Deipnosophist

A war of the words is coming.

A play set in real time that tells the convocation of two students (very different yet the same in many ways) attempting to unravel each other's precocious minds. Spanned across the streets of the wretched island, it is also an essay on elitism, existence and excrement (of society).

As a minimalistic play, the dialogue is the cynosure while the characters themselves build a relationship that is at times, edgy and at other, intensely felt. What will come of Anton and Justin at the end?

Email me at tyac.sg@gmail.com to have a sample of the play.

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 11:29 am

  Cow

Almost famous cow,
Had her udders on the net-
Thank the dairy man,

For no one has found
The misplaced hymen yet.

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 11:29 am

  Lunch

"Love is reciprocal torment." -Proust

There is no lunch where we
can never plunge our forks into
hearts, slap the cutlet of chicken
across faces, splash a juice on
fabrics and spill noodles. Not
accidents surely- but rekindling
fires can be messy.

This is the quiet ostentation
of an affair gone awry- a scandal
brewing in a teacup hollering. We
cannot sequester ourselves
to hide such mutuality- no
isolate corner to conceal. Break
Break Break. I would rather
drink ink.

Maybe we should stay stranger
to our familiar sense- away
on paradise with our coterie and
oblivious to the passing by
of us. The slight brushing past
can do without a greeting
or two.

Nevermind about lunch. For
we might be proffering poisoned
apples, sneaking it unto the plates
across the table and hope it slides
down the throat. And I won't bother
to kiss you awake later.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 1:06 am

  Tiger

Naughty Tiger! Wherefore art thou?
Chasing the lamb across the
hinterland just to get a lick.

Or maybe a chunk.
Its nasty buisness all.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 6:00 pm

  Blind
"Sometimes we are too blinded by predicament to see real turmoil"


I have a BIG bag
Security personnel
Are fond of for there

Might be a BIG bomb.
No?

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 8:48 pm

  Putrefaction

Tumbling and twirling
letting out a yawn of the dead.
And he walks dazed and belching, perhaps
inebriated across smiling junctions. With
horns blaring and cars swerving sideways.
All there is- licking carpets in his mind,
craving flesh under a flickering moon.

And he awakes every day
to realise as thumbprints on skyscrappers,
then washed out by showers of the morning-
he's been going through the motions, walking
through the part. To a bloody megrim,
the mirage of tomorrow is a still-born dream.
Maggots crawl in his heart. Like vodoo princess
on a private rampage.

But he crawls
out of bed anyway. The largesse of
deadening resilence is another day.
For starters, a shot of gin for breakfast.
Then he wanders about
to revive a cadaverous soul.
With hollow recess for eyes
and an infinite void in the heart.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 9:47 pm