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There is magic in my lungs
my heart is a cathedral
my tears are waterfalls
my hair is salty and bitter
my knees have scraped
against the hard grain of rigour
they hold the valleys of the world
my hands carve its timber
my brain holds a treasure
existence in a pool
fed by blood so rich
my golden regal tooth
my soul screams the loudest
if I listen to its tune
a hear the golden cymbals
I feel all life illume
by
Things are feeling better now but I don’t know
whether they actually are better. Nothing
has changed – the cogs continue to turn.
The home is panopticon. State is self-surveillance
in the disintegrated human-
every mistake, a crushing boulder,
when one hope is lost, a faint firefly
I still hate myself I still feel like I need help
Have you forgotten how to live? Why
try to do everything yourself? Trauma shrugs
it doesn’t go. Ribcages tighten and collapse
It is much easier to hate and remain inside
to not move forward.
Lungs are out of breath
become again.
“I’m worried about you.
Let’s talk.”
as if talking would change anything
but remind me that I am loved
All I want to proclaim is that I don’t recognise myself.
Love – a question or an open invitation?
What is the answer to suffering?
Not death. I don’t remember much of it anymore.
Only love, always suffering, union this side of the veil.
Always love. Who? I was looking at faces in RGB.
I didn’t expect the outside world to be so green.
Singapore returns to Phase 2 of Covid-19 restrictions after an influx of community-spread cases.
by
why did she remember
his favourite brand of cigarettes
when she
tried to remember
their distance
when she questioned
how much she loved him
choking
between wafts
staring at her curtains
the breeze rustles
the balcony
his disheveled hair
his smell
his shirt
his favourite spot to flirt
if only
she loved better
or never asked
she should never have asked
for more
than the smell of tobacco
from him
for him to love her more
if she loved better instead
if
to breathe
more than
oxygen tinted memories
in between bursts
burning polyps
but why
it never mattered
would he have stayed
not her tears or his promises
nor the spot he left behind
where she still revisits
if she looked at him more
would he still be there
at the balcony
smoking his favourite
the last thing he left behind
other than her
now melting
burnt to throw
by
she lit a cigarette for the first time
it hung in between the space
of her middle and forefinger
smoke haunted the living room
where she sat crossed legged on the floor
inhaling quietly
she never took a puff
but let it burn away
because she missed the smell
it choked her and clogged her eyes
it always had
it hurt
she let it happen
the night turned grey and passed
with slightly bitter tears
by
Twiddling my thumbs at the midsection of noonday, I gave up on life
and all that it promised: green edible leaves, the cornucopia, fresh water.
I didn’t know who I was anymore after relinquishing control
so I decided to just walk away from everything in my mind
I couldn’t quite comprehend the sensation in my fingertips, the sweat
rolling down my skin, traversing through the canyons of raised
hair follicles. I know I am not that good a person but I never
expected to see such a broken figuration, my guts spilling out.
My brain. I had a hernia once, it almost ruptured my genitals
when my large intestine fell into a place that it shouldn’t have.
I look back. I could have died. My brain is also empty. It echoes
with the silence that nothing mattered if I wasn’t rushed to the hospital
or if I didn’t live up to this gift of life, this great surprise.
I look at the potted plant on my counter. It is a money plant
dropping down like all crawlers do. It is the ultimate household plant
Money plants do not require much watering or sunlight. I wonder why it tries so hard.
My phone buzzes. I read everything but there was nothing of note or
nothing to note. No duty, no responsibilities save the ones I make up
for myself in my head, these foreigners. To God, family and country. Never did I
ever feel so selfish than at the dark noon of midday when in the middle
of my siesta that I decided to drop the ball. To die like everything mattered
and accepting that I couldn’t lift even a finger to die.
To Michael Hogan
I thought the red
between us
was fire
dark and
brilliant
consuming
all flaxen
but it was blood
and everything began
to exist
in our shared body
of the Lord’s
hands and feet
a majestic wave
like clouds
swallowing the smog
of all covenantal
sacrifices
and all my pain
began to glow and illumine
this darkened soul
who once was spent
cursing
in the shadows
of flames
where rivers of life now flow
waterfalls
from chasms within
a great cathedral
by
A single branch
peers
down a cliffside
whispers
cut
into its splinters
rocky
dry
a leaf falls
cold
victorious
a single branch
by
spoon-fed a stomach-full of gold
coins lost in its ghastly pit
surely you know by now
I have been bleeding
from my intestines below
and I have nothing in me
but shiny gold and mint
cracked with churning
from my final bellyache
parsed in yearning
by
Today is not a good day to write;
rejoice! till, then, till I wait — when
in melody, we met
each other, outside;
of the city,
of our skin,
so cold, like rain dissolving in
this path, sweetly in mud-stains
left behind at a bicycle lot
as the evening billowed-
by. I know,
I know and we knew,
we ran,
for a moment to-
the end.
