I've decided to end my life
he wrote in a note
and pinned it to
his laid off clothes.
It isn't as bad as it sounds.
He turned up three weeks later
in Singapore,
alive and well
if somewhat confused
and dehydrated.
As for where he had been
he wouldn't say
but to those who knew him
his smile
meant that something had changed.

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.

I said "It's a beautiful
City!" To which
Several replied emphatically
"Expensive!" Soon I
Discovered that the
Philosophers and dreamers
Ended up driving cabs around
Beautiful, expensive cities.

Because I wanted to be the shade of lace
that hugged at my arcs and ridges,
blushing deeper as you peeled it away
from my skin.

Maroon,
because it painted the
the constellation,carefully planted
down
my
spine

and coloured the speckles of tiny stars,
huddling beneath the fortress of my jaw,
while the others were lost,
but cradled safely
in the dimple of my collar bones.

It does not take a blazing comet
or rounds of tectonic tremors to
pry our grounds open.

Neither would the giant waves lashing,
or the angry volcano
swallow us whole.

Torpedoes, tornadoes, guns, germs and steel
do not suffice in bringing our annihilation.

From within,

a cosmic revolution
-where fates change and stories rewritten,

and all it takes could be merely
a fraction of a moment missed,
a heart navigating on a compass
misaligned,
or another that ceased beating.

It has been quite a while,
since I saw you this up close.

We were seated across each other at the rounded table,
having home-cooked dinner, the way we used to with your family.

We had the usual dishes, served with light hearted banter
and bits of chatter about every day’s trivia.
Big brother was humming a song,
and there was a chime of little sister’s laughter
because Dad told another joke while recounting his days.

You were pretty much the same.
Hair neatly waxed, the way it is after work.
Combed up. To the right.

I recall wondering how distance and familiarity
can co-exist in such harmony.
Quite a cinematic setting, is this scripted?
I must be acting, or dreaming.

You wolfed down every mouthful,
as your jaw clenched and relaxed
and your chopsticks scraped the bottom of the ceramic bowl.

“Eat more! Eat it all!”, Mother teasingly chide

And your eyes darted across the room,
crinkle into a smile, before it hit me –bullseye

as I glanced away,

I caught a glimpse of that silhouette,
that girl by your bed idling and
swinging her legs.

I knew better: we were each other.
Possibly going by another name,
a different face,
just that I was ahead.

She leaned forward.
Our eyes met.

And in that split second
of silent confrontation, I was reminded
that it was my duty,
to be happy for you in this realm –your reality.

Share my covers, share my skin
share my worries and my dreams.

I had put my dream
in a fridge;
it was taken out,
and still it was full of heat
when I bade goodbye!