Clementi Ave 1

(CW: Suicide References)

The school fence divided a past –
the road between Nan Hua and
NUSH being syllables of us in
tenses. Outside the fence was
bubble tea, and the rest of a future
without it. She walked me to the station.
Before, someone jumped, landing dull.
My heart did flutter on both occasions –
it too, wanted a sky without gravity.
Both times, emotions sank like pearls.
In this timeline, movement was loss:
there went the bubble tea shop, too,
when I moved in to queue. Waiting.
To meet her just to forget her later.
Everyone will forget who jumped, too,
and how I climbed the fence, still
running between syllables, and away.

REPERCUSSIONS TO THE SUNK COST FALLACY OF BEING IN AWE

Dreaming of the depths I knew
my name. A left radical sharing
what’s inside the Chinese rain.
Much deeper, was the universe
in a stroke. Haemorrhaging left
galaxies. Blake’s Tyger left alone.
Like Medusa, sculpted in their prime
and indivisible. The Artist measures
them in the thunderstorm, struck alive
via negativa into a vignette. At Marina
I shot the horizon a glance. It drank a
cordial distance, swallowing the deep
again, killing a star. We let that sink
for millennia, carving marble into shatters.

Writer’s Trap

I found a poem so clichéd it was painful.
Proceeded to use a bandage. Left it where
I dropped it. Clichéd is now a pun for hurt.
It is eye-catching like how Fool’s Gold is an
idiom. By association it is a mousetrap topped
with a slice of cheese. The cheese has holes in it.
I am not actually a mouse. I like metaphors to the
extent of breaking my fingers for them. Wrapped them
in this piece, applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
Found clichés abound under the sun even though
it is nighttime now. No outer space references here.
Just filler in inner spaces without the negativity.

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.