印月

我過我要的生活, 不是生活過我就好.

do not misunderstand

a/n: rework of an old piece.

 

sometimes we all like to pretend that we are infallible:
blessed with the ability to mould ourselves to concrete walls,
palms closing in on flimsy plastic and transparent sheets,
where cleavage furrows would form where our knees ended
when in fact we’re flawed, contemplative,
rusting cylinders of water,
illusory embraces,
dripping so that

sometimes when
we realise that we’re
no longer infallible, we’d re-
call ourselves strung over bus railings,
knees clicking halfway through the parking lot where it all
started, palms clammy and open, clambering for the small gaps
between the freshly painted wall and the old stairwell with cold
cement: long dried, tangible, clean and mostly, un-blessed.

Advertisements

now, it’s been

five days since i began recognising
his double eyelids in the faces of
strangers, damp towels dripping
floors and

every plane and shadow beneath

the rim of my umbrella as i rub
the pads of my thumbs over its

contour and, soundlessly, erase.

re:print

start with a prayer. ride pillion into the sleepy
sunset. press dried flowers to closed
eyes. blow the candles out. see,
i’ve been told

in hokkien
i’m part burmese, wait
aren’t you indonesian?

my response lost beneath
windswept smiles.

flux(N₀)

we are incapable of keeping silent,
our hands shifting out of reverse,
loose fixes and joints no longer reliant

on soft and hazy physical alignment.
your last breath punctures in reverse,
but we are incapable of keeping silent.

we lack the right imagination, fervent
prayers and lighting of incense,
calculations reversed to keep us silent.

then you drained nitric acid through fluorescent
makeshift altar candles dropwise,
reversing the tips into an alkaline solvent –

and the filmy layer of effervescent
steam gas air breath closed your eyes
to uncertainties left out of context all too frequent.

we are all but a queer heartful of gas and yet,
there will be no lapses between our hands
when pressed firmly together, reliant
and a little more capable of keeping silent.

SPWM;17 day four – write about something you’d say no to. first attempt at a villanelle, haven’t been very truthful to the structure but it’s something, hee. title from sleepy, hazy multivariable calculus lectures this morning.

그럴 텐데 ( i would )

 

let’s forget
all things that fell

together apart into

each half-light, the selfsame
shade of blue extending along
flat planes

tipping over the edges,
circling in coffee-filled bottles,
spiralling in the glare of

your shadow

but think about
the lazy rain and our

(once)

lazier smiles smirks
scowls and hazy sighs –
or perhaps nothing

at all.


more for personal venting than anything, haven’t written in ages; for one i’ve held too much guilt for, and missed too much in my memories until i realised that there’s really no reason for me to still be doing this.

till sunrise

was it the blade of
honey between our          fingers,
lapsed amongst soft
cuts and thin
sleeves

that             swept us up like
a circular refrain, knuckles clashing
against the            constant
backdrop of

irregular typefaces,
dried tea
                leaves,
bated breaths?

see, they say people can hear
you if you think of them
hard enough, even if
they’re seven
hours, two
tiles

one thought away

and so i repeat

is this it?

emergency guidelines

please hold on:

release
that long haul
breath

into pale hands

stow it secure
amidst the stars over
your head

and jump
onto the soft

silent raft; see,
the truth is i