Words.

End Ride
These are sad lines that I write tonight
as I hurtle my way home on this mass
commuter train that trails through the
suburban jungle of my democratic nation.
No one around me smiles, no one talks at
all, all look away into some created
distance far enough not to be touched by
anyone, not even themselves.
Some sleep. Some grab at their chins.
Some cross their legs. Many fold their arms.
On the left side of me a baby wails
on the right side of me a baby wails
yes they’re unsatisfied, just like everyone else,
the babies know in them they’ve been born
to die. The drive towards death.
Everyone’s thinking, I see the frowns that
they wear on their faces. It’s evident,
they know that they are being flung
towards an end when they know not.
I’m taking this all in, soaking up the
pleasure of sadness, to put all these in
words. Yes, we’re all fucked, whether we like it or not.

Rainy Night
Falling rain, cloaking blanket,
no one is spared.
Streetlamps illuminate their
intensity, hidden from
naked myopic eyes.
Light winds blow a mist
across our faces,
each speck brings up
awareness another notch,
feel the light hits on
our skin, sideways, and
headlong we could plunge ourselves
into the wet darkness.
But we do not.
No more heads but domes,
bobbing up and down
along beetles with
flicking feelers.
The rain persists still.

Autour de moi
Qui-est là?
J’écoute…
Je sais vous êtes ici.
Comment ça?
Comment vous me cherchez?
Pourquoi?
Laissez-moi.

J’aurais voulu faire constater aux sceptiques que la mort est vraiment une maladie dont on revient.

-Marcel Proust, «À la recherche du temps perdu»; «Sodome et Gomorrhe».

I met that old man just now. My neighbour. He smiled, and chatted with me. he had just gone out to buy lunch. Lunch for one person. He was alone. it seemed to me as though he was trying to be happy, trying to be unaffected. Yet, I saw that the sockets of his eyes were hollowed out, deepened from those sleepless nights. I could see that he had not shaved, for there was fresh stubble on his chin. Had he forgotten? Or had someone stopped reminding him? Or did he stop bothering anymore simply because it doesn’t matter anymore? He tried to keep up the conversation and appearances, but I stumbled. I did not know how to translate my English thoughts into Hokkien. And to think that we were talking about translation. Then we said goodbye. He turned, and shuffled back to his door, whist I lingered at the threshold of my door, contemplating his hunched back and drooping head, that seemed alot lower than the week before.

Do you think I am mad? Without her! Man! what are you made of? To think that she moves, lives, breathes out of my sight. I am jealous of the wind that fans her, of the air she breathes, of the earth that receives the caress of her foot, of the sun that looks at her now, while I… I haven’t seen her for two days – two days.

-Joseph Conrad, An Outcast of the Islands.

One word: a favour.
and then a conversation:
consuming landslide.

The Body
And this body moved without
me thinking,
shifting about taking action
free from my hand.
Who takes responsibility for it?
When some
goes wrong at all
can I be held culpable
over a seemingly uncontrollable
body that holds so many
signifiers that point in a multitude
of directions.
It will evolve even without the mark
as it trails off into
the empty spaces ahead of it.

One word: a favour.
A conversation then?
A cascading waterfall.

Monday Blues
To look forward to the beginning
of the week,
for that space of
fifteen minutes of fame,
wherein I would say
nothing
but look to listen
attentively,
yearning for just a word
to fall, to spring forth,
that would guide the rest
of the week.
Should there be more…

And the blues will
fall like hail
crashing down upon me
as I live through
the moment,
pondering over possibilities
imagining the impossibilities
all these coming not
single spies
but…

When that window is closed,
the rest of the week
will be silence.