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.

Bubble Buddy

Golden and bright and cold

Bubbles enslave my soul

Control I lack
My puke will project

Aye, one more round we go!

Family Myraid

Inspired by my amazing grandmother

4 years 6 months and a day - I have not spoken a word. The

corners of my bed define the purple sky where the pink and thistle

mocking birds fly. Olive greens and orange daffodils dress me

today. They smell of bitter honey and brown drops of  caramelized coffee.

Kids? I had 7. He promised me the rosy world and I gave up mine,

shooting tiny stars out of my coral womanly womb. Grandchildren?

More than my mind can count. Under the layers of bleach,

I sit atop the mattress that cores my red. I used to sing the shadows

away. Now I watch the gray world pass by me. Ivory walls with

hypnotizing indigo drawings. I see their work more than their

peachy looks. They see their work more than my hazel eyes. I've not
seen my face in 4 years 6 months and 2 days. I see only the devil.

The lines paint my story. This one on my thigh represents an

effort, golden ages ago, to impress the sweet invalid on the left,

who now walks with one leg, pees through a tube and lives on

a tiny orange bottle of pills. The navy cadet I adore now counts

the digits, in rows of four, every cadmium sunrise. He thinks he will

win the turquoise world and make good his promise. Idiot. This

one at the corner of my eye comes from the littlest. When she

moved, the vacuum drew a stream for the crystal rivers. This last

one between my milk machines is favorite. Ignore the nipples,

abused and chewed up in burly love. This line, now sienna, burns

still. It conceals proof that they chose to give me life. Parts

of me is laced with silver silver, parts with steel steel but the

bisque pacemaker is best. It represents the fuchsia unity I long

for so dearly. There is little opportunity for that now. But soon

they will buy a box, together, that sends me to the fiery gardens.

I don’t think they know my favorite color.

By His Grace

"Stand still." and I do. My body only moves as
his tongues commands. He defines me so. His word is law.
I, a mere sheep, follows his voice. They call him Master. He
yields moments with his hands, arresting parts of me. If I
listen well, he will make me immortal. Years after, they will
chant his name but it is the form of me they seek. He creates
timeless angels with the earth, not clay but wood.

"Beautiful" and I smile, just for seconds. An indiscretion
never to be made again. One day, I will be adored by thousands,
bought for millions. My body would be seen by the wealthiest
supreme and the richest poor. No one will see my porcelain face.
Many would hold my robust palm, full of grace, but none will
feel my tender caress. Brilliant! They would exclaim. The
details are exquisite. Unforgiving bastard.

"Stop wandering." My arm aches with the control he reigns. His
furrow speaks his displeasure. Was it for me or her? He is talented.
His chisel hammers repeatedly hard into me. His eyes have left
their lingering gaze on every indentation of my flesh. His mind has
played and replayed with every position of my thighs and my flaws
and my scars. His fingers has touched every inch of my brown skin.
I see him grow art with his wood. I smirk.

"They are going to love you." Show off. He blows the splinters
off my nails, intricately manicured. By His grace, I will soon hold
the power to make the fools drool and the politicians think. My feet
will wield their minds, entrancing them. Hypnosis will be the spell
they gladly come subdued. My breasts will entice their lips. My arse
will make them heave. My sex... Shhhhh. They are going to want me.
But they will love him.

They will not know me. She will be rejoiced as I roam back in
the shadows I came from. He has made an angel out from me.
He has made her perfect with every curve and every line. Her
presence, as large as her self, glows under the artificial lights.
He signs his name - six strokes that seals the digits in his
wallet. I pick up the change with my bare fingers.
"You are not worth the money".

Dear Charlotte

Inspired by the birth of HRH Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana

Dear Charlotte,

You are as breath-taking as a bloom in autumn;

your eyes glitter like the first dew of dawn. Now,

as you look upon the lands, hopefully you'll see
the innocence of men as pure as your smile.

Raise them up,

with all you can.

Take a knee always, if need be,

to lend a helping hand.

Care with all your heart, your flesh and time.

Be malleable, Charlotte. Be fierce, be kind.

This world will tell you how one should

speak and sit and suit and show.

Be flexible, little warrior,

but also be bold.

This world wants you marble –

pure and pristine on a pedestal.

Marble is stunning and marble is exquisite,

but marble is too tenuously breakable.

Petite fearless fighter,

do not be afraid to bend.

Go out and greet the world;

experience, and understand.

Bleed the blood of our soldiers,

cry the tears of our poor,

feel the suffering of our homeless,

and you’ll make us sunnier. I am sure.

Be love, dear Charlotte, for it is expansive and strong.

Spread it wide, my princess. May you breathe life, live long!

The Transplant

Your compulsive eyes could capture my soul

in a glance. I suffocate by your gaze.

You are a thief.

Stole the glue that holds my sanity and

I fall, for the umpteenth time, from grace.
I wail for the element of me that absconded with you.

My frame rejects the piece of you that fused with me.

A pint of wine twice daily

to suppress the immune response.

This is a diagnosis I readily appreciate.

Arms for Change

For the albinos in Tanzania

What are elbows?

Elbows is the stump on my right as pure as my tears,

as innocent as my screams; a reminder of my darkest past.

My elbow is my hand and my fingers and my hatred.

The pearl-colored sheen reflects our glorious sun.

It represents my blacken spirit, the horrors of men who

denigrate my being with the charcoal in their souls.

My scarlet pains exchanged for their hearty gains,

and my ashy hugs for a couple of emerald bucks.

Why did you make me extraordinary?

Why did I have to be exceptional?

In this world, the uncommon are sold as common goods in the shadows.

I am worshiped as I am discounted.

Dishonor and worthiness are neighbors across a blurred line.

Like a broken snowflake in heat of summer,

my arm sits on a rotting table, waiting to create village legends

that would inspire the generation of more elbow broods.

Thoughtless superstitions.

Do they not know that our hurt is real?

My silver tip reflects the glorious son.

It hardens from the axe that took my agony.

It resolves from the bad that took my anguish.

My Lord, you created me. I burn like the phoenix you intended me to be.

My elbows signify the end of my persecution.

My elbows signify a new beginning for us all.

It is time to hack reckless superstitions off my home.

Madame Possessive

They descend softly slow,

but surely, down from high above.  

White, unique as skin, pure as love,

fragile as bones.

She calls out and they come.
Crystallized edges that threaten,

as if to defend grounded children,

soothed with welcoming warmth. 

Possessive nature, keeps us all

forever by her side,

through cold days and nights,

through times tough and beautiful. 

Flying, soaring, reach

for new adventures we seek. 

But slowly, softly and sure,

we'd all come back to her.

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.