Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Many Things Surfaced

Many things surfaced, as we go into details, about the kid next door, about his mother who never came back home, whose grandfather talks to bird and believes they were angels from above; as he go into details, about the Chinese auntie on the thirteenth floor, who collects isolated soft-drink cans, and uses them as vases for her bonsai trees, casting eerie shadows as the sun rises; as she go into details, about the man who wear neckties that matches his wristwatch, who began his day at the kopitiam, with half-boiled eggs and sugarless coffee, before checking the stock markets, via his cell; as he go into details, about the pregnant Indian lady, who looks happier every Friday, he don’t know why; as she go into details, about the uncle who never fails to spit on that wilted grass patch, leaving nothing but a loud after-cough, audible to all, even ten miles away; as he go into details, about the drummer who drums on soft pillows, beat-boxing the marble floor, funk-tuning in concert hall volume, waking the specky man below from his slumbers; as he go into details, about the barber who sings traditional Malay songs, not quite on key, as he watched the wall clock every ten minutes, awaiting answers, in many forms; as he go into details, about the kid next door, about his mother who never came back home; whose grandfather talks to bird and believes they were angels, from above.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008


In a twinkling of an eye, three years passed since the debut of my egoistic, semi-biographic, pseudocumentary writings entitled Charcoal. Memories engraved, moments recalled, many of which are lost with time. Actions indeed speak louder than words. But words, with no visuals to accompany it's ramblings, are still worth delivering. For these 27 personnels listed below, defined poetically to avoid any disclosure, life back then was just another piece of canvas, charred with therapeutic colours no one in the world would give a damn about. Until somebody with hot sweats and bated breath shouted for help, we Medics were images of random men filling the voids of an empty space.

The Playboy

Once in my wildest imagination
I recalled your motorbike resembling:
(a) The morning ambulance speeding to camp, and
(b) The night stretcher caught in the jams
As we skipped the evening roll call
And talked cock under my block.

The Smiley

The hidden meanings behind your smile
Was not an agenda
But a facade erected
To cover the many intents
In a game of Blackjack
Or the cheating of Bluff.

The Fly-Catcher

The techno harmonics in your car
Were the notations of a migraine
The white that shines your car
Matches that of the Sick Bay’s sheets
And that car, that car itself -
A legend unexpressed.

The Clown

You went to the rendezvous without realizing
Her existence was a mirage
And you might have known sooner or later
By looking twice in the sterile water
That the caller was no better than
One of them.

The Wonderboy

Scrambled puzzles in your PDA
Is not the life you possessed
The emotions you hold in your sweaty palms
Is larger than life itself
And what seems to us a Biohazard waste
Was for her, a life story.

The Fat-Boy-Slims

We understood when you explained that
Hyperventilation and panic is a vicious cycle
We knew when you said that
The graph paper of the Lifepak is not for the BMI machine
But we could never make out why
You broke down when the oxygen tank was empty?

The Eviltwin

Was it three months or more
When you succumbed to your knee?
Or was it three months or more
When you decided to vacate and
Entrusted me for three month or more
While the Piritons went missing?

The Big Bob

The chopper, we all debated, was imaginary
The shares, that you invested, were unexplained
But true were the tunes that you composed
Behind docket compartments
Beside sweaty uniforms
Beneath duotone X-rays.

The Rectorman

Never was there a much tender picture
Of you sleeping in the Treatment Room
Snoring and ignoring the autoclave’s tang
As your saliva animates a pool on the pillow
It was you, I believed, who had just co-created
In an instant wake - the epitome of rest.

The SM

You shouted when I used up the A4 papers
But I am a history student, not geography
You demanded that I refrain
From the Xerox machine that I had just abused
The least you could do was to appreciate
The art that bloomed thereafter.

The Hair (Apparently)

Six out of six chicken wings were gone
When you came back from the Doctor’s den
So was the cream puff you left in the fridge
The milk, the mango pudding, even the plastic spoon
What remained were banana skins in the sink
The vital sign of sympathy

The Hermit

Ignorance was the game of fools
But to be involved was ignorant too
True enough there was no escape
From the facts that were embedded
Quite briefly in your cortex
As deep inside as Mandai Training Village.

The Cokebloater

People, I don’t recall knowing, used to say
That you can practically die without Coke
Or was that a practical joke
Several times poked
From the cannula against
The sanctuary of your bloats?

The Tamasek

Your Adidas windbreaker that vanished
Was Charcoal-black in colour
With Panadol-white stripes
Which had no hints of a zebra
But a slight apprehension of
The detention barrack our minds reside.

The Psychologist

You were sitting, cross-legged, right above left
You were reading a psychological book
Your head tilted down, poco-a-poco
Your spectacles assumed your eyes
Your mouth zeroed
You slept.

The Drug Baron

Between the asking of names and drug allergies
Was the sound of bottles clanking in the background
Between the stock checking and replenishing
Were the constant smoke breaks in secrecies
Between the forgeries and carte blanches
Was I - Laurel, and you - Hardy.

