Projections, pronouncements, proclamations.
They herald the march forward, the fattening of the cow,
the building of ornate temples, and the bringing of capitalist Gods.
And yet they never tell you, my fellow kiasu,
about the end of your childhood, the place you once knew.
We are never told what the papers white out.
~
We are not told about the last makcik
who can roll a green skin between her thick thumbs
thick for the grip, but tender for the touch,
thick for the carry, but thin for the burst,
of gula,
hitting, spraying, washing your mouth,
in an explosion of epic, orgasmic, proportions.
The last makcik is going, along with her last muncher,
rolled off their sarongs by the mediocrity of acceptance
and the influx of strange foods
that follow newcomers, anywhere, everywhere in this world.
“Every ondeh is good,” Pierre says. “But every Macaroon is better.”
When money talks, the kuih walks.
~
We are never told what the papers white out.
~
We are not told about the last banyan tree,
with roots so long and strong,
Stretched by streams of bare feet devils,
aching for a swing across the longkang,
unafraid of monitor, unafraid of teacher,
petrified of father, petrified of cane.
They hide, then they swing, then they hide,
till one day the dance is disturbed
by the drill of destiny.
For what use is swinging when prices are rocketing?
When money talks, the banyan falls.
~
We are never told what the papers white out.
~
Because imagery and lyricism and poetry and song are,
but,
distractions of the foolish, daydreams of the dilettantes,
luxuries we cannot afford, luxuries we will never afford.
They do not build white rectangles to live in, nor white clothing to worship,
nor white papers to justify the desperation,
the madness,
paraded as logic,
pragmatic, perfect, peerless,
manna from the heavens, delivered by lightning,
it strikes you in the heart,
it eviscerates your soul.
~
We are never told, my fellow kiasu,
what the papers white out;
we are never told.
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My other poems: