Do you wear what you wear
to hide your woes?
That lovely smile.
That skin of yours.

Does it matter if you hate
the things you see?
This shell you polish.
The invisible "me".

Why should it matter—
what they think of you?
Your secrets with their allure
of everything untrue.

The place where you hid
the junk and the mess.
The terrible things you did
just as a test

to see if you could break
what was already broke.
The hand that bit itself.
History’s cruel joke.

But can anything hurt
if nothing's at the core?
No kisses for the boy
who gave nothing more.

The boy whose own skin
couldn't sheathe his pain.
And the man you became
in your hunger to be him.

The Amazing Distance

2009-01-14T21:56:00.000-08:00

Distance is a maze of amazement.
It’s a play on words and sounds,
a sudden knowing
in courtship, when your hands
reach out to grasp at something
and you find mine
struggling to get away
and lead you deeper into the maze.

Because when you lean into me
to meet my lips,
you’ve traveled further than you ever had.
And I was just beginning to understand,
naive as I’d been,
the cul-de-sac I thought my love had led to
was actually an enchanted door
requiring of me an “Open Sesame”.

So deeper we go,
and deeper we go,
deeper into the maze until
it becomes everything we know
of each other and ourselves.
Until all the fear we felt
became, in a word, and a sound, amazing.

What at first seemed broken
turned out to be a way in.
What first appeared to be deception
was really just comic intervention.
Every single thing we thought we knew
was nothing more than the skin
of what we truly felt.

And we knew what we had could never be
sad, because even though we were so close,
we had already traveled much further
than we ever had.
With this thing that we still share.
And what can be more amazing than that.
What can be more amazing than that.

The One I Love

2008-12-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

I don't understand the words we made from it.
Thinking didn't clarify at all, nor having felt it.
These two points made it all the more confusing.
Where I stood in relation to you, and where you sat,
naked after consummating what we shared,

my nerves like chocolate foil wrappers strewn
empty of silver after having revealed
the sweetness within.

The sweetness that now gild my mouth
after having made a gift of it.

Sweet words, sweet words.

(What does this mean? The one I love?)

These sweetened words that now lie
meaningless in the silence

that has crept into the best of all possible worlds, this world,
after the kisses that silenced it, after having
refused its share of the glory;

these words became
another secret.

(What does this mean? The one you love?)

The Master's Return

2008-12-03T07:43:00.000-08:00

When he comes back, it feels like

my eyes are finally unclouded.

I look out over the city and sense its

gentle pulsations; its amber glow

and jewels. In every light that burns, I know

a ritual is calling me back

from the absence.

Dark voices

whisper

in my ear.

There are spies everywhere.

From the dull grey of the kitchen knife

to the dirt crescents of my nails,

I can finally see them for what they are.

And from the balcony of my condominium,

I receive missives from my enemies

who have perceived my knowing.

They have seen my head illuminated

like polished silver, unvarnished truth.

Even the crows snipering in the trees

have called a truce.

So this is the aftermath, the post calculation.

Whatever violence that was left

is now garlanded in light.

And you can see him walking down the slope--

the bridegroom in shameless velvet--

to where I sleep

enchanted.

With songs, he rouses me to wakefulness.

With kisses, he douses me to hopefulness.

“It’s time to write again, my love.

For our master has returned.”

And he looks at me, his eyes

sparkling with a desire

to begin our story again.

Jealousy, Bourgeois and Common

2008-12-02T07:40:00.000-08:00

Barthes wrote of jealousy as bourgeois and common—

but there’s nothing common about my jealousy.

My jealousy is a boy soldier strung between Koreas.

My jealousy is Daniel Dennett dreaming of angels.

My jealousy is a terrorist singing to his timebomb.

My jealousy is the garland around Judy's throat.

My jealousy refuses fakery; how can it be bourgeois?

Roland be damned, you know nothing about jealousy.

Jealousy is a madman screaming at Mona Lisa.

Jealousy is the Twin Towers as a blockade of cinders.

Jealousy is a child shuffled like mahjong pieces.

Jealousy is Mother Theresa's refusal to be forgotten.

Mystery Boy

2008-11-05T22:52:00.001-08:00

This one hides his nose in his books, in his books.
This one sleeps like a hamster inside my hands.
This one's a little boy, without a care in the world.
This one's many mysteries only hinted at with a smile.

But where do they hide their hearts, I wonder?
Where do they sleep when I'm dreaming in his bed?
How many riddles should I write into poem?
So he'd smile for me: a most reckless hint.

Treasure Chest

2008-10-06T13:30:00.001-07:00

I guess it was easy to overlook

the most certain of things;

taking for granted

the most obvious of things.

How the pendant gets noticed

as it hangs there in the desert,

instead of the scar.

How the motive to let it hang there

is eclipsed because the eyes just can’t seem to look away.

And so I guess because I can’t

(and because in other ways I did),

I erred on the side of bliss. And I ignored you,

walked down that valley, looking

like some idiot adventurer

for the lost chest of gold,

treasure I just can’t seem to ignore.

Knowledge

2008-10-06T13:21:00.001-07:00

I think of laughter the same way

a child discovers

how to overcome

his fear.

And this fear that has engulfed me—

I am smiling at it.

The wickedness

I am capable of—

I will cherish this forever.

Yours and Yours Alone

2008-04-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Imagine how sad you would feel

if you found out
your father was Hitler and he had
bequeathed you his will.

