musings
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Walking down the city boardwalk I am in pursuit of a greater evening. It is a miracle and a privilege to be alive and doing nothing at all. I commiserate and I conversate with the crowds of nobody relevant. Sometimes I let words unentangle their tongues in my pockets. My hands are at home there
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I am writing this poem without having seen the end of it, without thinking of what can emerge from this process or not, much like hatching an egg, a child in the incubator of the womb, because all creation is birth and all death is anti-birth; I am a schemer in a room of humans,
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Back in Singapore! A quick note – I think I’ve decided to make blogging at least a bimonthly thing. It’s something to ground my anxieties, to chart my progress, to keep track of my thoughts. And after all it’s kind of therapeutic to just rant/blog once in a while. Not everything has to be a
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It is a miracle for people to love each other, in spite of the fact that people are people. We are so minute and small in this ocean of want. How we part like clouds nobody watches.Is there beauty in what’s unknown?I’m sitting at a cafe, alone, watching filled-out city buses run to death. Heads
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Glad to say that my piece, ‘Ars Poetica as Nested Memory’, has been published in Cathexis Northwest Press. You can check it out here: https://www.cathexisnorthwestpress.com/ars-poetica-as-nested-memory/ https://www.cathexisnorthwestpress.com/may-19-valen-lim
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It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything (for this website, anyway), so I figured I might as well switch it up a little with some blogging. Finally got something accepted somewhere! I’ve gotten a piece in Food Republic, the first (to my knowledge, anyway) food-themed anthology in Singapore, as well as two fun
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If two sameselves make a paradox, then so is my birth;one roll of the die with infinite sides.I oscillate between possibilitieslike a speck of dustcaught in vision. A child of coincidence, one branch of Yggdrasil, born to yearn for fruit. I’d like to reconfirm my own existence, ensure that I was some other unknown in
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Time lies, useless as a swordin the lake. For one, there’s time,and then, there is passage, as income, squeeze the cheeks of this little tragedy. Who will offerthe world their breast? I’m sat, couched deep in tomorrow,hands on the pulse. Tomorrow I willflip onto the pavement and pound itInto confession. Tomorrow I will flip on
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The taste of dish soap lingerson the rim of the teacup. You and I sit at crossroads, legsdangling over cliffs. This isan exercise in communicationby proxy, messages hiddenin the fold of an arm. Coltrane murmurs in the background likea roommate, and the televisionis switched off. This is timeless,this is the way we freeze-frame our lives,
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Blog time: I have this thing where I’ve always been struggling to think of people who have influenced my writing. Being more a writer than a reader when I started, I guess I didn’t have proper influence during my ‘formative years’ as a writer. While later on, I did find plenty of poets who
ugly stage 