The rotor in its unrelenting gyre
Lost in the numbing ache of its tail
Onto the treacherous air
Slippery with the promise of permanence
Wishing the cool mercy of Gravity
For once, tilted in its spent favor
At either ends of wilt and wane
Skidding to the cauterizing flames
Destination in the searing realm of Hades
Surely was no phoenix coincidence
Forever became one day bestowed
A dodged fate of grey ashes
The imaginary prick of the eyes
Blurring and sharpening at the same time
There was a knock on the door. The black duct tape slapped around her head had diluted her voice; her abductor had made sure of that but in his haste, left part of her ears exposed. Elsa was certain she had heard a knock. She waited impatiently for a second knock, but it never came. Craning her head in fashion she has seen her pet terrier, Elsa screamed, in hope of capturing the attention of whoever it was. The intonation that left her larynx had been flatten by the duct tape, so much so it resembled a dull rubber toy squeak. She could feel her cheeks searing with heat, just as how they did during music classes in school. God, how she had hated those lessons. While her classmates were bobbing to whatever in their Walkmans, Elsa scoffed at their childishness and lended her mind to completing assignments instead. It was not that she had not tried. Back at home she had spent hours in front of the mirror, as if the sight of her lips enunciating could somehow, will the misbehaving tune that was coming out of her mouth into subservience.
It was an afternoon five days ago when Elsa heard that knock on the door of her mansion. She usually allowed the housekeeper to get the door, but that knock that afternoon was too magnificent to be ignored. It started with a heavy two notes that was slightly apart, followed by a tighter stream of three light raps. As she moved closer to the door, the lush rhythm intensified. It was as if the pink marble tiles beneath her bare feet had been rigged with a sensor, fueling the mounting volume with the gravitational weight of her person. When Elsa finally arrived at the hard wood door, it was vibrating so much from the weight of the knocks, that the intricate carving on its surface look like they might slipped off any moment then. It was not that there was no fear in Elsa’s heart as she reached for the door handle, but the overpowering fascination with what laid at the other side of the door, negated any leftover survival logic that had not been weeded by the loud, intoxicating beats.
She could not say what had been at the door when she unlocked it that afternoon, because she had been immediately blinded by a sharp white light and she could not say now, because she had no spare energy left for thinking. She had not a drink of water since, much less a bite of sustenance. The black duct tape was stuck so close to her skin, she was sure it had melted into her face now. Slinking to the floor, Elsa felt herself surrendering and there, she heard it again; the solidarity knock of the end.
“Funny how there are a million stars in the night sky, yet we long for the one that can’t be bothered to stay”. — Khaniff Lau
The throat at its infinite swing
Hums the unfathomable song of Red
To the yonder of Burgundy, Ruby and Vermilion
The keys of the range play
Grasping rhythmic pump of the heart
Deep silence shutting its mechanical faith
Never knowing what it never knew
That with a little light
The froth of a testing Carnelian
Hues at the soul swell harder, bigger and stronger
Pulsing alchemy of the ebullient melody
Returning to the realm
Orbs of sly rainbow winking playful
The knowledge of things never being the same
當兩顆心開始震動
當你瞳孔學會閃躲
當愛慢慢被遮住只剩下黑
距離像影子被拉拖
當愛的故事像聽說
我找不到你單純的面孔
當生命每分每秒都為你轉動
心多執著就加倍心痛
那些你很冒險的夢 我陪你去瘋
摺紙飛機 碰到雨天 終究會墜落
太殘忍的話我只說 因為愛很重
你卻不想懂 只往反方向走
當愛的故事像聽說
我找不到你單純的面孔
當生命每分每秒都為你轉動
心有多執著就加倍心痛
那些你很冒險的夢 我陪你去瘋
摺紙飛機 碰到雨天 終究會墜落
太殘忍的話我只說 因為愛很重
你卻不想懂 只往反方向走
我不想放手 你鬆開的左手
你愛的放縱 我擺不回天空
我輸了 累了 等你 再也不回頭
那些你很冒險的夢 我陪你去瘋
摺紙飛機 碰到雨天 終究會墜落
太殘忍的話我只說 因為愛很重
你卻不想懂 只往反方向走
你真的不懂 我的愛已降落
As the red wine churns its ethanol in my blood stream, I could see the blacks. Like a carefully prepared palette, the blacks were far from pure. Tinted with shades of lights; amber, green, red and the million years old rocks burning furiously on ancient energy, it was as if the everything was painted on a black canvas. I would admit that I was a little peeved at the beginning when I first realized the set-up. The artist, obviously, had no intentions of making us the subject of the painting. Like the grains of sand mattresses piled around us, we were rendered in the most casual manner, dabs and splotches here and there. I am not sure if he was upset that the features of our faces were not even recorded, but my vain self is sure disturbed that the artist had not bothered with my, while not beautiful, but certainly bold, jaw line. But honestly, could I blame the artist? As the beauty of the night unfolded before my mind’s eye right now, I knew that unless it was Venus sitting on the shore, nothing could possibly rival the elements of that night.
