There are little Aprils remaining on this Earth.
These childish, dark months are diamonds.
Yet like this long ramble not worth a kopi-o.
Dr’s Chee’s wife likes to go for strolls outside.
家里aircon 坏 liao, she said dripping Niagara Falls.
They couldn’t repair it, money was very tight.
And to witness poets write nonsense, Desmond replied.
What can we do with infinity? Alvin asked.
He contemplates giving himself another bonus.
Write poetry, he continued, talking to himself.
It’s the endless by-election, Dr Chee’s wife said.
The clean wholesome historic Murali Chee-BYE.
Another clash of national colours, I replied.
Like another April, fighting words flying verily fuckingly.
Except the trains break down again, travel in loops.
Like in this poem, I am not Valen, I am Persona.
Not the video game, I am a woman named Persona.
The loop isn’t a Mobius stripper but a harlot rollercoaster.
In any case the poem just keeps continuing.
There doesn’t appear to be an end for these people.
But it’s always interesting, Desmond said, Facebook emoticons.
It’s as if we forced ourselves into boxes for silly bonuses.
Now is the time, to wear the collar with the ‘poet’ dog tag.
Stick out your paw, if only to write mediocre poems again.
And you’re fine with it? Alvin asked.
まあ！気持ち！気持ち! Dr Chee’s Wife exclaimed.
It was always a fetish to write poetry online.
To join in the daisy chain of MRT date poet memes.
It was hip and happening and in-ter-llect-leck-ual.
Until these young folk reaffirmed their existence.
I saw her reading once, at the Symphony Theatre.
I saw she loved SingPoWriMo, the purple one.
She loves Eeeee Eee Eeee by some Tao Lin.
She loves anything with a made-up title.
I saw that she loves the green version also.
I was a bit off my rocker that opera night.
I thought I saw Pooja performing the opera.
Or was it Joel, mixing some getai and Taylor Swift?
It’s some remix for sure, clarinets, a rush-hour symphony.
Feels like a fresh breeze in our poem’s moratorium.
Its empty sound that is beyond mortal comprehension.
She raised her hand; sliced the opera in twain.
Like you would when you cross the street, a child.
From her bag she brings out her book: Ethos.
Or at least, I think it’s a chapter by Aristotle.
She does not have small hands, so she blocks it.
She needs to re-read it, like a JC mugger.
She reads the papers for politics, but never poetry.
Today is the paper of never moving forward.
Today is the day for ‘We Are Majulah’ to berhenti again.
Today Murali pays for his speech drawn as a mural.
It depicts the epic of town upgrades, and poetic license.
It depicts the Eden of some rehashed town council.
Murali pledges for the past to be buried again.
Buried in whatever substance parliament chooses this week.
I wish he would tell us of love, life, something I care about.
I know nothing of politics except these silly words.
Especially as I reach the end, content running dry.
Content running dry, like an inkwell after April.
I lie, I use pencil and tablet, Certificate of Screenshot iphone.
Someone’s already monopolized inspiration, made anthologies.
Ruth Tang EP mixtape not-yet-played on radio.
Some wuxia epic that throws me back to 1988.
Alvin holds on to his books, unbirthed and unborn.
Desmond rolls in his bed, a make-shift grave.
Writers are really no different from poems they write.
They do not sleep, they do not sleep, they do not.
Now I just want everyone to take a dip together.
Into where everything is black and unforeseeable.
Friends and fellows, this is how to fulfil a prompt.
How to fill a life.