singaporean poetry
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Observe. Spit in his face, and he turns the other cheek. This man who is not even a doormat. A doormat is welcoming, even when stepped on. He is but the puddle you step over: shallow, dirty, unwanted, cold. Once, a part of something greater.
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You once asked why I followed you, kept with you at all. I said I knew it was right. This is how I knew then: weights left my face, my fingers fragile, hushing breaths. I feel you even when you’re not here. Father always told me that there’s a special place in Hell, just for
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Can we exist within and without each other? Is that what you seek to test? No, I am not dodging the question. I’m just skipping it for now – an exam technique. Solve what you can, come back later. No, that’s no metaphor for us. No, you won’t get points for fancy language. Frame it
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Formatting is weird on mobile, I’ll change this to text when I go home.
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Love is that brute that killed Caesar, that unfaithful disciple, that Buddhist, Shi Ming Yi, caught for conspiracy: a liar, a cheat – human. (cont.) It is the counting of flower-petals, the Tinder chats, the Grindr photos: words spoken from one spouse to another and another other. Love: it is the sore lack of space
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“It’s a saying they have, that a man has a false heart in his mouth for the world to see, another in his breast to show to his special friends and his family, and the real one, the true one, the secret one, which is never known to anyone except to himself alone, hidden only
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The morning sun intrudes past the boundary of the curtain – even if I were to avoid it, it will still rise again, unlike you. I, too, become gradually unlike you: I don’t watch the television, I don’t go out on Friday nights. I don’t write poetry for fun anymore, amongst other trivial matters. It’s
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3 Notebooks 1. The world breaks everyone but some are strong at the broken places- like my father. He never took himself into account. Always watched and listened, but never forgot anything. Never losing to the rain, nor to the wind – such a person, I want to become. 2. “I want to live
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for fear of fragmentation I decided to tie myself to my roots. instead of wandering alone on ‘deck’ or whatever I find myself spilling shit on myself mocking piety hiding apathy in choa chu kang. . currently a woman with hair styled a horse and a dress wild black returns a book home. Does she
ugly stage 