hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

i am other people

at four in the dubstep morning
there is a heavy sort of languor that pants upon your limbs
and nibbles, glitchy, at the buds of
every office around
the eyes red-hot and spinning
space matter on a recalcitrant orbit
dryness shunted behind close-curtain eyelids
one blackness cannot be darker than another

a scratchy pendulum vibrates
right before the dawn hits your chest and spirals off
into two flaming lungs
space angrily aware of fifty pools of water hidden in black boxes of dark
that the body does not reach for,
an inch away from fifty drowning roaches
breeding furious in fifty tumblers
they take for some monsoon hothouse
imprudent hot pockets of larvae becoming nymphs growing wings
pouring out in hissing cacophony from every corner
each the size of a monstrous rat, the troupe a black death
and should the hand reach out to grasp challenger deep
and raise it to the lips to drink
will the sea of angry brown bristles
the suffocating soft hairy underbellies lined by hard limbs
the cackling exoskeletons wielding the twitching dual swords
segmented antennas in pillars of mud and light brown

no hands
lest they pour forth the brain also
one blackness cannot be darker than another

dry means pain
enough water and it turns to silence
tonight you have been a hypocrite
in the morning you are still there
almost, orgasmic, leaving
you screaming
the scratchy weight
(is that you, Mr Bob?)
of not reaching for the water
one blackness cannot be darker than another

Madness is infectious. One innocent morning i will go to school and stop in front of the gates an refuse to move. I shall wait for my teachers and the principal and the school psychiatrist with the puffy cheeks to come rushing to diagnose me, and then i shall treat them as little ape-ish projections of my mind. They will be completely allured by the escapist pleasure of a universe that cannot exist, and i shall become a god, loved authentically for saving them from the trials of ordinary self-sufficient, responsibly, mature life. The whole school would follow me, free from responsibility and in the custody of my own brain, talking to myself at every turn and given mercy at all conversations. We could have vast administrative orgies in the canteen together, i could twist off the hairs of K–––’s indecent pubis without need of formal cause.

the pathetic fallacy

i peer from the commode and see
three hundred clean men in dirty undershirts
that scamper into lego seats
and fade into the pews
waiting in mass silence for momentum
to begin with a roar, knuckles bowing and
clinging for dear life
onto metal poles that lean them farther
from three hundred dirtier ones

from the seat of an air-conditioned car
with ions, vapour and extra-added iron
i cannot smell the trees
or the sweat of Bangladeshi workmen
that erected that huge sign -
there! to embalm spelling mistakes
in fluorescent
bequeathed by obediently
printed balloons

odd-numbered levels for women
and evens for the gents
my suburbs lead to the same
outdated and peeling malls
of single-serving shops
markets run by moustachioed women
and the counters of watery ice cream
where aged fathers smuggle melted desserts
for teenagers a train-ride away

we thank you for your children

Here’s how to breed psychopathic, inefficient indigo children that cannot save themselves from the world. It’s not that hard. Parents are bitter people — their children make them vengeful.

Be deadly unreliable. Make a promise and break it. Make five promises and break them all. Destroy a child before an important event. Humiliate it before its society peers. Muffle it in bandages when it needs to urinate. Force it into anxiety. Hit it. Then sue it in court for hitting back.

Bathe the child, shower the child, clothe the child. Rub between its cheeks with your hands in the shower, help it clean out its eyes, nose, and every orifice. Teach it to fight between shame and identity. Teach it to lose. Tell it how to be a successful exhibitionist. Teach it to burlesque before its own children at breakfast with the family. Corner it in the bathroom. Turn on the cold shower. Be armed – wear earmuffs and an eskimo suit. Rape your child with a nearby shampoo bottle. Rape it in the anus, in the genitals. In the case of male try and fail at raping a penis. Rape its mouth, its ears, its eyes. Make a blind, deaf child with no urges – now you have a servant. Corner it into shame. Force its slick childish genitals into erection. Be kind – make shame it’s first best friend. Then force them to hold hands, to kiss on the mouth, to urinate in the public floors of shopping malls.

Force it to drink mouthwash. Show it how to masturbate at the age of five. Show them again at ten. Teach it that hair is sexual power. Tell it to never shave. Don’t give it razors. Force it to shave with a scissors in dark, eerie corners of the house. Teach it to listen to your footsteps as your climb up to its room. Teach it to fear you standing behind, teach it to be afraid of you pushing down the stars. Feed it drugs, but pretend its fish. Put alcohol in its milk bottle at five. Pray it dies but be incensed it doesn’t.

