readjustments.

need some mental readjustments. been blahing on women(and 1 girl) for too many posts, so i shut up now on that and write about other things.

like work.

work is crap. actually my job is pretty fun, we build visuals, as in we make the clients' presentation presentable by putting together a couple of pricey audio visual equipment. we design and built av (not adult video, but that is good too) systems for clients like fujixerox, oracle, mtv, etc etc. by and large, the work is bloody fun. requires many late nights and early mornings too, but when you're in the mood, the morning comes pretty quick.

the people are not so fun.

i just came back from the exhibition. so many many people i know and don't wanna know there. we're the new kid on the block, 4 years old, this industry is unique; it's so small and cannibalistic that everyone came from somewhere else within the industry. i.e. much poaching. i myself came from another larger outfit. so there's loads of finger pointing, tongue-wagging and crap-shitting by everyone.

i stand guilty too.

sometimes its hard to take shit lying down and like what chris one of my colleagues said, (and himself also a former bigwig of another much much much larger outfit) i know what are the wrong buttons to press in others and i must, diedie must press them. i dun disagree. i found out after 5 odd years in the industry that i actually have a foul temper and a mean streak. not a good thing. who could boast of a resignation highlighted by slamming the table on the boss?

oh god. i changed quite a bit from my patrician days.

anyway had some time to write while surveying a government project that we are currently undertaking, and reworked the old poem in the previous post. methinks this is better, what say you?

***

Luck.

Newspaper lady, a stall by the road,
hawking cigarettes under the table,
making wedding plans.

Just opposite, an anonymous accident.
Everyone stops to gawk, take numbers,
a long queue is expected at the lotteries tonight.

Where a twenty-four year old girl mans the booth,
testing surnames with her name.
Someday a winner will come to claim her hand,
with a smile.

There is one today; A Mr. So and so
with the bright eyes and the paid entourage.
He has the winning ticket in hand and
a suitable girl in mind.
He wonders:
"Will I be lucky tonight?"

***

listening to: random radio i think i remember hearing hootie and the blowfish.
reading: simic, walking the black cat - no one, and i mean no one can hallucinate as well as simic. brilliant.

p.s. the imagery of the fat woman with the wedding plans comes from simic's "Roach Motel": "...And a fat woman with a husky voice./She drinks gin of a bottle,/sways her hips to the radio,/Has wedding plans." of course, his' is way better, i must say.

chance.

here, here an odd odd day. (tues)

what are the chances? meeting 3 people in quick sucession whom i should have had small chances of meeting in a normal day? odd.

first: the lg girl
ok not so odd that i meet her, but she has switched dept and no longer has the pleasure of dealing with muy. (sigh..) still cute as hell, and cuter than hell donning glasses. shared small talk and "long-time-no-sees" with her but had to beat a hasty retreat before her colleague start teasing us again. still, wow. chance encounter because i wasnt intending on going up if not to take the demo disc from meiling (also very cute but not my type).

2nd: li lian
took my degree with her, she's joys' clone. same surname, same look, even talk the same. my introduction line to her was: "u look a lot like someone i know." at a bus stop no less. first and only girl i ever went up to introduce myself, and with that stinker of a pickup line. thinking of joys makes me do really stupid things.

she didnt recognise me even though we were face to face, i didnt pursue the matter. i guess i am a ghost in her life now. long story. still looking good though. i wonder if she has left sia?

kept wondering if this was a prelude to joys coming back.

3rd: cheryl
my worldly cousin, born a month earlier than me, looking weathered and beat. citibanker. she's been there for a while. parting words to me: "don't tell your daddy that i'm smoking!" i felt the rectangular bulge in my pocket, smiled back, and said "ok!".

have realised that i've been blahing about women for the last few blog entries, oops. hormones. tricky thing u know.

anyway, something i wrote on the subject matter a long time ago. (some changes)

****

Luck.

Fat lady by the roadside, selling papers,
hawking cigarettes under the table,
making wedding plans.

You wonder how the lucky guy looks like.

Father of two buys the papers,
he’s a whistler with a song in his mind,
as he strolls into no. 58A marked with red neon.

Someone’s gonna get lucky tonight.

Just turned 16 and on to the best JC next year,
sends her man out;
her list includes Coca Cola and
"don't forget the condoms."

With luck he won't be gone long.

The bell rings, her number is called.
the door opens, she waits with same rehearsed look.
It’s the whistler, with the papers.

Lucky me, lucky you.


***

listening to: rainnie yang going off key on the telly. but so kawaii so who cares?!
reading: gunter grass: my century. really. i try to be intellectual sometimes, am failing miserably though.


___

transit.

she's (joys) coming back. not for good. but in transit to genting with the parentals. on the eve of christmas eve. typically a period of reflection for muy. not just because it's a catholic holiday, but because it's company policy to be bo-chap during major holidays. i.e. cny, christmas, any holiday falling on fri or mon.

i am so totally not feeling anything joyous about her return.

i learnt the hard way the last time that expecting too much from her leads to us having our yearly bicker session. bickering through emails is so bloody sad. imagine being pissed and showing it but still having to wait a day for an equally pissed-off reply.

and reading it in the middle of a pissy day.

read some girl's blog recently about her baiting some young guy. very funny. reminded me of a poem i once wrote...

***

Race Queen


It’s you and your bored looks at the junction,
a pale temptation framed against
those lights that were left to us.
We finally have something in common;
two people waiting for something to fall.
Your companion can’t stop grinning,
has his hands chained round you,
challenging me for rights to you.
Mischievously, you blew your smoke over
as an incentive to a chase.
Then the lights dropped to green
and we lost ourselves in the distance.
Till we reached the same speed, in different cars
the fastest we could ever reach;
Mine, because it was the best I could;
His, because it was all he would.
Even then, you went faster still
till the next junction, months from now,
it is you;
in a different cut, car, driver, same look
me, in a different tie, cab, same me, still me.

***

listening to: julie delpy: je t'aime tant - just something about a chick singing in french... niccccceeeee....
reading: george mackay brown: ocean of time - sparse style, salt of the earth = excellent

___

fire.fire.

i love playing with fire.

yesterday morning had to drag myself down to office to prep the projectiondesign (read: bloody ex. projector) for ranjit, who true to his nature played me out. again. the only cool thing about this is that i learned from ranjit (aka p.i. or pitiful idiot), that me kopitiam kaki, ranjit's trusted crony, gul is back from programming almost all of reliance india.

about damn time. must drag gul out for kopi.

having been played out, which i actually anticipated, i called mr. cyril wong yit mun, premier love-poet (they realli don't know what they were getting themselves into by calling him that) of his generation and singapore (who has requested that i not shorten his beautiful name to just cy.) for brunch.

lounged at his place with him and beng liang while we waited for gaston, sheo to come for tea. by then, had kinda figured that it would be a food-oriented sunday. i think it was when beng liang asked me straight up when i went in whether i was interested in peanut pancakes.

yada yada yada, bitch bitch bitch (actually just cyril wong yit mun) wrote something (see previous post), insult others. the drill.

beng liang took out his boots for polishing and i cringed at the sound of the kiwi tin dropping on the floor. the memories the memories!

gaston came, the topic shifted to women. cyril wong yit mun naturally wilted and turned bored.

so we went for tea and intestinals joined us. after that, i had to split to meet current applicant for dinner, she wanted to pierce her ears so i tagged along for some moral support, so cute to see her cringe in pain, expectations, expectations. literally haha.

anyway she looked kinda cute yesterday.

then she asked me "do u have a blog?" with the accusing eyes.

i was going like damn, did i write anything incriminating which she read? then answered a hesitant yes... (stretched) to which she replied that she also has a blog. (sigh of relief)

hers is on running so i told her mine is primarily focused on poetry, whilst "forgetting" to tell her there's quite a large chunk of personal info on board too.

it's not that i wanna lie to her, but i wanna keep my outlets. i did a little test yesterday so am pretty sure that based on the info she has on me it will be next to impossible for her to get the location of this blog.

i haven't figured her out yet.

give a little time.

oh, a serious subject poem which i did some work on few days back:

***

The Men I Worked With

I couldn'’t mask my fascination
at getting my first hard hat.
Despite twenty-four years of being me
I worked childishly at fitting it, right
there, in front of everybody.
He found it amusing;
one of my men, Ah Keng,
my last real roughneck. A steal
because he was too old to command his price.
Twenty years of construction,
You could see it in the man;
all rock bones and built, a gut
made of beer, polished by a combination of
sand and economic rice.
Shake his hand,
cop a feel of his sandpaper hands,
and run your fingers through his map of hidden cuts
that will never heal right.
If you want to watch him work,
keep your eyes on his boots
and how he will wear
even these new ones out,
walking on too much steel and concrete.
He'’d come to me every morning
a packet of black coffee hanging from his fingers,
a smile through teeth stained by nicotine
and roadside tar,
from a face cemented with that look
like I was the son
he raised building other people'’s houses,
on other people's wood and stone
and took through secondary school, RJC, University,
America
in that coarse accent and talk
that everyone had to learn to love.
The son that married the English girl,
The son who lives in London now.
He writes me a letter about once a month,
Ah Keng said in his defence
but they don'’t talk about women
or the money he keeps promising to send.
Anyway, you should see Ah Keng go at it.
He'’d be up a scaffold
before you can don your goggles
and cut through metal like how he eats.
You wonder what keeps him going like that
anymore.
I offered my help once
but all he wanted, was for me
to hold his hat for a little while.

***

listening to : dickie chicks - landslide: am a covert dickie chicks fan, run, the american country madness is contagious.
reading: billy colin's picnic, lighting.


__

ku-niang.

f- heavens, (blasphemy) me writings starting to sound like a ku-niang! (see fag-worthy poem below)

must be cy's fault. to counter, need presence of women (select)

pls apply if you fit the requirements:

1) cute as hell
2) shorter than me
3) cuter than hell when wearing glasses
4) very important: female (at birth and presently)

ladies, lari kuat kuat, it's for a good cause. :)


***

Fearful

of losing time over-counting
whatever I spend on you.
It will never be enough
and I will always be in debt
to someone else, somewhere else.
I have the records, itemised.
Could you pay them back?
Will you promise?

I called you
till my voice gave up and ran away,
Called you with long wires and plastic cups,
redialed, no answer.
Lover, stone woman, bitch,
names have no ill-effect on you.
I already know your reply:
I'll call you back.
Which is when exactly?
Soon
that word has become a vowel to you.
Buy, buy, buy.

***

listening to: cy bitch on the mobile
reading: james haug's poems. excellent. veri good. my kind of fellow.

__

summon-ed.

kena summon.

a good friend of mine from st pat's, ex-schoolmate, scouts, blah blah blah, has done the unthinkable. he summon-ed me to his wedding at the marina mandarin tonight. damn they are all getting themselves tied down.

first jem, now leonard, i mean its fine if it's my female friends, (coz at 28, a lot of them got them ticking clocks going at urgent speed) it's about right, mayyyybe a little late, (good and bad thing, princess might just say, oh to hell with choice and fall into me waiting arms, where she should have been all these 12 years.) but if the guys start this nonsense, then it's trouble man.

it means a couple of important things:

1) i fought me way thru that whole landslide of wedding invites from me female friends, spending a fortune on summons, only to meet head-on in this new batch of me bros getting hitched. wtf, how does a person save $ in singapore?

2) the guys are feeling that it is time. which is scary as hell.

is it time? i get the goosebumps midway whilst carrying my most adorable 18 mth, extremely precocious niece, (micky! i refused to call her by her full name, michaela) so sometimes have to transfer her back to dad while i reel from the thought of marriage and family.

on the other hand, i find myself screening potential dates with a most odd question: do i see myself marrying her? dam thinks i m nuts, but that's coming from a guy who's waist deep in marriage preparation course and on track to wed on may 2006 to princess's ex-schoolmate no less (haha a bonefide cradle-snatcher, he 35 she 28), so his comments dun count.

the people at work and the industry figure i crazy too with my catholic view on marriage and fidelity. (no no, a non-"havoc" catholic is not an oxymoron, yet) esp when i clam up when it comes to ktvs in shanghai. (lets just call it after-hours)

much to think about.

