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.

Cluck Cluck Cluck!

Born fourteen December nine-three,

the year of the rooster for me.

Excited, I am,

To fly with friends.

Can’t wait for great sights to see!

The Soldier

He is amazing. His eyes gleam as he breathes my breaths.

The work he does can be seen on his face.

Each pearly breakout stems from the hardships

he faces for us, for my family. Each scar,

a memento of a battle with himself; stuck between

presence and protection of the ones he loves.

The dirt and grime of the forests he crawls and eats

and sleeps does not compare to the fondness of

her heart back home. Neither injuries nor hurt can compare

with the lost cheers of the boy’s first goal or the absence

of the small one’s first words.

The badges and awards tells of the tough decisions

made in the field but the white gold he proudly bears on

his face reads the hardest one yet.

He is Man. Strong. Resilient. Admired. Protector.

Almost impenetrable but the dots on that smile of re-unity,

they are the gateway to his soul.

Shoe Defense

The total of bones from the head to the toes

is two hundred and six at twenty.

The place with the most number of those

is the feet, 26 on each.

They say bones give you structure, the hardest part of you,

they withstand the success ladder climb.

They hold you up when you’re happy or blue,

but even the strongest need protection sometimes.

Changes Everyday

One foot out and it's a new world.
The green of greens differ from recollections.
The air sandy, the ground humid, birds
sing hymns of rebirth.
The sun on your face pierces through you
again but never the same way.
The people hustle through the paths, the squirrels
nuts, lazy cat purrs.
Routines, but not constants today.

Weaknesses

So much power yet

if you think it hard enough

so little control. 

The Smell of Her Locks

I brush her gold luscious locks and dry them

roughly with the towel. As my fingers run

through her silk, I get whiffs of the shampoo

she uses. Rose has always been my

favorite flower.

I carefully pull her fringe back behind those

dainty ears and twirl the ends of it between

my pulsing thumb and long index before setting

them down nicely at the side of her face.

Her lips still wet from her shower.

“Make sure my hair is neat for my guest.” Don’t

worry Missy, my hands know how to make you

glow. I braid her mane into two rows, intertwining

her threads tightly. A little pain is interesting. She

may command me, but I hold the power.

In an hour’s time, she will stand naked in front

of the banker’s son and he shall see the glorious

curls I am so familiar with. From the other room,

I will tear into those blond screams with

savage hunger. Just one more hour.

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.

Sanctuary

Quiet. Not a sound.
Run to the other box in that box in the flat.
Feel the tension seeping around.
Choose to actually live in that.
Enjoy the freedom from the societal town.

We must be cats.

Two Minds Rhyme Better Than One. Or Not.

Streets sparkling in the sun

My sweat dripping as I quietly run

Thinking.. How is this ever fun?

Paused and decided, "Okay, I'm done!"


By Judith Siegmund & Agnes Lee

Forgiving Yourself

You drown that voice out with white noise.

Pay close attention to the lady in the talk show

or the fat guy dancing. Beer in hand in belly in mind.

Do whatever it takes to drown her!

You fight her like a rebel in an uprising. You speak

speeches of battles and sing songs of war.

Don’t you know most revolutions are snuffed?

Let’s not get too ambitious, she mocks.

Listen to the silence around you. Hear how they scream.

The crickets rubbing their palms in evil laughter, the

frogs croaking for help. Hear the disapproval of the

lake as the light breeze disturbs its peace.

Hear the symphony of nature – the seamless blend

of untainted voices. Pure tones that work in

perfect dissonance. Their lyrics touch your heart

as they touch your skin.

She smiles loudest.

Look at yourself in the mirror. You witness her

critiques through your eyes. Your mouth shaped

wrong and your music’s fogging up the audience.

Do you see the conviction she has?

The conviction to succeed is the same one that

sees you as a non-entity because she does not recognize
failures. If the just world does not acknowledge

the tears on your pillows, Why should I?

You have to believe in salvation; the past should not

define you as much as she makes you think it does. It's not

easy to put so much faith in something so insubstantial but

Acceptance, they say, is the first step.

The Husband

Our marriage is like the desert –

almost bearable in the day. Seemingly

never-ending as we drag our feet through the

terrain. Exhaustion takes over words. The vows,

unable to withstand the blazing heat, buried deep

three yards behind. We communicate with stares of

resignation.

Life goes by on routines; dry. He – the office and

back. I – the living room, the study, the kitchen and

bed. This cycle repeats until a storm hits. Then it is

every man for himself. The fit survive but only the fittest

last. I, will live. As the thirst becomes overwhelming,

I shall quench it with tears. Luckily for me, he cries

like a man.

