Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 040218

Blood has a taste of metal, so perhaps we are

machines that need to love something to keep us

warm and red like evening sunsets that calm us after

a long day. Blue in the tropics mean too much heat like how

when skin turns blue we are cold and dying like the sea engulfing

our emotions and motivation to capture sunsets in the camera reel

fifteen minutes before our brain shuts down due to the lack of blood.

Blue skies can make us kneel when the sun finally has the weather to

punish us for staying indoors too much, to turn metal into furnaces which

boils our blood smelting love into hatred and cooking tears and sweat as twins.

Maybe this is why you now live somewhere colder – Not needing my coals; The summer stink.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 300118

Never really liked Apples, since most of what I had

were sour, and the taste of Father forcing me

to slice apples for an entire family. He told everyone to

take a slice before they did. If the family could be brought

together by a blood red fruit, surely the peeler that took a

chunk of my skin can tell the pain it took to my Father. I

gave up and ate a couple like Snow White did with hers,

juice running down my arms that I had to go to the bathroom

thrice each apple and I collapsed on the bed, still convinced

that Father was trying to poison me with his teachings.

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.


Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 280118

Scandinavian fixtures and the Space Age interior;

The brushed steel and pale wood will be delivered

tomorrow. Outside, an uncle sweep the ashes from red

altars the point blankness of an aircon light – Their rooms

are dim even in the morning; The primary school child squints

and divines their future. The primary school child might

dream of white teak tables and bleached walls and realize

how empty the visions of people in the past were. Everyone

forgets decor is still delivered by the laborious and not machines,

because machines do not pray for a windfall. Whether tomorrow

comes or not, they will struggle to light joss sticks with the light of smart screens,

decide on whether praying to altars or asking Google is the more efficient approach.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 270118

She is comfortable on a bar stool that

was as leathery as the night dragging on her

nerves, and proceeds to order Baijiu from the

bartender thinking the red giants that were her ancestors

would twinkle and breathe in a thousand

years of culture, a main sequence of events

that led to her listening to Jazz on a metal stool

in the first place. Her vape is filled with cherries

and longing for uncertainty, an icy metal rocket

where she daydreams in time dilation, oblivious

to neon signs and looming asian flush, the

heat inherited from her heritage in the heavens,

built for low tolerance, high cholesterol and

a passionate sigh for teasing streetlamps. The

music plays, bass guitar strings stolen from a

Guzheng, and she weeps like the mist on a

mountain road to enlightenment.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 260118

Fever from the haze of headlamps; Every

point of light is an orb making its own statement;

All beers consumed on the table drool in languish,

some are lolled on the floor like their drinkers. But the

flushing ones are fainting into the next step – Plateaued on

sex but work is another type of alcohol that also causes you to

faint regularly, even when under the glare of cities your flesh

throbs to the pendulum of your heartbeat on overdrive. You

become chaste with loneliness instead and you cannot bear to

smell arms and fabric and the smoke of the corridors. You return

to a home too quiet that you can hear your fears, the glamor of the orbs

coalescing into a single point of exhaustion.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 250118

Use LRT tracks as shelter, where the

underside is always dry, a canopy for your

wonder from above and recording stares

in the number of raindrops on tarmac. If

we disappear it still joins the sky, daring

foliage to return being greater than civilization,

and the red chairs of coffeeshops bloom with creepers

creeping and growing and enticing symbiosis since only

we had the chance to marry our creations. A Koel changes

a song to one that no one can imitate but no one is present

either, so it cranes a neck towards summer showers – Towards

the shadows cast from stone Gods that record and

narrate the passing eons in the day; Sundials to the

awe of the living.


Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 240118

There were still sunsets in 2006 and

the radio still required a listening ear. Cars

honking at futures, no one expecting a flyover or

construction workers seeing the brunt of society in

the midday sun. If there were things to think about there

was always geometry, and the heavens appeared after the

sunset to educate movement by hide-and-seek, despite

light pollution giving constellations no respite. I watched above

and the workers did too, the bleeding clouds injured from city vices

too old for children. If the future was a red-black apocalypse there was still

pop-punk then, to make friends with the static from bad reception, all

before the buildings engulf us into a universe without sunsets, one

that forgets how child angst has the clarity of distant night flights.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 230118

Maybe when I am eighty i’ll dye my hair white, for it might have lost less darkness than I have gained in parchments – Wrinkles, memorabilia, thousands of ancient PDF documents. When i’m hundred i’ll whisper to the stars that they can be young. Two hundred years of age, if attainable, will be an incentive to sleep with machines and love their groaning, creaking, and the scratch marks, paint spots on their synthetic skin. A thousand years might pass and my bones might scream, about having too many descendants to able to donate bone marrow to – But technology has long superseded my emotional capacity, and I start to hear the lunar soil croon from a long slumber. Ten thousand years of age and i’m gas in Jupiter’s stratosphere, turbulent, in love with Brownian motion and its assurance that what goes around comes around. Spread my consciousness to the filaments and the voids once I become as old as humanity, for there is no End to Greatness, no end to beauty and the memory of life and death, the warm hands of either.