Enough is Enough

 (Las Virgenes Cristianas Expuestas al Populacho by F.R. Hidalgo, 1884)

Enough is enough is enough.
Stop mopping.
I can make you happy.
I know you best.
I can take you to all the movies you want,
all the galleries in the world,
all the places you've always wanted to go to,
to the heights of joy you can't find elsewhere.
Let's bring a tripod or a selfie stick,
whichever, I don't care,
to document that you and I exist,
our relationship exists,
that we are happy the way we are,
so when we look back decades after,
you'll come to realize that I have been
right all along.
I'm the strong one, yes, I am,
but you're not weak - you're
deluded -
thinking that you need someone else.
You have me, I have you.
A ring? I can give you that.
A house? Why not?
With a backyard for our dog to run around,
We'll grow old together,
us kids.
We'll spin our own stories,
pages and pages of them.
I will make it happen for you.
I am here to be with you,
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
I will hold you in my arms.
Like Ray said,
your fears and bad dreams,
I may not be able to make them go,
but I can hold you forever.
Your heart is in pieces right now.
You're saying good bye.
I see that. I see you.
I'm not telling you to forget.
I'm asking you to make an effort
to accept me,
us,
and when you can't take it anymore,
I'll just sit with you, like this,
right now,
repeating a mantra,
enough is enough is enough.

(The picture above has nothing to do with the poem, by the way. I saw it today at the National Gallery of Singapore and absolutely loved it. Makes me want to do a pilgrimage to the Lopez Museum in Manila).

Small Glories

We got the best seat in the house.
What a view. The vast empty
above propped by glitter,
laser lights masked the dark,
straight beams mirrored on the
water deep below, shadowed
a roped corner, a ring in which we fenced.


On my heels for fourteen hours,
mascara, doubly-applied, held
my eyelashes rigid and I smiled
Red Tomato.

We had an adult conversation going,
a familiar accent of long time ago.
People with jobs, business cards,
shook hands, touched elbows,
clinked beer bottles, did a little shuffle
dance, a merry-go-round of this thing called
mingling. Is this rehearsal for real life,
or is this it? 

The red I wore barked, wanton
for attention, and there were few
who wanted to strip it off me.

I forgive, but my elephant memory knows you.

Fifteen hours on, my legs were jelly
and I climbed the steps, back
to a cold room.

On Dating #2

God.
God. 
I just had a narrow escape.
It's this, isn't it?
What you've been trying to tell me?
I'm sorry for being deaf to your voice.
I couldn't read the currents
you want me to follow.
It may help if I have a map,
but I know it won't be fair.
You let me dive headfirst,
and I'll let you pull me out.
It's the deal.

While we're at it, may I just ask,
how many literate, monogamous,
family-minded, self-reliant,
tax-paying, porno-averting,
heterosexual, unmarried males have you made
in the last thirty to thirty-five years?
I just need one, please.
That's a short description, by the way.
I have the complete list
and right now I'm at #146:
"He shall have no previous ballet training."
I will be very jealous if he had.
The list is real.
But we don't need to get all ticked.
A two-third will be nice.

Oh, well.
A girl has to ask.
Or learn how to.

On Dating #1

I'm not a fucking charity case.
Nor am I a doormat for your grimes.
The pieces are finally coming together,
and I don't like what it's telling me.
I hate the notion of human interference
in the business of strictly you and I.
The fact that you approached me with
this seed of thought, abhorrent, and
I welcome you with naivete,
repulses me more than I can say.
You have your issues.
(I shall make no judgment,
just know that you're a creep)
I have mine. Glad that you saw
only a fraction of me.
Now I know why you wouldn't let me
see, dig, claw.
You breached that trust first.
Big fucking Bang, I'd say.
Scrub, rinse, scrub. Repeat.

---

Of course I'd like to add "Go fuck yourself" somewhere but it won't gel to the piece.

Late Night Snack

I'm devastatingly hungry.
Those less of men will think me
frivolous for using such an adverb
lightly in the light of today's reality
but I do intend it with all my might,
that I'm hungry to the point of
being devastated by it.
There is a hole of unfathomable depth,
a hollow point that no tsunamis can
satiate, and I fill it with late night trips
to the hawker centers with 24/7 dim sum stall.

As I struggle with the tight knots of the steaming
hot plastic, a thought resonates,
of somebody who said something to a poet,
how they tried to create importance out of
nothing at all,
and here I am, in my kitchen, in the dark,
with two chicken feet and a pair of chopsticks,
and I ramble on - how self-centered, how
egoistic, how self-conscious are you to
think that this can be a poetry.

But I'm still devastated and hungry,
and those two don't mix well, ever since
I got the first whiff of that city far away,
from a woman's arm (or perhaps it was her hair),
and it reminded me of you.
Everything reminds me of you.
How funny, how silly,
I shall forget about this in the morning.
But just for the moment,
just now, I will eat and I will forget
you.

Strange Love Letter#2

I want to murder hope.
There, it's now in the open.

Hope, vengeful and triumphant

a silk thread

I cut til I bleed and still,

it claws deep, alive

because of a dream,

a voice in my head,

the prophet, 

who says, This is right.

Were I brave enough,

were it falter once,

I will take poison

the bitterest, my love

to kill every speck of you

to scrub me raw and repeat.

Were there is a pill,

anti-hope, anti-you, dear

I will take without water.

