singpowrimo
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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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Every time it happened you told me that it was alright. That this is how the two of you clicked, like gears in some semiconductor. And every time I would think to myself of harmless bickering, like couples did in the dramas you watched. I found it funny once, as though the more you fought
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#copout alternate forms: Cop-out, 虎头蛇尾 noun copout (plural “copouts”) Definitions (Literal) A situation whereby police officers have either been prevented from doing their job properly under any circumstances. These may include anarchy or cowardice. (Idiomatic) A term used to describe poems written with extremely high effort and thought but disguised as low-effort so as to
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it is the waking that is the hardest. the first step in sleep deprivation: you learn you miss dreaming of holes, the spaces between lines, the gap between the train and platform. you dream of ways in which to die, how the train brushes against your feet, the space just big enough for your thigh.
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In this dream, you shed your skin and cast away your leather wings; from your pockets, spill these things – antiplatelet medicines, Clopidogrel, Aspirin. Warfarin, for battles within. In another, I hold your chin and nothing else. Come, unspin this long dream of safety pins and other stories, wherein the might of the might-have-been becomes
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jazz, booze, brazen pizzazz, zouks daze, putz rezones contemporary votary youth. yell, yes, yourself yearns inexpert, co-existing, bemixed jukebox. next, proxy ‘howdy’ – who, which fellow, why? walleyed, worship quivers: reserve leaves, salvation arrives volubly, requests. puzzled, you jumble, quake, jumped-gun. mother, tortoised beneath table, watches daughter’s social, reminisces pregnancies. warns – his compass veers
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oh, monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be: the unlikely story, here we are, orbiting outside space of closed bar, between us a bridge, both of us victims of some violence: you, the first stone cast, the queen dethroned, me, the first to leave, a nomad in this empty echo.
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spwm day 7
ugly stage 