hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

INDIE MIDNIGHT 
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.

PUSHCART ADVENTURES 
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
a-streaming

a-scorching
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

NARCOTIC BROTHER
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

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.

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