higher calling

 

Black bloodied petals

kiss in the

                   wind

 

pursed lips of gray

 

the butterfly bush

 

crushed,

 

like that man

in the black overcoat

 

kneeling

                in the pew

 

alone with the hangman

grotesque

 

bidding him, come

                          follow me.

 

*******

 

 

man in the mirror

 

The face

in the mirror

fair-skinned

 

yellow-paste

like bitter durian seeds

packed for lunch

 

            clean-shaven

not a shadow

of hair

 

            like a child

            like a girl

 

like that son

of a bitch

 

            who pumps me

with aspirin

codeine

and xanax

 

            like that mother’s

            son of a gun

 

who drowns me

with Tiger

 

who finally

 

            kiss my sorry ass

            goodbye.

 

 

*******

 

 

the finisher

 

Heaves in and out,

cascades of last breath – lungs

slowly giving way to

sweet nothing.

 

Heavy sighs. No – more than

heavy. It is

 

crazy.

 

Pull the damn plug!

 

Heaves in and out,

I can hear the drums now –

beating and beating. The

shaman is here.

 

Final shove. Yes – I can see

no more. It is

 

finished.

 

*******

 

 

dizzying lights

 

blades whirl

spin and grind

 

above, the air

 

a whirlpool

of dust, debris

 

hair and spittle.

 

Blinding hues of

yellow the morning

heat -

 

above only

         sky.

 

 

*******

 

 

the real world

 

This is the mouse

 

who shivers

in the shadows

 

silent

 

one Monday

morning

 

beneath

 

the streets.

 

 

*******

 

 

this is our world

 

Four years

old, the

 

Chinese girl

 

she stands

       outside

the cinema

 

in Tampines Mall.

 

Braided black

hair

        like hangman’s

cords

 

she waves

one finger

 

she purses

her lips

 

she puts

that finger

        to her lips

 

and bites

that finger

       off.

 

Not a single

soul in the crowd

 

        seems to notice.

 

*******

 

 

mr hyde

 

The stranger

            grins

 

at me

through the

 

             mirror

 

his eyes green

his eyes cold.

 

I smile back

 

seroxat, risperidol

and xanax

 

mad cocktail

with my cuppa.

 

*******

 

 

salvation

 

My pal James died

it was only last night

when we

met

 

over a cup of coffee at the club.

it has been two years now, no –

perhaps three – since we

last saw

           each other.

 

Childhood friends we were

skipped classes, petty

fights, and

one-night crushes

 

over girls and boys.

 

My friend james, good

man was he – stood by me

all those years. Played

 

together, laughed and

cried

together.

 

James was gay when I

was not – but we were

friends

nevertheless. His life

showed grace, and his heart showed

            love.

 

Love in spite of and love

despite of

 

the pain and the ache. The ignominy

and the mockery, just

 

because he was

            different.

 

Lump in my throat, when i heard

the news. My friend James.

 

Badly beaten and bruised

was his body, 

bashed beyond recognition – not even his mama

could see his face.

 

My pal James. It was only

last night

 

when we met,

 

no wonder,

somehow

               the coffee

tasted

                strangely bitter.

 

 

*******

 

 

 

misery

 

He pulls
      tugs

peels back
the mask

that is his
foreskin

of his miserable life.

Nothing down
there…

only a tingling
reminder

of who
and why

he is.

       He just is.

 

*******

 

 

in the mornings

 

To shave (this morning),

 

to peer into mirrors

 

so vacant

they become

 

wells, can’t see

the end

 

a staring incident

between face and mirror,

wake and sleep,

 

and the yellowed

shades of               dawn.

 

Cold water splashes,

sandpaper.

 

Baby cries.

                      Yawn.

 

*******

 

sweet goodbye

 

Before my head

              hurts

once more,

once again

 

              remember

 

please light

              one King’s

              one Camel

              one Kent

 

the trinity

 

burn them

plunge them

 

two to my

eyes

 

                the other

to my balls

 

until only singing

until only

 

                 the sweet

scent of sulphur

 

fills my room.

untitled

 

Hoping to love

and be loved in return,

 

two speckled sparrows

pecking at each other,

 

twilight cords of dawn

strangle the moon,

as he

 

sleeps. Only to pull his

nails

one by one.

 

mental prison

 

The last

        few strands

 

like used straws

        pinched

        bitten

 

from an empty

cup of juice

 

        fall

to the gray

concrete floor

 

(the clipper

growls)

 

the last

       fragments

 

of what is real

of what is sane

 

       of what is

sound

 

in this prison

with no bars

 

and no blade

and no cord

 

        no blood

        no noose

 

no escape.

 

*******

 

 

like a child

 

Five year old me

afraid

            of the dark

 

home alone

on Friday night

 

with the Bogeyman

waiting for me

            behind the toilet

door.

 

Thirty year old me

afraid

            of the light

 

that floods Raffles Place

every morning

 

            every day

of my life.

 

I love the dark now

the only place

            where I can hide

 

and smile

among the shadows.

 

Among the shadows

            where I can smile

 

behind

            the toilet

door.

 

 

*******

 

 

social anxiety

 

 

Unfamiliar faces

smooth lines, wrinkled brows

boyish grins, manly grunts

 

roman noses, pointed chins -

 

a garbage bag of skulls

 

           dumped

 

onto a pasture

of blood-red roses

 

outside. Out of

 

            sight.