hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

we are spread too thin

orange parsley streets
bursting with british-accented scufflings
of the global electronic cadence
real upright-proper
and splashing away, action-painting onto
the papier-mache of dusty old art rooms
of the best education system in the whole wide world

good grief! bubblegum-pink and completely unlinked
self-diagnosed psychedelic youths with too many causes
that yearn for London that mystery
and the Paris that lives best in the minds of its admirers
my snot-filled tropical chest beats back
can you hear your heart breathing?
or the curl of a cigarette sound a bird in your lung?

in every of our stacked-up floors lies the heartland
your floor is my roof – neighbour, thou shalt not bang
the cellophane affair through which every citizen sees
but my safe, bathos-sparkling city?
I can taste her lie on the sweat of my lips
that has melted yet into the artificial cold

preface

To write in Singapore is to be novel, a new thing. To write about Singapore is dangerous, and hard to execute objectively. For the city is more patchwork than a landscape. Still there are cultures that float adrift, that are neglected by the men of power and each other. Then there are the lost modern crowds who throng the trains, homeless in their drugged security, heady and heading for the next palace, the next occasion, the next great redundancy. But mostly we are repulsive. The people who add coarse and oriental syllables to the ends of sentences, who stress them for emphasis in some utterly unbecoming manner for the western literary academic. No Joyce would top his conversations with crude animal sounds – his Dublin made other noises, more coarse perhaps, but generally accepted because his audience made them too. But here we write not for our roots – who read sadly little English – but for the new age. There is no space for crude animal noises in the new Americas.

Do not let the mosquito near you. And what may that foul rapist be – to first make a neat, circular incision, a point between skin and nowhere in between, then tear apart flesh and tissues and humming fibre, then fucks viciously this homemade orifice with a proboscis of its own. Not to end there – what little help you need in making all skin a cunt and all flesh a snakeroot is here provided. Observe. Watch the thing, the young, the budding rapist as it scrooges you of blood, as it leeches from you all red will, all healthy and willing ejaculation, thieves the vitality and desire from your veins (- not even playing fair,  this grand dojo of cunts and oranges – ) and violated, molested, your bloodstream runs rabid and scurries and dares not proceed to mutilate the rest of the cancer body – then forms a huge protein lump, that itches and begs the mind to be torn from the skin, to save the mind from this canine mosquito virus.

the suffix death

death should be painful
or painless – still it hardly matters
except the congenital promise
of an infantile black and-shroud
the ordeal is never lived

no will – no life
nobody left to leave nothing behind
let the living and power take
my leather, my satin, my sweetheart ring
let them read into the history of a dead man
corrupted bonds and trades and cheap black money
that feeds a cheap black soul
(not sad and in questionable happiness)
nevermore

do you believe in water?

lettuces for
ashley -
i will love you through kerns,
ligatures, and the thump of a beatnik prawn.

when midnights prompted -
i have swum across your faces
to grimace in shock or pain to
cold stone floor and the cut of wild rocks on
the naked feet of naked bodies of naked souls
where i found with one (and only) foot
a leg-up on some nearby metal chair
where the wheeze of my inhale
sounded a bird in my lung
i have seen flesh trades for mutiny
under the pale odour of stale negro sweat and
Brand the slave!
cried the Americans of the Congo
who is you?

you are five emblems and
six symbols besides
my friends, my friends
this meat is life.
who i tasted between molars
(crunchy) in an unforgiving jaw.
and ground down, too
was i.

Here is a fear – of failing and spending prestige and Promise at some arduous labour, like a mathemagician at insurance or an engineer at a hardware stall.

There is something highly personal about a knife – that in stabbing and slashing i can brush skin against skin, or bring my palm inches close to your heart, and all the better to stab it with. Not guns – whose fingers on triggers curl from your marked corpse, in disgust and already burrowing from shame as my barrel recoils in terror.

That evening found Q. tottering about the kitchen, accompanied by the formidable swing of his cane and the smashing of several pieces of China cookery, which he failed in hearing due to age and deafness. The landlady was sitting curled up in her corner with a pie (Shepherd’s , delectable) in each hand, as she had been for the past half-hour. It was her silence that had provoked Q.’s rage. Not of ill-will, for the tear tracks down her cheeks allowed her to appear undeniably miserable. The omni-loving Q., easily touched by such displays, had set upon bowl-smashing in the hopes of prompting a response from her inert and noble form. In his head he was looking to rouse gratitude with an exaggeration of empathy, and his eyes had begun tearing from his exertions, and the frustration of their failure.

All death makes is breath.
We the land and us the living
pierce in wind-wept seas :
that no life is sweeter than my life,
that no soul more solid.
that furious we who flesh our minds
shall pay our loves
in spirit.

i am thin soil above your coffin
and the aftershave sheets that drape almost
too casually across the universe
painted by passing hands all shades of brown
for being too white for beatnik bathrooms and the blue island sound
cowering to cup handfuls of soil to the eyes
from the ground too far away and before burial
admitting that the sky was too harsh and
soaking beneath the sandal flats i had made
intelligible

i am your nightly deathwatch
seeking the stopgap breath that preens between canines
and across wrists in projected constellations
toothmarks down nerve endings and the
inside of flesh without feeling
until the bundle arrives and is sighed at for cumber
to drag -tiptoed- through vertigo and spoken and
shared syringes to the hazy shore of
death

i am a bouncing american man
bought cheaper at the street corner
bounced within to the next home
and the same man without; to colder small earth-shards
friends of the roaches and the freak-socialism
of the sidewalk cracks through which
disappointed narcotics
fall

i am a felt sour crevice in a brick wall
flight-blind and sorrow with
three mice behind and a world before
overlaid emptiness abridging the shortages of two materials
far as i, for as far as i am
with a limit of one world, three planes and
oxygenation

[stack up poem - day 4/5]

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