852

how will one put it?

the olfactory tingling;
schoolboys, climb on,
back up, soaked in
a day's work.
these are the delights
of bukit timah;
khaki and gray flannel,
served on a platter.

spectacles hanging
precarious, by
crests and badges;
studdy bodies
melting into one,
an other-

a busload of them
meandering forests
and highways-
hair brushing by wind;
thou givest fever.

the sunlight's fading;
we are going home
to the rat race adjourned.
god only knows what we will do
now my mind's eye unhinged,
with the only thing real-

we don't go to school,
together.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 1:26 am

  Intertwined

so it seems, his poison tree and fate
are intertwined like spite and fury.
but like all things against nature,
the earthworm turns against the

foot pulverising- tis' heart of darkness
should quiver and sputter. so many
unsung victories yet so many failures,
is this not the fallacy within? or

will restrain rather triumph? as
syllabes in a haiku slowly deplete
wane and die away, how does he
prove worthy of Big God's cause?

teardrops are falling on his head.
moonshine cast, judgement passed-


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 9:44 pm

  Bamboo

No.

Not even time
can take
back the night.

Not even angels
have pity
on sordid souls.

Bamboo tumbling,
catpiss swirling.

Now we know

even god-gifted lances
can pierce the
tenderest of flesh.

How do we wail?
Now we know,
now we know.

Tempus edax rerum,
leave only the scraps.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 10:51 pm

  Catpiss

Back and wiggle,
then a turgid piece.

It was meant to be
god-gifted wepon-
all things
compassionate
passionate.

It was meant to be
well-crafted lance-
to admire. And to
wield, only His
glory.

Ar-Rahman,
Ar-Rahim.

Despite;inspite
I felt only the
putrid and horror.

Bamboos stacked
in disarray, catpiss
on the floor- His
face turned grim.

I felt only the
putrid and horror.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 11:16 pm

  Fever
You Give Me Fever.

I need.

tongue on my cello. on
rosewood suede, vanilla
dripping. heart-
-strings pulled, buckled and
restored- all your sums;
all the saints.

tears on the
parapet, the glory
of yesteryears. it
soughed; leaves rustle. to
mercury rising, to trickle-
ritornello again.

tongue on the cello. you're
clownface white, fever
and flutter; genuflect
before chocalate
flakes. your pew
invites- licking wet.

your chary eyes
make me
eremite. cream
and sauce- tongue
on the cello. worship
you,


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 7:39 pm

  Gayle

I am no Gayle Goh;
sound the alarms
bang the pots
google my name
on the internet.

I am
afterall and unlike-
just a boy. Grieving down
neighbourhood school, living
by the fringe. Even macaronic
kinks don't cut it no more.

(I should
get a blog that
says nothing for
nothing).

Intellectual curiosity;
a naught and a nod
to yellowbellies.

- Is
not the silent but the words are
resgined. Is not the rage but
the powpow false. A licence
but of licentious
licence. A quiet but of quixotic
quietness. If not the sense,
then the sensational. If not
the grief, then the grievious.
If not the apathy, then the
antipathy. Always the
sinner, never the sin.

And the question in name
To be or not to be, would
rather stay frail. For
politics is a bite in the
Gayle.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 10:08 am

  Closer

yellow smears
sunken red
like titanic tipped
on flames tepid- we were
dashing across an ocean
of bluegrey skies. you
know the drill then, the
train terminates here.

it's yishun at 6.37pm
leaning by travail
and drag; the disposal
is common-
of passengers, languid
onto the boardwalk
elevated on airs. there
is no exchange
here.

a quick glance- the clock
ticking off to
the next advent.

and the edges disintegrate
as the train speeds
away without us
into the sprawling condos
(a modern colour
shooting skywards)
then negotiating
dappled H-D-B flats.

a brush of red and white
spins us around. hair
sprangled, eyes
quiet and the knowing
grin that home
is nearer
every minute.

but before my mind's eye
could capture this
journey home, the
train is rushed
towards the horizon.

the column of air it leaves beside
the platform collpases-
feels me with void.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 7:30 pm

  Perfection

apples swept away,
crunch crunch no more;
juicy munch munch. stalks
and leaves, the red swept
away.

serpents swept away,
hiss hiss no more;
slither saliva saliva. skin
and shed, the tooth swept
away.

sheeps swept away,
bleat bleat no more;
domino fall fall. cotton
and white, the sheeps swept
away.

water climb and sweep away,
sweep away. flush flush;
the garden fences, trees
the girl and the other with
a penis. Flush to perfection-

-ready to serve.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 5:23 pm

  Here

we are,
conference of the bess-
oui. the yellowblack
formality is back.

bumble (do not go
gentle) into
the good night
route of a crass eel
swimming by cres-
-cent moon.

swing by their boulevard,
cruise control- a wink from
daddy's window; kidney
smiles and tangy pitches;
the rendezvous and french.

bon nuite. just
keep the birds out, je
ne sais quoi; they
are having a conference
of the b's.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 11:41 pm

  Finita (Part 3)
Mehr, nicht mehr

dedicated to the great poets
who finished the human race
before I did.


Mehr, nicht mehr. Our sins
scarlet but life stories read-
the rest is silence.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 2:42 pm

  Finita (Part 2)
Homecoming

dedicated to the great poets
who finished the human race
before I did.


And as we come

home from sea like the hunter
from the hill, we'd quoth the
raven nevermore. As truth to
spirit and laying ashes on stone

builders rejected, what more should
one desire than name writ in water-
for even heroes don't go alone
to the last of Earth. Pity's long

broken urn has broken when we
all stand on the brink of their
eternity- so what are we begin for
when we are so quickly done for?

simply, God fucks us up. Have not
we heard? We damm fools to wait
and write for tis'- plaudite amici,
comedia finita est.

I will join them
soon enough.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 1:00 am

  Finita (Part 1)
The Horseman's Embrace

dedicated to the great poets
who finished the human race
before I did.


The rest is silence; too often
what was once a lover's
quarrel with the world
now cast a cold eye
to dark chariots passed-
but on the horseman's nigh
did catch something. Tis'

a woman in excess;
Her- an incoherent Woolf; a final
harangue as she flings
herself against
Him. random
about unyielding
unvanquished; which
neither admonishment
nor compliment- is mere
conclusion to die for. She

must have thought
to fall into the
horseman's embrace
without thought
is bliss.

Oh, fall
to the ground, it's all Voltaire's
fault- the noise in the gutter,
and the scream in her heart;
this is nothing but smaller streaks
of the the horror uttered in lands
stygian and bright; das ist absurd,
das ist absurd. She is finished
like us.

Before us.


cuRRent...jer


  ¶ 3:27 pm

  Scruples
ticking

The tide, it changed-
tossed into my pocket
out of sight. No more the
turmoil, no more the
spinning, no more the
anaphora.

And my heart
sprang to life again, a
CPR from the deed done
with no heart.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 10:05 pm