The nights are freezing, usually with the kid between

us. The calendar marks our next appointment; two

minutes of our minds fixated on sand in uncomfortable

areas. His wedding ring like a noose as I gasp for air.

Only he can make me feel as dead as I am alive.

I would not trade him for anyone else.

Sunday's Chore

Apple juice. Banana spread. CoffeeCoffeeCoffee.

Doughnuts. Eggs. 2 pounds Fish. Garlic Gin Greens.

Ham. Ice-cream. Jelly. Ketchup. Lettuce. Mint.

Nectarines. Orange. Potatoes. Quinoa. Raisin.

Shallots Soup Sangria. Thyme. Unleavened bread.

Vanilla pudding. Wheat Waffles and Watercress.

Xacuti with chicken and coconut, XanaxXanaxXanax.

Yam Yellowtail Yoghurt. Zucchini Zuppa Zest.

Poison Me

For the stranded refugees in Southeast Asia

How in thy ordinary did I brand’d as poison pray?

Shunn’d like plague of winter nights in May.

Our tongues doth not meet. My mistress lost.
Mine children art gone. Mine name forgot.

Paper identity sits at bottoms of waters.

I, no longer man, but pest in thy world.

Mine dirt and skin a deadly potion to touch.

Mine face bleeds acid in judgement eyes of angels such.
Mine voice the starving serpent hiss "Big bro'ers,

why art thou changing thy hands o’er o’er?"

Who the po’r unfortunate acquired me!

I yearn to clasp her embrace and feel their souls.

But storm, unkind and punishing.
It swallowed me whole.

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.

Nails

We have an unorthodox relationship.

I shield you from the cruel hits of life with my own being.

I suffer pain so you don’t have to but I do not mind at all.

I believe it is what I was meant to do.

You dress me up now and then.

Your favorite is the polka-dotted overalls, red with passion
and green with envy. I wear each outfit proudly. I believe
this is how you express your devotion.

But your love is possessive.

I sometimes venture and try your limits. You’d surely cut
me off, keeping only what’s close to home. I want
to see the world. But I believe I shall never
leave your side.

Anti-fate

I smile today.

I smile today because I saw a child

with a pup that does not growl.

They played around in the mud and sand,

getting dirt on feet and hands.

I smile today because I saw a man

with roses counting one to ten.

He looked around and anxiously wait

for a girl promised as his date.

I smile because I saw a bride

with her groom that’s standing beside.

They kissed each other at Saint Valentine’s church,

hopeful of the new life they lurch.

I smile because I saw 2 dads

with their daughter that they just had.

They hugged her tight and caressed her cheek,

singing a lullaby to get her to sleep.

I smile because today I get

the chance again

to cause some pain

and turn it all so brilliantly bad.

The pup will bite and the child shall cry,

the man will see people pass by and by,

the groom will leave scars on her face,

the dads will be the daughter’s disgrace

Oh, the excitement to see their tears

I smile today,

the 13^th of May,

as little mortals brave their greatest fears.
I'll sit back and watch for it is interesting to see
exactly how fragile happiness can be.

Clutter of Friends

They are all over the place

Never seem to be where I last

Leave them. Almost like they move

Themselves when I'm not there

Still, they always find me when

I need them most

My Sexy Binoculars

I see you in the kitchen.

Our sexual tension is unbelievable. 

As you peel the onion, do it slowly.

I'd like to perform. 

My sex grows for you as your soup

simmers. You stir your pots - sometimes
with one hand, sometimes two.
Naughty girl.
I can't wait to delve into your world.
Tears, the size of virgin pearls,stream
from your eyes as you cut into the

bulb of my deepest desires.
This is sexy.
I like it when you cry.

At the core of your tight messy bun is a
thick manly rod. I see you sweat in our heat.
They trickle seductively down your
forehead, to your kissable cheeks, to
your kissable neck. Leading me closer
and closer to your pleasure gold.
You gasp desperately for air in the
midst of the steamy passionate room.
I hear my love juice calling out as
your kettle screams my name. 

Quiet now. Mr. wedding ring is in. We

have to keep it down. 

You place your wooden spoon into

your mouth and lick the gravy off

it. Every single drop on every

single inch. 

Monday, 5.30pm, apartment 6D. 

I look forward to Mrs. 7D tomorrow. 

Loading...

The globe today is a funny thing.

We connect with phones that always ring.

You speak to a face that does not move.

Emojis is all emotions need as proof.

You broadcast yourself but you don’t shout.

You make new friends without going about.

You share the news through a tweet.

You go for interviews without having to meet.

You listen to messages a few days late.

You talk to a voice without a head.

Your finger speaks when you’re in a call.

Is this a small world after all?

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.