Words.

The Bicycle Ride
Time before anything rose,
but I did,
and we found ourselves
waiting at Longhouse for
the ride to start,
me and her.
Yes, there were others as well,
the Queen of Snails,
a Rock and Roll King,
an Italian Stallion, just
to name a few.
But as far as I was concerned
I saw just the
two of us,
matching each other
even in stroke, as the peloton
rolled out
at 5am on the spot.
Time waits for no rider.
I could feel her spinning
ever so smoothly
like running water
right beneath me
going on and on, stirring…
crossing into subtle joy.
And yet we just rode on,
without saying a single
word to each other.
She wouldn’t? (Or couldn’t?)
We zipped along,
up Prata Hill,
Paul took off, no one followed,
me and her we stayed
snugly in the pack cherishing
the draft and warmth.
The rolling stretch of Mandai
kept us together still, although
it was over too fast for my
liking, for soon we reached
the Shell station, that pit stop
where tired legs and foggy shades
gather and regroup
but still she didn’t say anything
to me as I looked at her
(and sometimes I wonder if
she even knows that I’m
looking at her).
Left, or right,
the pack would split
and that was the end
of my bicycle ride.
To the next ride, then,
whenever that may be,
tomorrow perhaps, which
I, foresee.

Castaway
I claw at them, those untouchable thoughts that thought themselves
into existence, but I slice my fingers through them as though
through black shadows that dance upon the inner walls of caves.
Whose agency is that now that new thoughts should come to my mind
without my conscious conception of them? All around me,
you people, every single one of you, as I tell myself that by my
own choice I harbour you in my mind you become puppets
and then slowly gradually you do my bidding all that I tell you to
which all exists only in my own head.