Give your child mass, give it inertia. Make it heavy and slow and plodding and stupid. Make it attached to stupid things, don’t let it see the real values. Blind children are better than those that can take revenge. One small mistake will not be forgotten by an intelligent child. Begin the program before it’s too late. The threat of pain is stronger than pain itself. But don’t be selfish. Give it plenty of pain too. Teach it to gurgle when sticking wet fingers onto switches and into plugs. Let it suck nails, let it swallow blades. There is a wonderful internet where videos of people eating fire come free, and children begin learning by imitation. The lesson should proceed – complete with matches and a room saturated with gas. Keep a fire extinguisher close by you. Save the child, force it to love you. Grab its conscience, twist its guilt into its gut. Blow away the flames only after half its face has been melted off. Draw out the lines of melted flesh with permanent marker. Send it to school with a surplus of hate and a conflict of the self.

But most importantly, deny the child any way out. Let it near no tall ledges, never bring it to the mountains for vacation. Keep it close by in crowds — let no one but you rape it. Keep your kitchen knives, be careful with the blades, watch the oven, don’t let the baby stew too long in its bathwater before a nice fright. Better yet, half-drown the child at birth. Teach it to be terrified of water. Teach it to fear you, but let it fear death more. It would be tragic to lose a plaything you laboured nine months for.

near light is too soft to see

I remember a night long whiles ago — when black death found me — the bed was hard but my mind was soft, and everything felt half-steeped and diluted, and the light was loose and splashy and wine-coloured a wonderful rummy shade — and night was striking its zenith, with myself feeling nobody conscious about for years — none could possibly be hearing or sharing the rude-ness of my sudden awakening — the door was stoppered behind a large glass membrane, and i lay on the other side from where a large teabag was seeping leaves over a mountain of snoring and sprinkled corpses — and I prayed to be far away in Australia to to least have some feckless company — i would be welcome, impromptu circus and all, i would rather a have a slice of rapist and be translated from this half-dark than lie free of motion in a van — colourful striped poles, the bed twinkling with the hardening smell of caramel — laughter dangling before my nose from a mobile that i grab at with baby fists that refuse to adhere to the memory of clenching — and now there is nothing softer than my sheets and nothing looser than the drawstring of trousers across the world and  — nobody more grateful for sleeping clothed, so there would be things to take off and argons to take in — nothing yearning for a purer hydraulic release than my stomach pipette-full of urine than come gushing into the plastic bed in a half-controlled splutter, oxbow-ing from the tiny contractions of laughter and a failed attack of joy at midnight — generating electricity still.

detail of the jumping dream

I stand still
could have been standing forever
below are flocks of upturned faces
without features and pure anonymous concern
i present – the last guilt for an incandescent horror
why gore should be the death of an innocent
or bigger than a nosebleed against a pastel stone
or horny-footed shadows from stained light
i have merely let you in

but none the heat as me
in a sizzle of friction and the extermination of tension
that the brilliance of your arrival should be more
bright or a dazzlement against
the blaze of my chest
a sudden effort
there is a decision made – the ankles leave the balustrade
and a plunger pushes through the purple

the face has dimmed already
there is no impact
a last hat trick and the prisoners applaud
from behind the cinema there is a moisture
a disembodied wetness that seeps
under and into the curtains
climbing still and blushing florid against a show
that detail can give so sullenly against concrete
the face is flesh no more
but a dull ache and a pain everywhere
it is black and i am the flying man
who fell first from the hanging tree
now i may be my vat
or stone
or you to meet my last again

a poem for today the day

i have always feared echoes
round-heavy and propagating
mad like starvation and creating still
ripples of convolution before they fade
submitting pig entrails and cosmetic blood
under the cowardly farce of redundancy

but muddles do not fade
they become small and linger always
in some half-buried desert island
or the corner of an ancient gong
the insolent memory of a narcotic brother
or ringing museum chambers from too much discourse
then the sour twang of the nose eye and liver

waste is a coin on a copper cymbal
the rivers of peril reverberate
sterile electric chairs evaporate into a steamy air
the same wave crashes over my nose – a million plagarisms
and a sentiment that breeds
creeping toes actively twanging across heartstrings
to plunder into logic and rape out the
red blood of love or emotion or compassion

this pain has made made me compromise
now unfettered i clench and pray
after an accidental kick to the guitar
and wait for
a gasp before the fall in the region of my heart

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


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.


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