---
listening to: my mother f-ing me about me always wearing jeans.
reading: my friend's friend blog, female, very entertaining.

forgetting.

i have an odd memory. i can sometimes remember really obscure details from years and years ago, but i can forget the short term things alarmingly easily.

i had a fourth stanza for one of me work-in-progress, which i thought could be promising, but for the life of me, i can't remember how it starts.

lppl.

listening to: the citycab jingle
reading: levine's the mercy

joys.

what happens when someone you absolutely adore disappoints you?

it's really a small thing. her forgetting banking administrations. but it starts you analysing. then you realise that time does changes things. she's been in aus for the last 2-3 years and you have forgotten the last remnants of how she sounds like. she's never coming back, is she? sure, you've stopped being in love with her for years now, but you never did stop caring, or so you thought, but the truth is, even that has dwindled to almost a pinch a couple of months back. all that remains is your word and what you promised. her. joy. i once told her that i would do anything to keep her happy. i was wrong.

i feel terrible that i think this way. i think it's called guilt.

i wrote this for her while she was studying in aus:

***

Thinking of You.

On impossibly blue days, with barely enough breeze
to keep this heat just right,
just enough to stay beneath
comforting.
On rainy ones, embracing coffee and cigarettes,
with all your favourite colours in pills strewn before me.
In the living room, devoid of everything that matters.
In the company of friends,
within that hollow space we keep spare,
right inside our laughter.
At sunset.
Until sunrise.
Between crowds, keeping up with names
while yours keeps barging its way through.
Between rides, entertaining myself
with slides of you, you, you.
I am scribing your name into the seats,
hoping you'll read them.
After work, in a back alley on the way
back to the usual.
After breakfast, etched on the faces
of every common girl I meet on the way to work.
All of today.
All of yesterday, the day before, tomorrow
and let's just bulk book the days after that.
Before turning off the lights
one by one.
Before kissing somebody else.

Please.
Come back. I missed you.


***

listeningto: david gray - this year's love. so i could set the mood and be all moody and grim with this gloomy song.
reading: her banking administrations

__

re-attempt/s.

can't sleep.

a collection of images filling up brain. yes, all women. yes, yes, all not mine. and yes, damn.

i have to admit this, poetry is not going be a sufficient substitute. but short of everything else, it must do. here's some re-attempt at a couple i posted here (i think, lazy to check)

***

the 2 g.koh gpa-"inspired" remixes.

Husband-less (remix)

So
he is dead.
Finally

he is only
a newspaper clipping
that would yellow,
and fold away
into her routine.

At least now,
over the space
of these next few years
she could rewrite him
entirely into myth

where he is blameless
and she is his only
heroine, priestess
of his cult, loyally

tending to him
on that altar,
his 15 centimetres worth
of dead space, and totally
insensitive
to everything
she once
believed of him.

***

Strolling (remix)

Apa holds my boy’s hand
as they paddle their feet
across the start of the sea
together.

My son believes
he could staple each wave
to the sand with just a stomp
of his precious foot.

I know my father's reactions by heart.
I am his son and I laugh with
him at my boy's antics.
I hear it in the labour of his chuckles
as they drum the air.
It won’t be long now

when my son’s grip shall rival,
then exceed his,
and I shall be made
to stand there, watching
his weaken, droop,

reminding my son not to cry, and
hoping that I could bind
his existence to us
just by holding on to his hand.

***

the stinker from 2 posts prior.

***

The Test

Another unsuccessful applicant
crying in the adjacent bathroom.
Washing me
off her hands,
right now.
Any minute now,
she would slam that door.

Pity.
I fancied her.
her fragile Chinese cut and
that talcum feel,
I lost my grip
trying to slip my arms around
her schoolgirl waist,
faking laughter
as we fell.