by
shines
her
invisible
waterfalls
night
the kampong
in bedrooms
the bazaar
will suffice
alone
for tomorrow
by
November’s
summer monsoon tricked me
today
with her drizzle that started and stopped
every few minutes
and now
it is hot and sticky
where it used to be cold
as blue
so I switch on my laptop
and kick up my socks
in ratios of 4 and 3
listening
to songs
while writing
in languages I do not understand
in semantic sense
but I know
because the autumn breeze
occasionally
sweeps
snugly and sprite
between my ears whispering
of old trains and
spring
in distant places
where
birds still chirp
after evening showers
by
Listen,
to
what they call
us;
in
heat glaring,
irises poplar,
judging
men
behind
our backs;
burdened by
sun—
its prickly heat
but you have grown to be strong
and brave,
my son;
what are bee stings
to a lion’s
roaring
scarface?
My face / murder / roaring / black silhouette / hair / masculinity / shattered / ragged / scabs / a dark glow / hard place / palm tree / red / vein / yard
by
Blue.
A match strikes in the dark,
cackles to life
in warmth and an orange-yellow glow
with force assured and
true.
Moving tongues of a young couple
intertwined in an embrace,
licking;
in the morning,
the sun will rise, in the morning.
A sigh. A smoky breath.
Don’t speak
a word.
Your body line
is in my caress.
remember,
blue is the colour of the morning;
sunstreaks,
matches snuffed,
crumbling.
by
In a time of covid
I need a girlfriend
to watch Ugandan movies with.
I’m willing to pay.
Dates are all on me,
I’ll even listen to kpop
if you want me to.
I’ll like every Instagram post
and follow your favourite stars
to talk about them all day long
just as long as I could
watch this Ugandan film
or play Portal 2
or have a meal
without laughing alone.
Because that is sad and I’ve tried it.
I only have two cents though.
I hope that it’s enough
to sit on.
Oh but like
you have to be cute
clever
possibly rich
sociable
kind
polite
patient
gentle
sincere
funny
quirky
talented
not crazy
not a slut
hopefully dere dere.
And you don’t even have to love me
to qualify—
oh but don’t tell me that—
by
Sound is silence is
cold and admits
the Fridays the beginnings of
whatever they said
of whatever
was right
and frosty windows a
tinge too cold
fuzzy
on bare skin
naked hands
and where the handle turns
its unspoken ends
Sleep is broken
it is whispery
down the tube
it matches the cityscape
the brilliancy
of artificial fluorescent lights
but pizza
hesitate
As beer
as batter
as oxygen the frothful sound
reappears drop of a million
bumbling men
cheers and cheers and
time and
money and
out no
forget about it
hey
let’s have some fun
by
lipstick
skyward shave
upon a parapet
stalk
despite the space
strewn
the news
a fire ant screams
a colour
not red
passes by
by
Enough–
Not nearly
How much?
5 nails and 2 fishes
Cut it off
Let them live
Cut it off
You are
the Son of Man
is alive
Cut it off
let Him drain
Eat fish
Hammer nails
Jesus fish
our nails
Pry them
a-
our fish our nails
Jesus
by
There is a spring in every-one
A deep in-dwelling it is traced
You can describe it as your heart
But skin and hearts don’t see His face
So when the lady clothed in blue
To a peasant girl in France appeared
And told her with a voice so true
A spring she’ll dig with many tears
Though one she’ll dig without a clue
Many men were angry so
Of hearts cold like stone and heavy
In disbelief they pressed for facts
And terrified poor Bernadette
And at the end of inquisition
All that lay was their perdition
Still she dug and stained her hands
Even drinking of that water
If water were mud and full of germs
And gives a dose of choleric asthma
But that’s okay since her story ends
With life abundant in His hands
So goes with St Bernadette and
Her handy little well in France
Of whom a believer so lackluster
Can receive a healing power
It is a simple testament
A grace so universally given
In your hearts spring a germination
As Eden grows anew within
Spring forth- His life a well to drink
So when He asks if you would be well
I’d say wash me all over and not just-
My feet, accepting my cross tomorrow, today
by
Is nothing here for you to see. Why did you come?
Did you think you would find something useful?
Purposeful? Necessary? Inspiring? Look away. Now back at me.
Now look at the empty space you found when you
looked at me. Did you think there was something really there?
Did you think I’m anything more than mutilated hands or
a voiceless tongue? When I speak, whose voice do you hear?
Look down, deep inside. Now back at your screen, now back
to your keyboard where something useful might actually be.
Where there is no sexism, racism, violence or injustice of any kind.
Where no one shall speak but only listen.
Where there are no lies, hurts, rejections and schemes.
Where you can trust someone other than yourself.
No you can’t. Can you trust yourself? No you can’t. Neither can I.
That is why you came. And you found nothing new.
But there you are. Speaking and listening to the echo of the heart.
Now to you.
Jsolitaire Writing & Poetry 