Rambles

For the poetry enthusiasts and those who enjoy eccentric thought processes

humansofsg (1)

Unnatural shadows adhere to her eyes in twin carved blades without giving her any impression of menace. My first thought is that I’ve seen her before, not too long ago, actually. She was sitting behind a counter of books, watching me not unkindly with the same artificially dark eyes as I went about my own lagging process of picking out books to buy.

“Which would you recommend?” I asked her when my indecisiveness had finally hit me in the head. Smiling, she picked out a couple of books that she liked and I bought two of them.

We are somewhere else this time, but in the same element. At the nape of her neck she has a tattoo in elaborate script- “escapism”. The ink is as dark as her eyeliner, and the word stays in my head for a long time.

Glass House

Inspired by Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence

 

You would press your tiny ears against the fragile walls

as a child

Just to listen to the world outside the glass house

Nobody told you that you didn’t have to;

not in a world where the sheets of transparency offered you 

a view nobody else could dream of taking away

In a world where speech was better lost to the clouds and earthly drizzle

To seep into the deep black earth, residing beside your forebears’ bones

Dampening charred ashes of lost fights

But you won’t be the one to liberalise this lost legacy

 

And your parents told you terrifying stories

As you marvelled at the beauty of the glass house

Wholeheartedly

Dive in, plunge in so deeply that you hit rock bottom before you

remember what darkness feels like

The pressure will be so destructive that the stitches binding the skins of your shadows

will burst apart, releasing your soul to

dance freely in open waters

Crystalline bubbles of breath trace 

your salt-choked lips and you finally remember what

oxygen tastes like

 

In the moonlight the ocean moulds itself around our bodies

A cloak of life that rests upon your shoulders, and mine

Promise me you’ll wear it wholeheartedly

if not always

Fall into these abysmal depths with me, at least

once in your life

Dream

I stumble backwards from the intensity of

yesterday’s dream

How is it that this world is unreal

When I see the glass shatter

like crystalline spiderweb patterns

and I feel the sticky blood between my fingers,

The warmth of life exiting my body?

 

channel 7 television drama

Back and forth, back and forth

Like a flimsy sampan rocking on undecided waters

You are playing games

Not with each other, but inside your individual heads giddy with prospects

of fanciful self-imaginings

This is the game: you tell yourself that she loves you, and then watch

as with every action, she tears that vulnerable notion apart

This is the game: you tell yourself that he loves you, and then wait with bated

breath as with every motion he comes one step

closer to the shadow of your embrace

This is the life you fear, of the day when there will be no games left

to play

And all you leave each other with is chipped chess pieces and faded playing cards

Or a patchwork quilt and a beating heart

 

Hurt

You touched me today

And made me realise that maybe

You can’t ever write well until you’ve been deeply hurt

 

This is the pain that will sharpen your blunt pen

Spear your words to pierce

And strike souls where they hollow when you finally release your

Clenched fingers

And the blood that has been breeding beneath your nails for so long

 

You bore us a part of you today

And opened yourself, a vulnerable page

But this time we won’t rip you from the spine

We will spill our belated condolences over beautiful words in raindrop tears

Clear, salty and free

fatigue

Glazed gaze

Mind dazed

Limbs weak

Eyes tricked

Bones ache

Flesh raked

Tears sore

Fresh gore

Nature has no expectations

Brush back the messy wisps of hair from your sweet face
Weakly drooping fronds have to be combed back into a corner where nature does not exist
Iron the creases beside your laughing eyes
But the trunks of trees bear the scars of time
Refresh your sallow, sagging cheeks
But don’t erase the yellow edges on the daisies’ sun-tips
Dry up your tear tracks before anyone sees
But the weeping willows have been imprinted in a thousand memories

Playground Noise

Late nights at 8pm

Wind rising over our voices and voices rising over the wind

We circle the same slides and the same swings

Ten, twenty times

Like aimless racecars zooming unseeingly around tracks

I remember the laughter the wind brought us

Tickling fresh faces and raising no worries

I am trying to collect the joy now,  frantically clawing at spilt water that seeps into the permeable earth

It waxes my fingers with the lightest gleam, but my jar is empty

of the earth

Paper powder

Crushed root and bark sterilised to an icy finish

Graphite makes its midnight mark

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