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.


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?


She was Never Able to Drink Tea

(after N. Wang’s ‘She Never Drinks Her Tea’)

Her house is personal in a way her Father
freeloads upon, paying rent by accusations.
She cannot hear her own footsteps over the
din, being unwelcome in her own house is
a swelling of feet, lights that refuse to work,
lao hua* glasses on a 20/20 past, one where
the tidiest living room has a worn-out tile
with edges that she cannot vacuum out,
where her calloused feet steps on blame
where a divorce must be a woman’s fault.
A headache upon trigger-happy migranes,
triggered by happy things from chocolate to ice.
For which, she was always brewing drinks
that were never her cup of tea. Drinks scalding
like a hot shower routine where she boils soap.
He was the pot that called her a black kettle;
The only black she sees is when sleeping it off,
dozing in bed with a Korean soap on an iPad
that distracts a scalding mouth, since tea
keeps her calm and awake in a nightmare.


*lao hua (“老花” in mandarin Chinese): Presbyopia

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 290118



January 64th. The stubble on my chin has been growing for T minus one

decade. February still has 45 days in a month where strangers want my hair

shortened to compensate for the long days; Every second given is a hormonal pill

losing effectiveness. Every day a wedding dress tears if I wore it in my head. Every

day marriage to me is eating fast food and passing it out without gaining nutrients. Every

day love becomes a beer that hammers me into blacking out from all that pain. One day

I might wash my skin out once I am done with clearing my makeup. On the 89th

I stare at this laptop screen. By the 93rd day of the week I am bingeing on illusions of

myself dragging my limp figure from the shore, squeezing every acupoint with salvaged warmth.