Stheno’s Kitchen

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick tick. Tick tick

Tick-tick-tick-tick

Tik-tik-ti- Ding!

They’re ready!

Mittens. Pan. Table.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

Setting them down by the busts to cool.

My hair gets impatient sometimes,

hissing at the smell of those freshly baked meat.

I pet them down and put them in their place.

As I walk through the kitchen, I smirk at those hardened eyes.

Perseus will one day taste my mastery too.

Plate. Plate. Plate.

Fork. Fork. Fork.

Chair. Chair. Chair.

They call themselves Gods; playing with the helpless human dolls;

Creating freaks of nature like little Perseus.

So very tiny, so much desire to impress, so so close to being stoned to death.

Her only sin was being flawless; all she ever wanted was to be loved.

It was Jealousy, prejudice and injustice; the family that proved

the downfall of my baby sister. Their heads will mark the sacred ground

where she lay. I will turn their bodies into a temple.

And she shall be worshipped.

And she shall be immortal.

Euryale!

Fumble fumble fumble.

Snakes in a mess.

Eyes bloodshot.

Poison dripping from the side of a fang.

Sister. Sister.

Let’s eat.

Magic Trick

Tribute to my gonggong.

A volunteer?
Of course, sexy lady at the back.
Dressed in glitter, wavy dark curls, ruby lips.
Lies down in a box; the box. Tight.
Amazing cloth, always velvet.
Catch her scarlet smirk before she's gone.

Black girl, black box, black cloth.
Silver swords, silver saws, silver spikes.
Red girl, red box, red cloth?

Black Death.
No.
No cloth. No box. No girl.

Aha!
Magical cry, magical chant, magical prayer!
Puff of smoke!
Of course, sexy lady at the back.
Dressed in glitter, wavy dark curls, ruby lips.

Now.
Beige boy. Brown box. Golden cloth.
Trembling cry. Diligent chant. Holy prayer.
Incense smoke.

Grandpa?

Their Tears

I weep for the coughs I hear down the hall

I weep for the kiss I've learned not to miss

I weep for the crows and their merciless calls

I weep for the ignorance, probably not in bliss

I weep for the television, the radio, the news

I weep for the children, the arms, the mind

I weep for the emotional physical abuse

Are those bombs falling from the sky?

I weep for the cities crashing one by one

I weep for the world holding cattle of man

I weep for the seas glowing red with blood

I weep for the guy, laying, gasping for air

I weep for the boy sleeping on white dust

I weep for the girl blowing out red candles

I weep for the parent begging for burnt crust

Is there anything we can't handle?

And I weep for the sake of humane humanity

I wish for more compassionate mentality

I hope for nurturing loving maturity

I pray for the some sort of sound sensibility

So many years of ingenious evolution

So many years of quickened progress

Always on point with being efficient

Maybe it's time to start mourning before death.

Goodnight Grandma

A tribute to my mama

Goodnight Grandmama; sleep tight tonight.
Let your dreams take you away.
Let them take you to a far away land with
clouds beneath your feet. Yes, your feet Mama,
your feet! Throw that wheelchair away, you need
it not. Not then, not ever.
There will be no more suffering and no more pain.
You are being upgraded;
your voice more melodious, your nose sharper,
your bones stronger than your stubbornness,
your mind quicker.
But your eyes will stay the same. Those hazels
exude such warmth and wisdom, they have reached
the epitome of perfection.

I miss you Grandmama.

I miss you Grandmama. Rest your precious heart.
Your amazing heart, filled with love, was never
once too full. Every rhythm had a purpose;
you embrace the world on every thump.
Kindness and empathy always by your side
as you touch the lives of the babies and the grandkids,
the girls and the boys, the women and the men,
the father and the mothers, the friends and of course,
the husband. I wonder if it had ever beaten just for you.

They told me your heart had a condition, Grandma.
They told me it was what brought you to sleep.
I think it was just weighed down by the gold it holds within.
You carried so many of us in there, it's incredible
how big it is.