Not the kind of will written on paper
nor the kind fondled by lawyers, but the will
that is power

stored in one’s heart—like a whisper.

No, I would not blame you for feeling sad, or lost,
or even ashamed.

Imagine if you had no choice
but to listen to this whisper
grow slowly like a rose, or a tumour,

invading your fibre
as ink does a stain. As though it were
a seedling conceived in
rape.

Who can blame you for wanting
to abort
that kind of history?

What kind of monster would cherish
the suffering of six million faces
pressed against a death mask
carved as a grin?

I would not blame you if you chose to take your life.
Is it not yours to keep and give away as you wish?

Surely your father wouldn’t have wanted you
to have that choice
to make—so why should you give him

the choice?

Is not your imagination yours and yours alone—
to wield and fashion into any weapon you like?

If the memories that still haunt your path
cannot imagine you without their hands and mouths
sucking on yours,

then whose imagination was it you really inherited?

Imagine how terrible it would be
if it were yours
and yours alone.

Sal/Salt

2008-03-01T05:02:00.000-08:00

El sabe
como el océano.
Un océano que trepa fuera de sí mismo
y se endurece encarnado.

El entra
como el océano.
Un oceano que llena tan completamente
Me ahogo en sus brazos.

(Translation by Omar Feliciano)

(Appeared first on noplaztikmachin.blogspot.com)

*

He tastes
like the ocean.
An ocean that climbs out of itself
and hardens into flesh.

He enters
like the ocean.
An ocean that fills so completely
I Drown in his arms.

The Woman outside the Painting

2008-02-28T09:28:00.000-08:00

for Frida Kahlo

is wearing a dress much like the dress
the woman in the painting
is wearing.

She looks as intense, equals her gaze.
Unflinching, the both of them,
like sisters who truly know
what the other admitted
in secret.

“You’re not the one who paints me,”
one of them cries out at night.
“You can’t make me
pick up the brush
just because it’s what you want.”
And on and on it goes, the paintings multiply,
day by day, the tally uneven.

Until in truce one day they both stand
in a gallery retrospective, side by side.
One smiling but fragile
as crystal. The other unflinching,
having already won
her battle.

Election Day

2008-02-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

There’s electric in the air.
They’re throwing tractors in the air.
They’re giving everyone twenty ringgit
just to hand them back their mandate.

Little towns all over the country
are strung through with banners and posters
of candidates pondering for the people
“What will be your fate?”

The streets quiver with emotion.
It’s like the whole country married money.
“Who’s going to win?” the people roll their eyes.
“Who’s going to bankroll the rural seats?”

Look. Look.
Here comes another entourage.
Candidates in billowing batik silks
raise linked hands, rehearsing the victory.

The whole village is dressed up
like a boy for his circumcision.
Call your uncles and your aunties.
They’re going to slaughter a cow today.

“Thank you” the candidates say,
and they sit down to prayers
and dinners in front of big TV screens,
waiting for their faces to appear.

All of a sudden, smiles are creasing
across the country.
Tractors are being thrown in the air.
Whoever needs a tractor, a tractor he will get.

People stop to watch the tractors.
Or put on a face to show that they care.
Children in schools are stupidly comparing
“Who will your parents vote for?”

Uncles and aunties host impromptu meetings.
Saying “Ai-yah! It doesn’t matter one!”
Pointing fingers at the broken scales of justice.
“Why you always vote for the losers?”

But who’s the real loser here?
Why should it matter why you’re running?
As long as you’re running,
you’re running, right?

Because everyone wants power.
You want power. I want power.
They want power. We want power.
Everyone wants a piece of that tractor.

Because it’s one day every five years
that power rests in everyone’s hands.
And that kind of power is like an all-you-can-eat.
But that kind of power, mister, doesn’t come cheap.

“You think you own this town?”
They say “You think just because
it’s a democracy, you can hand it over
to the communists?”

“You’re a fool! A traitor!
A traitor to your people! A traitor to your race!
Like a pea that’s forgotten its nut!
Traitor! Traitor! That’s what you are!”

They wipe the glorious sweat off their faces.
They think “What now?” while marking little Xs.
In moist polling stations where their choices are already made.
In little towns where things will (most) probably stay the same.

Will the phantoms ride the buses again?
Will the daggers come out to play again?
It’s election day, everyone!
Isn’t it fun? Isn’t it fun?

Flesh

2008-02-02T11:39:00.000-08:00

Stars
like memories
of a fireworks display.

The moon a half-pried
bosom
in a half-lit room.

Secret Universe

2008-01-29T11:44:00.001-08:00

You may think I'm referring
to the colour of his skin. I am
not. I refer to
the colour
of the sky,

that night,

when he pointed the viewfinder
at Taurus, between the two
tips of the horn.

Peering first, he spoke of
what humans can see with the naked eye.

And then there is the thing that no one can.

Morning

2008-01-28T09:39:00.000-08:00

Moments
after sunrise,
the palm rafters of the house

slice light
and shadow into

luminous tigers
across wooden walls.

There,
among shapes of
furniture, they stalk
the day
like tear-away calendars

to land

on the backs of
other shapes
who stir.

Kittens

2008-01-28T07:24:00.000-08:00

In the sunken courtyard,
broken foot pavers
cradle warm soft
kittens.

The mother high up
on a window ledge

looks down

through snags of creepers
and glories.

Sunlight in various
jigsaw pieces
climb the stairs

as faint meowing
pads through
the abandoned bungalow.

Just now, a darting moth
distracts her.