dyanova - Hello Poetry

I. Parade Square I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground, the tar off my marred body, imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes to burn with an perverse, masochistic fire for this torture my tongue could never profess. Running or sprinting blind, and then a rumble above, force open my eyes to watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380 hang low like a ladder. II. Swimming Pool Usually we swim here, or get cooked by the sun, but there was once we pumped eighty because the FT was bored and wanted to go home, early. III. Cookhouse Pre-dawn, we sit down half-asleep, milo in hand, a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate. Every table a section-full of once-boys taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular window panes that hang from the ceiling. At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem, and I wonder why we don’t sing it anymore. IV. Range It is going on two months in this foreign land Two months of having not shot a single picture A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot Burst of colour – bang! – picture Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage Two months of wading through picturesque scenery Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees And no chance to shoot any photos But the picture of simulated ****** As I point and pull, hear the Trigger-click of my camera go bang. V. Grenade Ground When I picked up the little inconspicuous olive thing, and placed it in the pouch next to my left breast, beside my heart, I couldn’t help but ponder if that was how the Bali bombers felt like, moments before they died. VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge This is another world; a world filled with so many dark memories I cannot write about it. I would have saved you from drowning in your waterlogged grave, except I was drowning myself. On the long ride back to camp, I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking, we may sit in the same tonner, but in actuality we all find our own roads home. VII. Coy Line When I shower I close my eyes, feel the slow trickle of water from the broken showerhead, and imagine myself in a hotel villa, or one of those luxury hotsprings. When the lights go off I lie back, gaze out at the orange floodlight that shines through the panes, illuminates my teary face, darkens my world to a quiet, uneasy sleep. VIII. Ferry Terminal Every book-out I let the man scan my card, puff up my shoulders and catwalk down the dock with a sense of newfound authority. I’m a civilian now. Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry get louder and louder like a plane on the verge of taking off; like a soul on the verge of escape.

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Sep 7, 2014

Sep 7, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC

a tour of tekong

I. Parade Square I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground, the tar off my marred body, imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes to burn with an perverse, masochistic fire for this torture my tongue could never profess. Running or sprinting blind, and then a rumble above, force open my eyes to watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380 hang low like a ladder. II. Swimming Pool Usually we swim here, or get cooked by the sun, but there was once we pumped eighty because the FT was bored and wanted to go home, early. III. Cookhouse Pre-dawn, we sit down half-asleep, milo in hand, a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate. Every table a section-full of once-boys taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular window panes that hang from the ceiling. At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem, and I wonder why we don’t sing it anymore. IV. Range It is going on two months in this foreign land Two months of having not shot a single picture A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot Burst of colour – bang! – picture Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage Two months of wading through picturesque scenery Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees And no chance to shoot any photos But the picture of simulated ****** As I point and pull, hear the Trigger-click of my camera go bang. V. Grenade Ground When I picked up the little inconspicuous olive thing, and placed it in the pouch next to my left breast, beside my heart, I couldn’t help but ponder if that was how the Bali bombers felt like, moments before they died. VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge This is another world; a world filled with so many dark memories I cannot write about it. I would have saved you from drowning in your waterlogged grave, except I was drowning myself. On the long ride back to camp, I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking, we may sit in the same tonner, but in actuality we all find our own roads home. VII. Coy Line When I shower I close my eyes, feel the slow trickle of water from the broken showerhead, and imagine myself in a hotel villa, or one of those luxury hotsprings. When the lights go off I lie back, gaze out at the orange floodlight that shines through the panes, illuminates my teary face, darkens my world to a quiet, uneasy sleep. VIII. Ferry Terminal Every book-out I let the man scan my card, puff up my shoulders and catwalk down the dock with a sense of newfound authority. I’m a civilian now. Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry get louder and louder like a plane on the verge of taking off; like a soul on the verge of escape.

99

When clocks strike twelve and trainings end — lurk not, they say, in school at night. Age-old stories tell of how there’re things that throng in fluorescent light. In toilets silence screeches loud, for when school’s empty, they arise: Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing, with cleaner-uncle poltergeists. For now I sit on chilling white, resounding prayers in my mind; my heart racing with dire wish a friend of Casper’s I won’t find — Then eeeeeeek! Is that a door creaking? Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind, Hinges sing as they fly open! Thou who entered, oh be my kind! A thud thud thud as shoes traverse across the glinting marble floor; and louder, louder as they get much nearer to my sacred door! THEN SILENCE or so I wish! But a loud knock takes my breath away. The unlatched bolt lies there lazing HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY? A hand thrusts in so hard and swift, door’s open ‘fore I can react! I’m facing now a girl my age, She bawls at me with little tact — Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated, “YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!” I dash out of the girls’ toilet before she tries to castrate me.

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Sep 6, 2014

Sep 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC

COMEDIC TOILET GHOST POEM

When clocks strike twelve and trainings end — lurk not, they say, in school at night. Age-old stories tell of how there’re things that throng in fluorescent light. In toilets silence screeches loud, for when school’s empty, they arise: Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing, with cleaner-uncle poltergeists. For now I sit on chilling white, resounding prayers in my mind; my heart racing with dire wish a friend of Casper’s I won’t find — Then eeeeeeek! Is that a door creaking? Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind, Hinges sing as they fly open! Thou who entered, oh be my kind! A thud thud thud as shoes traverse across the glinting marble floor; and louder, louder as they get much nearer to my sacred door! THEN SILENCE or so I wish! But a loud knock takes my breath away. The unlatched bolt lies there lazing HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY? A hand thrusts in so hard and swift, door’s open ‘fore I can react! I’m facing now a girl my age, She bawls at me with little tact — Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated, “YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!” I dash out of the girls’ toilet before she tries to castrate me.

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