Around a table of smiles; fishers of men. I am happy for you, sincerely — such joy like a fountain, the running stream which I cupped to drink from, like tears which now run down your eyes. I cannot be but ashamed by this mirage in the desert, the reticent fog behind which I sheathe my beautiful lies, a despair. I listen painfully now, applauding before men, but the ceiling is a mesh; tightly woven harvest net holding back acceptance, joy, holding back the cacophony of voices reprimanding with resurgent memories which cannot escape the air.

Sipping tea, faceless in the deafening fold of this cha chaan teng — it is unbearably hot in here, alien tongue in first contact against the boiling brew. “Excuse me”, I choke out in English, burning bright blue gesturing against this sea of impassioned red — raucous tongues brilliantly flashing, exuberant hearts dyed in patriot’s hue. — burning blue responds to a prompt for a poetry slam which I am, unfortunately, unable to attend. It explores the deeply-seated unfamiliarity and sense of “otherness” I experienced when trying to order food in English, at a proudly local Hong Kong dim sum establishment.

Hear how radiant these halls are; how they sing with a silence that submerges, that swallows. Halves of a whole; swords of razor-sharp wit sheathed in wait for tomorrow. — before/after is the result of applying Pauline Oliveros' deep listening technique to the venue of a legal moot I participated in last week. It is an exploration of the courtroom, of the suspense in the air before the fighters arrive.

You don’t want my words, you want a voice; a cavernous echo of your hurt. Take my nod and its long-drawn sigh; wherein your own may seek refuge and wherein our troubles coalesce in counterpoint, apart but perfect in cadence. — advice discusses empathy and the conundrum of comforting a loved one.

Speed past the bar lines dividing us, the walls between our sounds; infinite divisions of emptiness swallowed counting bars into the ground. Skip past our solos con fuoco, for the audience now a bow; our touch a final fermata, bending time to fit us now. — fermata explores the feeling of time stopping at the end of the day when we finally meet.

Blemish and stain, God-given or forsaken. The day is a mirror reflecting and from its brilliance, we hide. It is a torch brightly burning, shouting its accusations against raven black masquerade, anxieties grouted with obsidian alluring to all but inside. But let us travel light now, leave the baggage behind; on beaten roads vagabonds roam, curious hands in search of adventure. At nightfall once more remove them. The world is tattoo on skin, signposting our lives. I like you unvarnished, like truth so harsh and unrefined.

If these hands were just steadier, I’d tear down those walls for you. Crumbled down, clay mortared fear rubbled; the vista, the view of bricked lifetimes, splayed afoot- mosaic steps, a dance for two. Pieces arranged like dinner now; the cuisine you’ve both outgrew, staring up from porcelain again, circa words “I do”. — walls explores the barriers that inevitably form between people across time and age, invisible to themselves but visible to all around.

Singing wood, nervous anxiety; they do not hear, they do not see colours. Stained glass organ in the cathedral, communion; free between four walls, the boundless sea. — resonance distils the transcendental experience of playing one of the world’s most underrated musical instruments, the marimba.

Do I ponder you in the daytime, amidst this copyright reform? Pray tell, how much closer you could be to the eye of the storm; My work is of you, most beautiful idea enshrined, expressed in physical form. — Life+70 is my attempt to convince her that, even though I may be deep in the thick of this season’s life work, she still remains on my mind; to the exclusion of others, to be protected, to be enjoyed, for as long as this life may be and, perhaps, even after.