I love you Grandmama.

I love you, Grandmama, I love you! Do you hear
our cries, Grandmama? Grandmama, I am screaming
up to you! Can you hear me? Grandmama!

I love you.

I miss you.

I want you.

Why did you leave?

Goodnight Grandma; I'm going to bed too.
It's still early so I'll send up a prayer, wishing
my dreams will take me away to a far off land
with my head in the clouds.

And through my pillow, I shall meet
the memories of you and learn to beat
the tempo of compassion and song d'amour,
the dance of affection and how to grow room for more.

Death Be With You

A tribute to my waigong. RIP.

You with the lovely eyes,
why don't you open them and see?
Open them and watch the world.
Look at my face. You created me
and then molded my person.
Hold my hand, Papa!
Look at me. Look at your son
that longs your smile.

Why are you colder than ever?
Do you need a blanket? I'll grab one for you.
Speak to me. Where are the words
of the lips that taught me two plus two?
Breathe in the air, Papa,
It's easy, like this.
Please breathe, Papa.
Here, have true love's kiss.

Tell me you're not gone, dear father.
Tell me you've just gone to bed.
Tell me you'll sit up at anytime.
Tell me, Papa. Tell me you're not only dead.
Sing me tunes of robins and larks,
Paint me pictures of sky and soil,
Teach me lessons of strength and life.
Fill me with kisses of sadness and joy.

I think I understand how this works;
what happens when one dies.
The Son calls out and you must go
but why won't you come when this son cries?
I look around and I do see,
pieces of you surrounding me.
You're not only dead, my kind daddy;
you burn in the hearts of everybody.

Pink Is The New Black

Pink is the saltiness in my eye.
Pink is the shivers down my spine.
Pink is the tension in my shoulder.
Pink is the fingers going colder.
Pink is the anger in my fists.
Pink is the lines on my wrists.
Pink is the blood on my hand.
Pink is the betrayal of men.
Pink is the hate in my heart.
Pink is my soul torn apart.
Pink is the vacant broken shells.
Pink's for the fallen in hell.

Tug of War

For the persecuted Muslims in Burma.

She hangs by her neck like the majestic colored

flag of her country. The sons beside her,

nine and five, upright and dead.

From afar, you can barely see her.

Against the brick red wall, she is but a speck of taint.

Should you go up close, she will tug on your heart strings.

The yellow floral dress brings you back to the

one you passed in the store. The lipstick used to

mask her pale kissables are the same shade as the one

in your purse. You see the resemblance.

She is as mother, as daughter, as friend, and as woman as you are,

but where you have pearls, she has rope.

You can see the bitter-sweet in her lifeless face,

the sadness endured of losing her boys accompanied

by their prompt reconciliation in the next cruel world.

In a short while, the birds will feast in celebration.

Then, she shall soar with them into the sun.

Mrs. Montag

Inspired by the book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

I got my stomach pumped tonight.

That’s no big deal. Everyone has done it.

It is almost a weekly routine for me.

In fact, I crave it.

They inject you with this amazing concoction

of dancing colors after you get pumped. It helps

you forget your pain.

They call it Euphoria.

I have tasted it so many times, the body has become

more resilient than the burning flames on the next

government street.

Protocol is to up the dose.

I crave protocol,

so I make sure I’ll always take one pill more than the last.

My insane husband has fled to join the hippies

on the tracks. Something about giving

happiness a try. I call it naivety.

Do I miss him? Well, I get the parlor walls

all to myself and the seashells are never offed

these days. I listen to them as I count the capsules.

The bombings in the adjacent city make the best songs

for each session. Upbeat and dynamite.

The poison coursing through my empty veins,

slowly seeping into my hollowed mind. Hear

the low hum of the machine, sucking the sleep

out, next to me. It sounds like his voice.

Euphoria. It brings me to the perfect world,

their perfect world, my perfect world.