I was fooling myself
with her hair.
Purposely short, so she could be
freed from bonds,
like yours.
That perfume;
I would have bought the same one for you.
i would have gone right there and then.
Tasting her lips,
I think I called your name
post impact.

I set this up.
Practically asked for it.
Halfway through the flight
of stairs leading up to all this,
I suspected she would excel
in the mimicry of you.
I depended on it.

***

yeah, finally sleepy. shall sleep on it, see whether tomorrow could have turned these into more stinking bastards.


reading: simic's a wedding in hell. i like his kind of evil.
listening to : the 2 grandfather clocks beat the time. believe it or not, it helps me sleep.

__

stinker minkers.

stinkers. i wrote absolute stinkers, that last one reads really badly.

depressed.

wats worse, was caught in the after 8.30am jam at my place because i got the cab late, and because this rural ulu place has only one, one f-ing road of any use to me. ok, fine, count the tpe, two, two f-ing roads of any use to me. and i had to be there at 8.30 coz sandy needs me there to go through my invoicing.

apparently, i have a terrible habit of forgetting to invoice my clients. how embarrassing.

where do i stay? sengkang. ulu right? i can see comprehension dawning on your face. i have long abandoned riding the bus/lrt/mrt, damn the price, have been calling for my ride to work for *gasp* almost a year now.

oh, only license i have is a tv license, and even that is a “i-think-so”

i bet the jam is because they decided it was a great time to cut trees or “repair” roads. it is not f-ing moving. bad bad day.

oh. ambulance behind. hmmm.. accident. oh, eh mea culpa, mea maximus culpa?

oh, on a high note, current applicant (nothing to do with stinker poem) sms-ed me yesterday out of the blue, after disappearing for like 3 days, apologising for lack of comm. i can’t figure her, she’s a hot/cold blower. but that’s cool, i like the space. she wants dinner, i can never do weekdays, (unless she’s princess, then taking time off work is a no problemo) so i guess its sun. i haven’t gotten myself eating into her sat schedule. hmmm, shall attempt to squeeze me way in someday.

looks like the weekend has been more or less filled. sat with cy for a book launch, sun dinner with her. in between shall sandwich a couple of books. hmmm.. sleep is 2nd/3rd priority, am a late sleeper (late is 2-3am) early riser (7 on the damn dot) but take forever to warm up brain to coherence.

am gonna seek comfort in levine. (or if princess would find it in her heart to buzz me...)

plath.

i think the first proper book of poetry i've ever read was by plath.

either plath or dylan thomas. i still like reading plath a lot, i think i got sick of dylan t really quick. i liked plath's raw feeling. the woman has talent, but it never really got a proper chance to be refined, eh u know because of erh.. the oven thingy.

i liked her insecurities, u can feel it haunting her poems, how she would be controlling the poem until a certain point then just when it gets tight, she releases a whole stream of brilliance. (doesn't work all the time though) i think it stems from how she was jealous that hughes was rightly a better poet than she ever would be. i think that jealousy helped, it fueled her writing. it may be blasphemy, but i think if she survived, she would have faded. badly.

try reading ariel and birthday letters at the same time, it's quite the one-two, like an intense male-female tennis match, but you'll see why i said ted hughes is stronger.

i mentioned before (somewhere) that her poem "The Applicant" was my personal fav of hers. the one below isn't what i would count as a remix since even the themes are different, so i guess it's an "inspired by".

****

The Test

In the adjacent bathroom;
Another unsuccessful applicant.
I believe she's crying,
washing her hands off me,
right now.
Any minute now,
she would slam that door.

Pity.
I fancied her. That talcum feel,
her fragile Chinese cut and
skin so smooth I lost my grip
slipping these hands around
her schoolgirl waist.
I remembered laughing
as we fell.

I was fooling myself with her hair.
Purposely shortened,
freed from the burden of bonds,
like yours.
That perfume,
I would have bought the same one for you.
The taste of her lips
biting my tongue,
I think I called out your name
post impact.

I know I asked for it.
Somewhere in the flight
of stairs leading up to all this,
I have already guessed that
she would excel
in the mimicry of you.

