I write to push the boundaries of the possible.
cracked lips and feet
witness sulphur and ash
once there were wet days too
dark skies, white birds, wet grass
our memories now swell with water
but our mouths are full of sand
this is the time when the mind loses its way.
the rice trucked in
from silent lowlands and deltas
is comfortable, settled.
it found sense in hunger.
At dusk the bare shoulders are tan, amber and pale.
White shirted, hunched together over wooden tables
Since four pm, the brave boys uncoil with sundown.
The Kaki Lima dozes deep in shadows left by Mr Raffles
Glittering people arrive by starlight after office slaughter
With full blooded escorts whose multi-tasking eyes
What do we do every day? We leave our homes, we walk to the bus-stop, we board a bus and we get off exactly where we need to. One might turn on a tap to fill a glass with water, knowing that the water is safe to drink. Then the said person may drink water from the glass. Our behaviour is…
The tea slops around and some lands outside the cup. I sip. I chew.
I roll the warm tang around. I let the soft kaya touch my tongue.
Black hair like water, black shoes like mirrors and hipster scooters,