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.

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.”

Moonface

The Sea of Fecundity is acne from an eternity of puberty. The dark side is always covered by hair. Acne erupts in a forest, unseen. There is no face without hair. There were phases without hair. They still insist on long hair being a phase. Being new was supposed to be the absence of a phase. Being new is being unable to face having no face. Especially without hair. Gibbous curls shift in an eclipse of a hundred years and everyone watches. An oblique profile. Picture it. Eclipses are a return to hiding. To be full of courage for one night a month only. To phase out every other day. To be up every night. To return to light pollution as home. To smile or frown without eyes to see yourself. To see eternity as a phase.

Post

To be lost in the city, there is a need

to be found. Turn on GPS –

There is no button to mark yourself as safe.

The Assistant says, “The traffic is safe,”

you are insignificant on the map. The party is

a beer and a stranger’s unauthorized arm away.

The Assistant has none of that, so it bosses you

around the map. The high school friend you knew

is at the party and in past tense. Knowing them is a

tense continuity. The Assistant knows present grammar.

The Assistant is remote yet takes control. No stars since

you fell from the sky, a graying dot on milky roadways.

Lights clubbing at your shine, you control filters that

have been filtered for you. The Assistant ensures that

it is safe. That your friend lives in the future.

That they will send a card in a scroll.