****

jambrake.

must jambrake. too much remix is screwing up brain. plus the brain pain has not subsided. the hamster one is still mind-numbingly painful, i think its hard to identify sincerely/truthfully with a hamster without finding it funny.

here's some work in progress:

****

Confessions

1. Perv

Of course I know your name.
You tagged it right
above your left breast
and let it tell.
You are the pixie pulling days
at the Penny Black
because your nights are fully booked.
You are the student packer at Borders
who confessed it down
Fantasy and Literature A to D
that you have lost it.
I am losing it, because
you are almost younger than legal
and you served me beer at Sunset Bay
in a red sleeveless with the word
Bilabong
stamped on your ass, brazen.
I wanted to make my offer,
but I guessed
you would have refused my name.

2. Priest

Father, forgive me,
I consumed the full view
of the plain thing on pew no. 10
left of sanctuary,
behind the posse of fat ladies
who feed me and
think all priests are angelic.
They believe I am staring at them
and bask in the pain of my smile,
winking me their dedications.
I'll win them no favors.
But if I could I would have
called her out from where ever I stood:
Ask her about life outside pew no. 10,
how far she goes for love,
demarcate her limitations
and what happens when she leaves
left from sanctuary.

3. 17

He broke me without ceremony there
and then at the foot of the bed
of a four by four room
on the fourth floor of a nameless hotel
someone recommended him.
Not so much the sex
or the way he tore
my skirt without formality
just the way he stares straight into me.
he offers nothing, not even his name
but days later at work, when I see him again,
a shiver between shelves
of books nobody buys to read.
I remember the silence of his sex.
Somewhere between the disapproval
of the taxi driver
who delivered us to nameless hotel no. 2
and the vampiric stab of his bite
I hear my mother repeating
"You are Catholic."
and then very little else.

****

i am obviously short a few stanzas. i am still figuring out the other characters. if u can't tell yet, the characters have to be linked together, or have relations. e.g. mother, or father.

any suggestions? taxi driver? hmmm...

listening to: ain't no sunshine by freddie king - one word: fierce.
reading: ariel by sylvia plath - and my fav feminist poem is *drum roll* "The Applicant" - good stuff.
also reading: fires by raymond carver - my fav poet, warts and all, bar none. philip levine comes a distant second.

__

rodents.

i suddenly remembered my hamster poem.

that one got printed in capsule (some singaporean anthology) and was my very very first published work, in print and still, very unfortunately, still available in the library (actually libraries, i think i gave marine parade library a copy long time ago), of all places. i keep telling cy (who also has stuff in it, but nothing he wants to burn. he likes capsule, actually i really do too, just not me in it.) that i have this burning wish to erase this from print and walk away from it.

since i cannot, and because an old flame once called it "a very cute poem" and since i am in the dj mix mood (like my salesguy said: "club dj and djdj veri diffffelent one!") shall try darn bestest of bestest to remix it.

*crack fingers, snuff cigarette,* here goes:

circle streets (original as printed in capsule)

The cars, they run the circle streets,
little dots in harmonious replay
round and repeat with no hope of destination,
like hamsters hard at their wheels.
Never ending, never knowing.
We run our own circle streets
round and repeat till we die
either of exhaustion or despair
it matters not which.
And so ending, we are mocked,
by other hamsters
hard at their own wheels.
Who in turn laugh their own who fall,
and they, those before.
and so, round and repeat, with no sight
of a beginning.
And as before, no end.

We, hamsters hard at our beloved wheels.
Round and repeat,
round and repeat.
Never knowing, never ending.

****

the remix

my hamster's wheel

I brought my hamster to the window
as a break
from his wheel and routine
of seeds and newspaper fillings
to point at cars, the traffic
repeating the lanes
scouring the exits
for scraps of a destination.

I filled his water as I watched him
haul himself back into the wheel,
hesitate for a moment before
the wheel starts turning again.
He'll be up all night
until he arrives at his destination.

I went back, for
a cup of coffee,
the table, the keyboard, the monitor
the mouse
wondering
how much longer my head would take
to stop spinning.