The Mopa-Pa-Bear

Why oh why, every time I analysed
It would be better done in spare parts
For you are made in pieces
Like the Vespas, Piaggios and Lambrettas
A thick rear body, a narrow slim waist,
Which contra-indicates you, but balances you?

The Rastaputin

It was factual when they wrote that
Cough mixture makes you high
When what you heard are reggae funks
Remixed to the tunes of Procodin
Stirred in the stolen cookhouse mug
Became the airy guilt of a urine test.

The Queer

‘To jump or not to jump’
It was neither a question in the first taking
Nor was it in the end
An answer to the dismissal
Of what we didn’t know
Of what we didn’t ask.

The Gong

Why ‘Blur’ became your moniker?
When you don’t actually wear glasses
Or personified an unfocused squid
A cloudy vaccine
An apparition
A haze?

The Cafergot

Silence was your middle name
But it was never golden
For there were times when you injected
The power of reflexes
The quick moves and urgent volitions
In a simple battle of Tetris.

The Silverspoon

The hues on the Ishihara plates
Encircled the center of your retina
Hypnotising slowly
Almost bluetoothly
As sinful colours turning harshed
Video of thoughts - products of crude.

The Evangelist

The term ‘Kitajima’, my friend
Should not be treated for a name
Cause that name was merely
A case of mistaken identity
For truly the source is not a name
But a town in Japan.

The Flowerpower

What was it that led you astray
From the orientation of truth?
Who was that in your opened closet
Privatizing the unconfused self?
When was it during the early diagnosis
That my position keened your interests?

The Nice One

On a swab is your short story
Square and fast dry
Even in favours you spoke quickly
Trying to serve
If anything at all
The presence.

The New Guy

Tell me your name
Tell me
Cause I don’t even know you
But we do share that name
With that name tag
That name.

The Entrepreneur

The lack of intention
Except only with the decision
To complete a mission
Is perhaps the reason
That makes you here
The resurrected leader.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Hundred Points

Even in the most disarranging of times, I can rant. Accidental thoughts sprung omnipresently, as ideas, old and new, reconnect with other remote ideas. These ideas, when combined with the power of imagination, can be dissected into many variable pieces. These are data, metafiles, backbones to justify my internal workings. One day, if I can condensed my biographical contents in hundred bullet points, the random generator will fill the blanks willingly, despite the fact that I am a natural control freak:

• Temper Tantrums • Leitmotifs • School of Thoughts • Passwords • More Passwords • 4X4 = Bronze • NSC = Silver • MDA = Gold • Booklist • Watchlist • Honour's List • Ops. Thunder • Danzen • Light of Life • One Blink Gone • 2 Tabs, 3 Times Daily • Tinnitus • Charcoal • Hearts and Minds • Heartburnt & Mindfarked • Tom-Tom & Tam-Tam • Rudiments • Paradiddles • Flamacues • Destination Denpasar • Graphic User Interface • 25 Singles • Kuta Beach • Patterns • Repeat Patterns • Rhythms • Luntha - The Ambassador from Burma • Jumble Sales • Dangerous • Absolute Obsolete • Lionheart • KLRLTR • Plastiscene • The Bond, The Bonded and the Bondage • Pause • Solid Motion Exposition • Akzidenz Do Happen • Parenthesis • Oxymora 42 • Parallax Error • Seven • Tudor Blackeresque • Advertising Parody • Lockdown • Fanfare & Procession • Anywise • Decoding Images • Ghost Notes • Original Citations • Updated Citations • Band Method for Band • Dissection of A Space • The Man Behind The Curtain • Haikuist • Short Cuts • Bandits-De-Comrades • Shallow Grave • Altmanesque • Spirit of The Coin • Commonplace Appearance • Trivial Pursuit • Visuals As Texts • Words As Pictures • Love Song • 22nd NCO • Cashflow • The Second Night of October • Magnolia • Subconscious Reality • Misty • Default Settings • Graphitas Dreadloque • Dischloma • Kenophobia • The Rumours At Bedok Interchange • Walkabout • Talent That Turns Me On • Hexvector • Rhapsody On A Canvas • Mood Swings • The Page Cannot Be Found • Hiatus Lounge • Zeugma Linguista • Dramedy • Vis & Verse • Etymological Values • Chaos Theory • Statistics Overload • Supernumerary • Useless Information • Vociferate • 97% Completed • The Application Has Quit Unexpectedly • How To Make My Late Father Proud of Me? • WYSINWYG.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

State Of Living

I will chart my efforts in a style inspired by Nicholas Feltron's selfless infoporn (i.e. his Annual Report). What I did to my humble abode for the pass 2 months is actually, in sum, a dream comes true. I've been procrastinating for the longest of time, and only recently, I feel the urge to reorganise the current state of living. What was once a picture in my mind is a reality before me today. Somethings are achieved by the process of letting go. All the histories that once hid heinously underneath the darkest cranny of the storage spaces are now nothing more than a reel of fleeting images in my memory bank. And until new histories are made for tomorrow, I shall proclaim, without a hint of remorse, that I'm broke to the core.

Apple and the Apple Logo are registered trademarks of Apple Inc.