evening waves

Evening waves,

tell the most beautiful of tales.

 

Electronic

grid-like fluctuations,

jittering trepidation:

 

waves,

 

lulling

each other out of and back to

incandescent

sleep.

 

Murky mercury

hiding under slick

silver.

These

glowing

pre-pubescent hills,

too scared to expand,

hence, retract,

push back.

 

Suddenly with a playful,

almost knowing

glint,

they change their mind,

and roll forwards,

loll their head back,

with hair that

sprinkles baritone

hums

down the ocean’s spine.

 

Hums of

an unrecognizable

tale;

just like the tide,

it spirals out of its

shell as rapidly as it

scurries back

behind a

wave’s swish

of a gown,

hiding their blooming

flourishing

cheeks:

 

ready to exhale

salty relief.

 

And if the tide

subsides

and if

the waves

turn sleepy,

eyelids folding over the shore

with what seems

like

infinite

patience,

 

then, humans lean

over. Look closer,

and in this miracle,

they see

featherlight depictions

of who they dream

to be:

sensual figures

skate alongside

waves,

ever morphing

ever merging,

becoming one.

 

For that second,

life seems a bit more

mystical.

sparkling water

Frizzling,

sparkling water

effervescent

trepidation

on the edge

of serenity

 

capsules of gas

clumped up like

clams

coating the bottle’s

edges

 

a few brave ones

push off

shoot off

towards the glimmering

exit sign.

the portal to the

external

breathing world.

 

they start off

timidly advancing

upwards,

trembling,

trying to justify their

actions,

then…

pop!

off they go

hitting the water

surface,

and disappearing

with a glint

 

a cry for freedom

from the ones left

behind as you

close the bottle

crum-pets

crumpets

my tongue taps the palate

twice

two consonants

bounce

pounce

between my

lips

 

i sweetly formulate

the word and

it languidly

glides down

onto the plate

like butter

 

mewling in pleasure

the syllables

sink into

the miracle before me;

 

and under the sunlight

it’s color teeters between

golden hair and

creamy licks.

 

its edges break silence

crisply with

compliance

as teeth create

clean cuts,

and slice,

rip,

scratch it apart

like one of pavlov’s

dogs

 

mercilessly,

ceaselessly,

but with method.

 

and i’ll be left

with crumbles that have

nowhere left to go

like lost children in a

mall,

they desperately

recompose try not to

decompose

after a moment of trepidation-

i edge closer,

jaw slack,

sticking my tongue out-

they land on it quite

bluntly

like land mines exploding

into last flakes of

pleasure

 

… it’s gone

 

i guess i’ll toast another-

the butter’s out of the fridge

anyway

aluminum plates/airplane ride

It feels so raw,

skin burns on every surface I

press onto.

I’m slicing myself up

to fit into the small seat

compartment

where both handles by

my side are magnets

pulling towards each other

 

the plane aches too.

like my mind,

it swindles,

wobbles,

trembles for a split

second.

before allowing a moment

of catatonic stillness

 

stillness that’s ready to

pounce

my thoughts

ready to bounce

off any

surface, just waiting

for the night light

to shine orange,

or the unlatching

of a seatbelt.

 

anything to grasp on to

hungrily, and

claim it

for its own,

interlaced with

the past,

and

maybe something

stranger.

 

i’ll sit back and allow

it all to

linger

Where I’m From

Where I’m from,

it’s

bustling

hustling

rustling

cars, suits and

loose heavy papers

(that could form craters)

 

Where I’m from,

what sticks,

latches on to you

is the perfume of a stranger

late to a rather strange

destination –

contemplation-

or simply,

retracting,

contracting

hands

apologetic looks

“I’m sorry, but I

come first”. Red light turns green.

 

Where I’m from,

it’s bubbling

leaking

creaking

freshly paved cement,

used up fuel

and week-old cooking

oil still brought to

the

boil.

 

I’ll stand on the edge of the sidewalk,

under the muffled

moon or battered down

lights that

trace posters which climb up walls

like vines, greedily locking locks

(carved with half-finished syllables)

that latch selfish promises on to unwilling

gates.

 

Where I’m from,

trains consist of

looks trying to resist

bony shoulders

edging into hips,

joints popping

and people swaying

to the rhythm of

trainstops

like lanky trees in a

soft breeze.

“Oh I hope I don’t have to lean on to

anyone,”

or

“I’d rather stumble”.

 

But what I’ll remember from all this

bustle,

are the people skipping across

zebra lines like kids playing

hopscotch.

Giggles and all.

 


lil side note. i live in hong kong. this is hong kong from me to you.

Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats

 

Coats and coats

of laughter

kisses

press record!

remember

 

pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough

 

they’re made out of

porcelain

posting pictures

that define their

life

because they are

nothing more

 

emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens

 

But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect

dollhouse

 

Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.

 

Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.

 

It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t

sleep

 

Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.

 

Better not.

Travel Nostalgia

 

I always fear

first nights home

like a spear

the sinking feeling

unamused

nostalgia

without meaning.

 

Waking moments spent

confused.

Eyes don’t know where

to rest.

I guess that’s for the best.

 

The weather,

the people.

Tether

down

the feeling.

It plays on repeat.

 

Chilling.

 

It’s all spilling

out.

 

Please make it stop!

 

I just want to feel at

home again.

Why does this place

feel like a hole

I stole.

 

Then the lights

go off,

being alone with

my mind.

Tick tock tick tock

these thoughts, I cannot block.

 

Lost identity.

I’m a roaming ghost —

made of obscenity

just for a while

 

I hope most.

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