****
aiyah.. cannot still. but brain pain. give me a while...

rerun.

am so in the nostalgic mood for older stuff, amongst my first few submissions is my "morning, truce" poem. eh.. due to administrative error, it ended up being printed in quite a few places, santa clara review (print) first, then salt river (net), then shampoo (also net) or is it softblow (net, net, net) first? anyway, here it is. again.

Morning, Truce.

I rose before you did
in that hazy half-light
between dawn and today.

In an anonymous window
right across the street,
someone else,
intent on cracking an egg

trying to make breakfast and
already, an ambulance

turning cold by the sidewalk.
Paramedics hang around,
squatting by the pavement.
A few coffee addicts
wait for their shift to end.

A light breeze enters to rearrange your hair.
I closed the windows
as softly as I could,

for you to sleep on it a little more
at least till your eyes dried

Quietly, I cleared the pieces
of a broken something,
and after that, the rest of everything

then returned to the sofa,
pretended to be asleep

so we could all lie a little longer.

****

listening to: my head spin, got headache... ahhhh...

watching: taiwanese teen drama with the volume muted, for reasons u can guess.

reading: a whole load of "chicken soap, serious stuff" singaporean poetry blogs, it's like reading the new paper, a different kind of pleasure.

new project.evil.

woah. i say again woah.

i just like that word..

i have a new poetry project... muhahaha. getting all exciting working on it. such fun. cy and brunch has flew the coop and fluttered all the way to god knows where, so it'll be a pretty quiet weekend (of course, unless current female interest comes a calling) anyways, i get a chance to work on this i guess. and of course, my real work projects for lta, and the juniper house will fill brain with enough technical fun-filled problems to drown away the hours.

someone (a client) called me a consultant today. while flattering, i am not one, no way dude. sides i place low value on that name, con-sultants. hahah. CON-sultants. private joke.

i think i like being eric better.

woah (hey i like that word) hey, me ibook just did a cuckoo clock impression, veri cool...

****

watching: the hours. - butttt..why??!! the hours the hours...

listening to: hardest button to button by the white stripes, but actually listening to stephanie sun's 1st album , but i won't admit it, nOOoo. me no do such thingy!

reading: ariel and birthday letters simultaneously, damn the bra-burners, am taking t.h's side!!

hmmmm something is very wrong today...

turntable.2.

hey, that was fun, remixing. sure, the poems come out a tad bit forced, but wtf, i liked the exercise. i hope the dude dun mind... or sue, for that matter... muhahaha..

****

husbandless.remix.

So
he is dead.
Finally he is only
a newspaper clipping
that would yellow
and settle
like dust into her routine.
At least now
over the next few years
she could rewrite him
entirely into myth
where she could be his only
heroine, chief priestess
of his worship,
loyally
tending to his altar,
his 15 centimetres of
dead space, and totally
insensitive
to everything
she once
believed of him.

****
listeningto: bic runga's beautiful collision - aaaah, i always liked a small chick....

gaston. + remix.

i met up with cy, sheo, intestinals, and cy’s protégé, gaston at baker’s inn on sun, for cakes & coffee. gaston, protégé in question, despite his loud (i would have used boorish, but i think i’m worse) character, writes poetry that is remarkably different from his personality. from what little i have read, it is formal (in a very tasteful manner), quiet and explosive when required, and the boy is just 19! ok ok, fine i know, actually age has nothing to do with it, but i keep cringing at the memory that i was writing crap at 19.

anyways, gaston was recently one of the five chosen to be tormented at the golden point prize thingy. i must agree, it was in pretty bad taste; to have 5 poets seated in front of everyone and then to proceed to unceremoniously dump 2 after the announcements.

why such desperation for attendees?

unfortunately for gaston, he was one of the 2. (aaron lee was the other, [no? yes?] which was rather surprising, considering he writes pretty good stuff.) Actually, i would, at least, have attempted to understand what they were thinking if the winning script was superior stuff, but i really (x100) feel that this one was definitely, not it.

the life reporter, kristina tom puts it quite aptly: banal.

but he has his fans. and they see the merit. i must say, even though i really do not feel for the poem, (or the others in the series that i have read) i am pretty fond of his scene.

being even more banal: read bo liao, i have remixed it. ☺

****

walk. remixed.

