Homework

It is July and it is still yellow
outside. Still afternoon ebbing.
Still a bloody Singaporean tide,
an ocean of red, threads of bagua
in paper notes. Sanctioned fortune.
Sunbeams parking in window stills.
No season parking without seasons.
Money on table, in third quarter.
A sonnet in the works, on funding.
Profit-driven airs recycled by air-cons.
People seeing red before February’s.
Sometimes an orange sunset means
to go. The ERP in the room is still.
Still at home with the green lights.

Mushroom

Under a roof are sweet nothings with everything
present. Like the pan in the kitchen,

if the sound of sautéing is love it would leap,
a delicious scent. Like spores of butter,

home is rooted into the ground even after raindrops
create puddles. Like splashing onto each other’s warmth.

Wall of Text

Every word in here is exhausted. I am writing
in notepad since I cannot write on walls. Wall
is tired and does not want to be written on. Notepad
is tired and resists, being, written, on. There is repetition
since writing is tiring. There is, and will be elaborations
since writing is tiring. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because they are tired. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because they are empty. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because of repetition. Wall and Notepad are not friends
by association, by correlation, by elaboration, by repetition.
They are ions in this poem. They form its literal structure.
They show that I am tired, while Notepad has finally succumbed.
Not every word in here is exhausted, and a wall writes itself.

4-Room Flat

Four variations of lights on
four fingers to type
four stanzas by
four a.m.

Three found sentences
Three syllables in a row
Three unfound haikus

Two; Walls; A ceiling; A door; A window; A floor;
Two walls: Third’s a partition. Fourth’s being read:

“A pair of flats, removed from my doorstep.”

This Passage Spans 13.7 Billion Light-Years

In the grand schemata, you are words in this stanza. In your grand scheme, there is nothing so cosmic like the flings on your strings. If I were flung carelessly like a star across light-years it would be the pinnacle of a civilization. Most don’t go this far however, although you did. You went beyond the end of this piece. Outside the observable universe. Leaving the interior dark. I still shine, casting shadows over what you did.

Gangsa Is Raining

(with apologies to Iain Lim’s ‘There’s A Fire In Bangkit’)

Afternoon there was rain,
but without a space for grammar.

Does grammar require space?
The kind between fonts,
an interstellar whiteness.

“Isthisanongrammar,
isthisanonstanza.”

Ser-ifs and sans are the same.
Like how rain is a tick-er, the trans-it-ions of
a puddle sentence, into a puddle stanza.

Who writes Gangsa without a name?
Who writes without a space?

“Torrentingrain,
torrentofrefrain,
torrentwithoutsiderestrain.”