Lazarus

I rose to the surface – head, full of hot air,

first, followed by my decaying body. Merciless

waves crash onto me but it is the crack of

dawn that rose my eyelids. I rub my eyes with

bloated hands, full of chipped nails, 8 fingers left.

They buried me once.

I had to claw my way through the God’s earth.

Fulfilling, but tiring nonetheless. My cold shadow

triumphantly displayed by the moon shine on

the ground, heated by the fires below.

Hear, with only one ear, the birds cheer as hope rose.

Headed home to find the Missus pale as

a ghost. I smiled as wholly as I could and blamed it

on the Haver*. His plans are going to get me

killed again.

When the black flag rose for the second

time, they threw me into the ocean, praying the

animals would do the job. But, the fishes that kept

my dead flesh company, they know of His spirit.

And Lazarus rises once more.


* "Haver" is hebrew for the word friend.

Gaping heart

A tribute to my cousin, Chua Guo Wei (1993-2015)

When men of men ask of space

They talk the stars of stars that glow and shine

No. Space is where he used to place

Where now I cry, I weep myself blind

Where his smell still lingers on the sheets

Where his ghost still haunts my dreams alone

Where my regrets redden, blazes and heats

'Cause space is a cruel, gaping black hole

Thus with the devil, I’d readily sell

My soul and life and material things

For a ticket to the fires of hell

As Saint Peter sounds the judgement ring

If for a minute, you may rise

And watch me breathe my final sigh.

An Angel's Mirror

Buzzing air breathes spring,
Steaming through brusque bleeding rocks.

I stared down at me. 

Tomorrow, Please

I have always been loving you. When you drew your first breath
in my arms, I touched a miracle. You made
physical pain feel indescribably amazing.
When you took your first steps
into my embrace, I witnessed light. You wobbled
towards me with hands outstretched and from
your eyes, I saw trust -the first in your circle. It was
enthralling. When you first held my hand and planted a kiss
on my cheek, I felt love.
When you first called my name, "Mama!",
I heard music. My innocent sweetheart, you are a work of God's.
I am Mama.

Remember how you used to come back to me everyday?
The sweetest voice is never too far off the motorized
clink-clank of the yellow metal capsule. "Mummy!"
and suddenly, the sun shines a little brighter, the grass grew a
little taller and the flowers bloom a little bigger.
I remember when you told me you got a gold star for
English. I wore my pride as a badge atop my motherly
breasts. I remember when I was called to school to
watch you receive your awards. I clapped loudest in that
auditorium. I cheered longest. The moment captured, framed and
proudly displayed on our mantle. My little genius, you are a work of God's.
I am mummy.

I recollect when yoou wanted to be a princess -
puffy green dresses, silver tiaras, golden glitter and fairy wings.
You were celestial.
Then, fashion changed and princesses were dressed with
blood red lips, black eyeliner, mini skirts and cropped tops.
You were celestial.
I recollect when you would come home and weep. "Mum".
Girls can be a mean bunch. Boys make you miserable.
As I heard the sniffles of your door, my heart pounded with you.
As I heard the whimper of your room, my heart cried with you.
As I heard the exclamation of your tears, my heart broke with you.
My stained-faced child, you are a work of God's.
I am mum.

I'll always love you. As you heave through the ventilators
in my arms, I wished for a miracle. Your silence make
the pain in my chest feel almost unbearable.
When you threw yourself into my embrace and I heard
the empty bottle rattle on, I longed for light. You wobbled
towards me with hands outstretched and from
your eyes, I saw the life seeping out of your soul like
the white froth at the corner of your mouth. It was
fear I never could imagine. When you held my hand and planted a kiss
on my cheek, I prayed for salvation.
When you gasped my name, "ma",
I cried for mercy. My broken perfection, you are a work of God's.
Who am I if not for you?

My baby, please do not go today.

My Lovely Boyfriend

My lovely boyfriend.

