"My brother and my sister don't speak to me / but I don't blame them"
- James Blake, "I Never Learnt To Share" (2011)
Alternatives (Schrödinger, 1952)
are another way of saying loss:
how Little Sis cried when Mom
reconsidered her own abortion;
Big Sis forgets to miscarry Mom;
a stranger owns my blog domain.
The wrong timeline a synonym to
this poem, a symptom of anomaly.
Day 1: Throw all these words out of a window.
Day 4: The Sky remains blue, and not to be hugged.
Day 9: Pouring heart out, into sink. Peeling redness.
Day 17: Began counting despite lack of fingers.
Day 25: Began counting all hugs that were missed.
Day 31: Thinking of us Lesbians; and everyone erased.
Day 59: We failed in realizing how nothing comes to pass.
Day 100: Zeroes gaping, curved and sharp, fitting.
Day 219: What if there was no alternative? No vaccine for touch?
Day 370: Began projecting futures off the tips of raised hairs.
Day 541: I’ve tasted wet lips once, long before my lips had hangnails.
Day 712: Numbers, Skies, Zeroes, Hair on my lips and touchy, touching.
Day 713: Nights becomes taut and I didn’t even get to touch them.
Day *11: There is no longer a pandemic that failed to touch everyone.
Day 2*6*: I lost you in writing: you too, were out of the window, out of touch.
, .
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Everything was dark
when the room lights
were replaced by ifs –
what else can function
if all I do is compile
dreams? They come in
too hot, too fast loops
that defragment and
scatter all my drives:
how I overdosed on data,
strolled about the fibre,
and added and added.
Microsoft Windows [Version 10.0.17134.829]
(c) 2018 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
C:\Users\Lune>darken puddle
‘darken puddle’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>add tears
‘add tears’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>dose check
‘dose check’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>hot tea
‘hot tea’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>stroll room
‘stroll room’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>d:
D:\>cd Google Drive\Poetry
D:\Google Drive\Poetry>type Suiteroom_3.txt
Everything was hot:
the tea you brewed,
this flush you didn’t
notice or notice you
brewed. I’m with the
tea leaves, a bottom
too dark I sank to.
I strolled into a cup,
thinking you’d drink
from it. I’m sorry i’ve
added a dose of tears:
you weren’t eating nor
drinking well, either.
And once you strolled
right into the dark of
my eyes. Two points:
you didn’t notice this;
or I needed to weep
something sharp, like a
teardrop. Seconds pass
like the daily dose of
longing. Hot iron is all I
cry nowadays, the kind
steaming on your table.
Your gaze found a lamp.
(after Pooja Nansi)
Dreaming on a Barstool: on an infinity
of regression of dreaming barstools; we
in a dream bar / you crafting cocktails for;
/meinatelegramcommand; @yourusername;
we watching Europe go by as art noveau;
two blue ticks consent to a means to an end;
4.00 / morning / bak chor mee / eyelids/lips;
poem for you soaked in vodka & tomorrow;
you opening whiskey an observer effect;
sizes A4 on the rocks, A3 shaken, A2 stirred;
one night, we went to a bar to drink water;
one day, we discovered alcohol to be water;
I woke up in a universe without dreams;
we watched the bartender set twin suns;
being-in-itself & being-for-itself, for myself.
(after Marylyn Tan’s ‘re: origin story / ARCHETYPAL EVIL’)
Being immortal is being
sated about being salted
in cycles – day and night
the pry and shut of eyes.
Once, Ah Kong was young
and fleshed out, peachy
with beginnings. A fool,
not knowing that fruiting
is the end, or figurative –
how time is tried, tested
as a painter being tired
of the biggest canvas.
Not the cosmos, but in
housing a weary start.
*Ah Kong: Romanization of the Chinese noun “阿公”, meaning Grandfather.
Tonight, I deconstructed love
into a thousand paper cranes.
I don’t even like folding cranes,
like the long wait. Like teleology,
my hands were always destroying
paper; fold my neck to cognize down.
Crane, just to be blinded by flight.
My hands were always sweating,
slipping thoughts of you into vacuum;
all directions evaporate in departure,
and these hands cannot give warmth.
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