The water was fucking cold. It did not help that the moon decided to nudge the tides, pulling them around so that somewhere in the satellite images of Google, our heads existed as two blots surrounded by the puckering of a drawstring bag of the tides. And the wind. Oh my god, the wind. I am now certain that artificial refrigeration was not invented by thirsty men who wanted to chill their beers, but wholly inspired by the frosty, salty breeze. The sea had become our pool, larger and more interesting than what the Olympians are used to. I felt a absurd sense of pride and absurd it was; as if I alone had been the one who came up with this pool I then claimed mine. As I ducked, swam and allowed the sea to kiss me with its salty, mineral-rich lips, I stirred. I wish the artist had it painted down on his black canvas. I would love to see how one managed to translate the effusive ebbs of freedom, fear, desire, joy and death, atom by atom, pigment and fiber.
This must be life. If it had been suppressed and beaten into silence by the humdrum of normality, it is time to resurface and reclaim what had been it. And by then, it will no longer be paint on a black canvas, but blacks on a worked canvas.
Flat was the straight air; unperturbed inertial
The purr of anticipation struck chancy
Fraying ends and nerves, observed the thermostat
The witchy night babbled its order, no turning around
We marched in, the gust of frost coating our fronts
Heightening the flow of beads strung behind
The chill ate our crepuscular half-hearts; fuelled molecular rush
Absent thought and brittled desires, we claimed no part of it
If only the night belonged to the night
The insolent heat contended with its upper hemispherical favours
So we could bring with us, as the warmth licked the engines
Nothing more and nothing less
It was six in the morning when I sprang from my bed. As I stood by the window brushing my teeth, I was treated to the sight of the pale moon, holding together the navy-blue bandages of night. Very soon, light would cut through the swaddled skies, trumpeting the arrival of a new day. I could not help but feel a little sad at that thought. What about yesterday, when we are all rushing to fulfil the promises of the next minute? The cold touch of my dog’s nose on my ankle made me realised that living time has slipped past while I held out in respectful remembrance for its deceased siblings. Panic rose at the back of my throat. With one hand, I swept stuff into my handbag and with another, drew circles on my lips as if they were mistakes on an assignment. As I opened the front door, the soft light of dawn invited itself into the house, filling every crack, dancing in every nook and corner. For the briefest moment, I had a crazy urge to abandon all plans, strip naked and climb into bed.
It has been more than a year since that morning I first reported for work.
These days I wake up to pacify my wailing iPhone Four, tickling it into silence before letting out a sigh. Time seems to have a taste for speed at night, spending minutes as if they were seconds. I push myself up from bed before arriving at the basin. The skies are as pretty as ever, but they may have lost a fan. Now, my morning attention is required in order to beat the cheating time. I wet my toothbrush’s Mohawk while checking out my zits; trying to decide if they have shrank by 0.0001 millimetre and making mental notes to purchase mouthwash. Oh, and shampoo. Right, dog’s shampoo too. Dog, where is my dog? I clucked for her before finding her curled up on the sofa. Giving her a quick hug, I promised her I will be home early. It never happened. The morning is almost done. I picked up my leather handbag which is the only constant in this magical room of mine; growing stuff I don’t know about while I am away at work, squirt some perfume and stumble out of the house.
It has been more than a year since that morning I felt happiness.
是否要等到一个人的时候, 才知道已往的好?
想起过去的你是否和我一样, 在写着过去的书籍里, 为着同一页的记忆而暗然睙流?
小心翼翼的隐藏, 只为了一个结果.
要知道, 你不谅解的决定也代表着我不确定的将来.
这一夜的我，想起了那一夜的荒唐。
好想。
Ma always has this to say about puberty: “a boy has his tongue shorten the way his skeleton lengthens”. She left me wondering about the extent of her wisdom, when I discovered that Howard’s twelfth birthday wish had been a desire to eradicate speech altogether. There he was, leaning towards the flame-lit cake I had rushed to pick up from the confectionery that day; the sleek arches of his eyelashes reflecting the light from the flame, like halves of the sun placed next to each other. Yes, the sun and that was perhaps all I can remember of my Howard’s grin now. The next few days had been spent trying to cajole him to speak. I tried everything; teased, mocked, pleaded and threatened but nothing melted the frozen moon sunken in the sockets of his previous eyes. Did people think he was strange? Sure they did. Did I think so too? I am uncertain. I think I had digested this peculiarity, telling myself that he was merely stuck in a winding river of dreams and that one day, he would wake from it. But I am not sure anymore. Is it the day? Or has night fallen? How can I be sure when I don’t know when my Howard whose hair weaves white, wakes or sleeps? I’m tired. I’m so tired.