I’m going to kill him.

Maybe a cup of tea first –

just for old times’ sake.

No sugar. His metabolism makes him really hot.

If he plays his cards right,

maybe I’ll let him play with my cat

or stroke my hair

or even a kiss or two.

I love my boyfriend.

Maybe I’ll kill him tomorrow instead.

He does so much for me.

He cooks, he cleans, and he kisses

everywhere.

He thinks of me; not too clingy.

He hugs me; sometimes too tight.

He makes me laugh, then laughs at me.

He lets me do weird faces of his face.

And thus, remains why, I need to kill him.

He is great at balancing

between being the perfect man and a complete douche.

He makes me want to smash his head with a slash hammer.

He makes me want to smash my head with a slash hammer.

I am so confused, I’m going bonkers.

Maybe I’ll save the mushrooms till the end of the week.

But his eyes –

His eyes just make everything disappear.

I could just stare at them all day.

And his hair and his lips and his scent…

I got to get ready.

He is coming for tea!

Drink Up!

Never been happier for color vision;

never been happier for coloring in a bowl

for it represents regaining life or the lack thereof.

And I've never been so glad for pain.

A day ago, sight was depressing

The moon mocked, the stars gossiped, the

bed disapproved, the table reminded, the food

stung, the drinks smug, the pen whispered,

the paper scorn, the people bled.

And I wept.

And I wept

because I needed fluids that sweat won’t cut.

I wept because of the act that I did, that I

consciously did, that was common and normal and

perfect in almost every other context than what I was in.

I need a drink.

My lips were cracking but I couldn’t care less.

My pair seemed to be fissuring as I was careless.

So hydrated before with his drink yet now so desiccated.

Thank god for water.

Yes, thank God.

I have no religion but I prayed.

Desperate? Yes.

The only things that got me through was his faith with me

and my faith in Him.

I pled for my ancestors to look over me and I saw no angels

with wings but I’m glad they did.

Of course, this could all be in my head.

But if anyone is up there, here is a toast.

Love you, thank you and let’s drink up!

Oh yes, make it red wine please.

Connecting stones

Holding your little stone,
our names engraved with a sharp knife,
brought me back to our childhood life
at the edge of our pond, alone.

You taught me how to
make pebbles skip on water as you say
that you’ll swim like them one day
in an Olympic pool.

I cheered you on fanatically
as you trained hard against the clock
and brought home medals with a ring and a rock
and I nodded frantically.

A honeymoon in the ocean,
teasing, I pushed you down and down and down
until you could no longer make a sound
and ceased motion.

Now you lie underneath me
as I stare at the stone -half mine half yours-
tainted with wild grass but always pure,
it connects we.

I need a blender

yes yes! put everything in.
a good mix of life is the perfect drink.
a dash of spice and a whole load of brains
and those little pills to take away the pain.
dew drop tears and volcanic lava,
prom night desses with crystal tiaras.
flowers with mud, bushes with torns,
angels with halos, and movie popcorn.
throw my friends in and family too,
my bed, my pets and even my school.
turn on a switch and get me a glass
and call 911 just in case i pass.

will i ever get there

am in the middle of the ocean
surrounded by overbearing waves
i see my destination ahead
just a wet graveyard away.

i screamed in my head
i pictured the smiles shinning soaked
raised my arms and sank
not trying to stay afloat

Picture Perfect

the stars shinning bright,
always forgotten when next to the moon.
a reflection,
the reflection of the lonely sun.
i took a drop of red wine,
a sip of blood fell into my art palate.
beside my brush, a knife lay.
the world turns, spins, whirls unmovingly.
the masterpiece, a mirror,
splattered with drips of my inner maroon.
haggered shrivelled lips.
disconnected eyes.
a smile of yours.
my picture perfect.

When spring arrives

its spring.winter's over.
ice turns back into water.
the river rushes.
as it hits a sharp rock.
bleeding.