Apa holds my boy’s hand
as they paddle their feet
across the start of the sea.

My son believes
he could staple each wave
to the sand with just a stomp
of his precious foot.

I know my father’s reaction to this;
his now laborious chuckles
will soon drum the air.
It won’t be long now

when my son’s grip shall rival,
then exceed his,
and I will have to be there, to watch
his weaken, droop,
hoping that I could staple
his existence to us
just by hanging on to his hand.


*****

i know, topic-wise this really isn’t exactly the same. i thought his original ambition was a tad too grand to be fulfilled by what he came up with, and i think this part of the scene is much more precious to write about. note, i don’t think this is better, i am just saying this is how i would have done it, given the scene.

anyway, that was a fun-filled taxi ride, thank god i could ride the jam out. back to work. (boring, boring, borin!)

b.

oh god. how is it when i stay up late i start thinking about her? i wrote something for her some time back and kept tinkering at it, i doubt i might ever complete it but somehow playing with it keeps me happy.

For B.

Because I will be needing you
some time tomorrow,
or
five minutes from just now,
when this phone would have been making
only the softest of sounds,
a small thing at first
and then explode
into the beast
with an urgency
that only I could have dreamt up.
I’ll jump, fly, break everything to
choke it
and it would have been
you
on another end, too far away from here,
gifting me
only the sound of your breath.
Because you know,
the smallest measure of your silence
is more than enough
to subdue me.

B, I would swear to you right now,
with finger blood and all the
multiple crossing of hearts,
exactly the way you taught me;
that the next girl I go out with,
buy flowers for, sleep with,
in short,
my next miscellaneous love,
will bear that exact virus
of your smile.
She will bind her hair
the way you do it,
and cut it short on a whim.
Seek my opinion on buying skirts,
and ignore it anyway.
Laugh at everything I make fun at
and cry only because of me.

grass burners.

feeling low, due to resident fever, so thought i put up some poetry.. ok, maybe just 2..

unus.

have been growing pretty fond of this one. think i'll expand on it...

*****

Burning Grass


You were fired,
some kid with matches, a careless smoker,
God dealing with boredom,
emptied the trees of their marrow
chased the grass at their feet
white with fear
and browned the sparrow chicks
till the sweetness of their meat
soaks the air.
Nearby, the lone vegetarian stall
wins praises
on the purity of their greens.

****

duo.

this one was in qlrs some time back. same theme.

****

We Live Here


We live here.
On the eleventh floor of the hundredth twenty-fifth block,
behind the first black door next to the second grey lift.
The one marked by the crucifix,
jesus with the dust,
the only one we salvaged from the old place
purely
as a counter against our neighbours’ talismans.
One, nailed to their door like ours and
the rest loose on their money plant,
fluttering for attention,
trying to convert the wind.
Like everyone else, we’ve never introduced ourselves,
or shook their hands, or said anything beyond
the slightest hint of a reluctant smile
but imagine that the joss they burn on the altar outside,
to their furious God, bearded and well-armed,
equally coated in dust like ours,
will one day burn us all down.

****

listeningto: nothing. giving brain a rest, fearful that my resident fever might develop into u-know-wat.
reading: simic's selected early poems. i like his style, very frank miller dark knight thingy with the marijauna feel. groovy.

poems.

reworked this one recently so feeling a little proud with what i've done to it.

Matching Talismans

Stepped out of Sunday Mass
onto the road and
straight into his temple.

Told the taxi driver
“take me home.”
but he wanted to introduce me to his idols,
personally.

His Buddhas are strung up like pork,
clinging to his rear view mirror
while clay fairies play
false instruments behind my back.

Impatient,
I asked for his strongest talisman
as a match-up with mine.

He handed over a picture
from beside the speed dial.
“This gets me home safe.”

Two boys beamed at me in matching singlets,
they couldn’t have be more than seven.

Quietly, I returned it to him
with no stronger gods to offer.

***

listening to: aimee mann on repeat - starting to wear on me...