2 ol 2 b excptinal, anytig spcal

i am approaching anciency

my expiry date the distance between
index finger and thumb,
beheading fluted plastic.
it is dark blue like the wine in my dream,
moët’s skinny dipping into flames
and this is how i taste my shrivel

they don’t feel that spiced dryness but i do

do check the carton before
purchasing any product.
2 ears late and the milk is sour on the tongue,
curd rising into its cream architecture
that knives the palate open as his
jaw shuts to a close

alligator i have broken you

elevator a love letter, a date.
eighteen years and quickly dying, damn.
choke that thought at its condensation
the light of the mind is blue like Plath
as dramatic, as true,
my yellow tongue pressed up against

your two front teeth are cracked

like the erosion of cameron highlands.
a landslide victory to nine years
and now a tumble down the stairs at
nine years more. my curdle fertiliser pours
into the soil of your lips, how
mutable, how they open

into the terror of my name

it is grey. first a toddler petrified, age-old,
no clatter of teeth but an exhale through
wrinkled crevices exhausted of rupture.
it barricades a lie, the noun your milkweed
melts into a mild meek smile
actually actually actually

, defined as the overstepping of time
rotten tongue missing the mark of the mind.

et 8 ate

walk yourself some pork trotters
some dear pork trotters walk yourself
beneath blankets clean with dust from
a 19 away house. the children run to
conflate and then new ones again,
house quiet of red packets,
loud with fireworks that in this decade dare to scare
not in hand and into tyres –a shiver shock happiness–

but into smoke, air, hands transposed
to ears and not more fuel.
even without crawling after tradition
we shred the wax from giant candles from flower gardens,
a passing that remains, an abalone-linger. like sticky stick
the zinc spurts with every fold of mandarin,
old tongues on diamond-bedded sofas tasting
other lovers. stochasticity,

two spring cleaners.
and after largeness the trees are still bleeding
the same grains, flurry flours that melt
to a stop by stop by stop by stop
an eeny meeny miny moe
these voices still running, top-speed and drifting
taking turns pointing fingers
a year a date a passing that’ll stick. 

I used to think this was the smell of yeye until reruns in the same set different scenes made me realise this is the hospital’s brand. Well it’s not as if he’s not just under observation. Bless the lord o my soul if that utterance was incoherent it’s his slur again isn’t it? Or droplets that have now disappeared into the bladder of a greater tiger. They tear it apart with herbivorous teeth and find only cubs, not cows and so this is what it is and has been, if it was dementia perhaps the diagnosis would have granted some allowance. More air time more float – if you untense yourself you will be less dense & empty is better for survival than strength. What a strange choice of colour isn’t it? The floor a nurse skates out on blaring red and blue, “I look retarded walking around with this bag“, like the sirens started singing beef wart instead. Then enunciate. Bad posture for 10 years sitting at a desk designing and Mr Tan Kar Yong is now a friend without lies. I like how we both get it doing nothing. The tiger flips and suddenly we can’t control our piss.

Maybe next week we could learn to ride a bike. Four wheels better than none.

rest on her laurels

how i

could not believe roses as if where
were they in the first place.
the thorns that hit are white and copper,
in another In
credible Tale the crown of wreath or wrath
is multi-pronged.

the moments memory waters narrow themselves &
the tunnel extends into only
I,
a stem of a vertical stretch that prunes the
Sun.
             in bed I am nudging my head into her chest,
             (the crown shrouded with deliverance)
apart, her sheets of flowers fall,
shrivelling under my tongue and then where were we
again?

how could I not believe roses as if they
were not there in the
    first place is untouched: that disintegrates under our
tongues and then where we are, again.
there is first silence, and then a dawn,
dust of dried hands, flowers unfold…

! it can only come from her –
dusk floats only from anomalous drip,
the storm that follows the thunder
splits our sides
snapping roses into perfect halves.

more water, more water…

–––––    ––     –––– –––            –––––––––––––   –    –––––––––––––––––––––––––––.

con sore nant

i! am! afraid!
of how my fingers still reach for the corner
instead of the edge.
they make up by following links instead of
connections, past present postman’s
left so we revert to the right –
less wrong. subtracting two from three rungs gives
you a single Facebook status

“no stop right there b***”
don’t even first guess

in the mirror it’s only
muscle memory, disengaged from
the heart and all its pulsing
presumptions,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, & Pooja nudges anatomy.

crocodile to chest

crocodile to chest.
tears’ heat capacity proves
twice as much as
the storm.

it, or your mind, must assume negligible
friction – a banana peel in your brain
where the foot slips

he is son before he is
exam-scorer, intelligence-prover, hardworker, Hwachong boy
the duty of the caller precedes that of
the receiver. this telephone line coils an anomaly –
never picked up, when held,
static. two children rub a piece of tissue into the microphone
against the green screen of muted laughter.
why can your love only ever be a
                                                         bsent; a
                                                                     ction-h
                                                                               idden; h
                                                                                             ostile 

have you ever heard the blood
of stepping into your father’s leather shoes
in your voice:
“what’s wrong with all of you?”
“you are so stupid!”

he launches the duality of monster
and effort into the ground;
tartarus will reject it every time.

Até, you made home home & it comes anyway

The word is “never”. I am thirteen and that melody is on repeat. Tonight the bass is on, thump in, surge through award-winning golden raindrops. This kinetic sculpture is liquid, my breath held.

Warning: Ifugao; 2. 

so
how
are
the
typhoons
emerging?
ready?

Kinetic rain pulls up and down faster than before. we crash into each other again and again and again. Sky train takes me across, taking flight. Six years grow into a singular momentous moment, plane wheels hit the ground and taxi,

streets
hold
actions
time
takes,
escaping
remembrance.
engage;
dismantle.

You can only untangle phalanges now.

In the front seat my brother changes CDs every five minutes. No Coffee Music. Everybody wants to rule the world. U2. Girl in Bossanova. Noise.

I am a typhoon already set foot in Ifugao. In Manila, flights are delayed.