Choking optional.

How I plot!
Going against the divine

is a sordid, blue affair.

I tip-toe between wrath

and spiritual abyss.

Yes, I promised, I swore true

to nurture, nourish, foster.

Yet, if love turns cold,

may I not seek to escape,

before hate takes reign?

Leashed with hope, 

I follow one path forward.

This road is getting darker,

and only you have the light.

Why do you keep it from me?

Strange Love Letter

Here's a song I dreamed last night:

"I don't want to be Adam.

I don't want to be Eve.
They had no choice.
But baby, you and I,
We can choose to leave."

Since most of my dreams are silent movies (with subtitles), how do I know it's a song? Because it's so sappy and I've had probably listened to too much Country lately.

Then today I stumbled upon “Our Love is Easy” by Melody Gardot. In this song, there is a line: “Like Adam was to Eve, you were made for me.”

 I don't dispute that – but as Billy Joel once said:

 “So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break.”

 And so it goes. 

Shards

There's something to be said about heartbroken girls who cry in public. We still care about how we look to others despite shards in the vicinity of the heart. Not because we're vain; but because we don't want to disturb others. We hate it when people look at us with pity or, worse yet, awkwardness. We reflexively want to apologize and at the same time raise a figurative middle finger - both of them preferably, if we weren't so busy holding and sobbing onto a tissue.

Speaking of tissues, they get soggy really fast although we don't cry that much. I wonder if there's some weird chemistry that accelerates its disintegration when tears make contact.

And about people looking at you - they usually fall into two categories: those who gape and those who avert their eyes. The former is merely a slower version of the latter. Eventually everyone stops looking at you. But their gaze lingers.

Right before we burst, we would probably say, "I'm not going to cry" or a version of it. That translates to "I'm trying hard not to look weak right now but I know I'm lying."

Big, fat lie.

Some of us break in a spectacular outburst; some sob and catch their breath; others manage (or not) to cover their face and let out in silence. No matter how, the hurt is real for each and everyone.

The hardest part of this whole thing is holding out the tears before and the smile after. Because heartbroken girls who cry in public are expected to cheer up sooner or later. Grief, pain, fatigue, anger, disappointment and despair are matters of the closed doors.

We abide. Oh, how we abide. Because we hate to intrude.

But sometimes we fail.

It's not about drama. Never about making a scene. We are level-headed people who dislike calling attention to ourselves. When the valve turns on, it is never a choice. It's almost physical but I hesitate to call it such - a burp is physical, a fart as well - but tears? Tears imbued with so much feelings?

Perhaps it is self-preservation.


Singapore, 13 August 2015

Bad Puppy

Once I knew about a man who flirts.
No harm, all fun and plenty of charm.
Opens doors, pays for dates, not once late.
How nice, you'd thought, to have him around.

He listens, he smiles, he drinks cognac.
He laughs, he jokes, and he texts you back.
Cash, cars, cards, condos, clubs, what a guy.
Oh my god, you'd thought, let's have a try.

But, there's always a big freaking but,

He, the smug vainpot preening for blood
the douchebag with a joint in his hand,
plays the VIP Casanova,
in a liar game every Friday night

I want a family, he whispers,
Two kids, one boy, one girl, and a dog
A repeat litany every week,
An ever changing congregation.

But, there's always a big freaking but,

Happily ever after, you see
doesn't include a picture of silence,
he so artfully paints come morning,
slipping out before the alarm rings.


Well now, you'd thought, the fucking bastard.


---

Decided that I didn't like the way it rhymed, especially when I shifted the meter and made it all messy. So, here's another try, with Nicki Minaj in my head, loud and so-oh-very-her, telling me to shut the fuck up and write. No Billy, no Thorin and no Thranduil this time. Just me and Nicki, and steady nine.

Boy, that changed the voice of this piece so much. I had aimed for a lighter tone, but it wasn't working. So anger it is. But it's not rap - it doesn't fly. I may want this for a song lyrics one day.

One thing remains, however; puppies don't go to hell, bad or not. All dogs go to heaven.

I still love puppies.

Life Is...

-having a bad day in the office

-getting on the train after three tries

-internet failing you when you need it the most

-you shuddering when taking a look at price tags

-the stench inside the mall making you wonder if it's coming from you

-the super short skirt you see someone wearing, followed by a question

-the third voice inside your head who's a professional critique

-the queue at the supermarket

-giving up on grocery because of said queue at the supermarket

-being crushed at the thought of another microwave dinner

-buying food from a stall you don't really like

-getting shortchanged on the amount of squid

-getting onions for squid instead

-being angry at the old uncle who wasn't paying attention on the street

-being angry at yourself for being angry at the uncle

-saying 'thank you' and 'please' even when you don't feel like it

-thinking of how lucky the world is you're not a superhero

-thankfully not imitating fiction since you're most likely a supervillain-in-the-making if it is

-shouting 'Hulk Smash!' over and over again inside your head, trying to get the feel

-the taste of oil lingering inside your mouth

-the thought of cold beer and fried chicken

-the anticipation of a good drama show

-the realization that all of that need to wait until work is done

-knowing that being patient is key

-knowing that you're not blessed with patience

-the urge to write these all down before you turn into a green monster

-hating your phone for buzzing incessantly

-saying grace

-eating your kangkung, peppers and onions while leaving the squids for last

-being grateful the rice is hot