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Colourless
Fabrics, like humans, can be racist.
It chooses the best colour to go with its,
like God commanding grass should be
green, seas must be blue and stars must shine.
Yet, stars twinkle in a slivery glossiness,
that is(almost) white,
a colour that we see on runways,
in limelight, at all times.
Even all brands have their receipts in white.
Such a stubborn tint,
so obdurate yet pithy,
like spring fungus commingled
on sodden wallpapers.
Colours could be changed today.
Names and origins stay:
a Chen, a Chaniya, a Mookjai, a Momoko, a Nisba, a Najaat,
from China, from Kenya, from Japan, from Jakarta.
You're still what you're.
Lanky legs or slender waist,
your fate lies beyond your shape.
You'll always dodder in designer gowns.
You'll always be waylaid.
So don't worry about your diets,
just admit you're not born with the pompous white.
The idea of fabrics is not the same as fabrics.
Think of it; it can't be unthought.
It has its own power,
own speech and
own ego.
It selects what to see
and what not,
what we should see
and cannot.
It draws a steely line between
the colour and
colourless.
copyrights owned by the author, 2010.
It chooses the best colour to go with its,
like God commanding grass should be
green, seas must be blue and stars must shine.
Yet, stars twinkle in a slivery glossiness,
that is(almost) white,
a colour that we see on runways,
in limelight, at all times.
Even all brands have their receipts in white.
Such a stubborn tint,
so obdurate yet pithy,
like spring fungus commingled
on sodden wallpapers.
Colours could be changed today.
Names and origins stay:
a Chen, a Chaniya, a Mookjai, a Momoko, a Nisba, a Najaat,
from China, from Kenya, from Japan, from Jakarta.
You're still what you're.
Lanky legs or slender waist,
your fate lies beyond your shape.
You'll always dodder in designer gowns.
You'll always be waylaid.
So don't worry about your diets,
just admit you're not born with the pompous white.
The idea of fabrics is not the same as fabrics.
Think of it; it can't be unthought.
It has its own power,
own speech and
own ego.
It selects what to see
and what not,
what we should see
and cannot.
It draws a steely line between
the colour and
colourless.
copyrights owned by the author, 2010.
Transformer
I used to think you’re solid,
as I’m: like petals that
speak to the colourblind, or the ice
refusing to melt under the fatherly sun.
But I see you can be
the mucus on a toad,
or the flakes on a skating
ground, to be incised by
silvery blades. You give the Octobering
touch, or you’re the touch in October.
I see your desire evaporate.
Passing,
falling petals on a running river,
which delivers lovers.
Solid is about solidarity.
This is the first time I learn from
water and feel sorry for ice.
copyrights owned by the author, 2008.
as I’m: like petals that
speak to the colourblind, or the ice
refusing to melt under the fatherly sun.
But I see you can be
the mucus on a toad,
or the flakes on a skating
ground, to be incised by
silvery blades. You give the Octobering
touch, or you’re the touch in October.
I see your desire evaporate.
Passing,
falling petals on a running river,
which delivers lovers.
Solid is about solidarity.
This is the first time I learn from
water and feel sorry for ice.
copyrights owned by the author, 2008.
The Evolution of Beard
I have narcolepsy.
Timeless,
spaceless,
everything pauses.
People stop dying,
weather ceases changing.
I can pass out for minutes,
hours or even months.
I never remember exactly how long.
I forget how to remember
and remember how to forget.
That makes my life easier and livable.
Every time I collapse,
I see George Clooney,
the sexist man alive in 1997.
He is a philosopher on beard.
His beard is an exposed secret,
not mysterious, but seductive,
growing on his naked chin,
like low grass sprouts on a piece
of bare land.
It emerges from the tiny sweating pores –
the spines of an urchin,
salty and dangerous.
Women also have beard, invisible one,
he believes.
That’s why they buy shavers.
Her beard is a disguise, like make-up and glasses.
It reveals what is concealed.
I slide my palm on his chin,
the sound is less peaceful than hymns,
more forceful than speeches.
It’s a tasteless,
weightless,
lifeless
marker of time.
Why can my own lips and
beard never embrace?
I wait, and wait to turn his beard into goatee
without coming round.
copyrights owned by the author, 2006.
Timeless,
spaceless,
everything pauses.
People stop dying,
weather ceases changing.
I can pass out for minutes,
hours or even months.
I never remember exactly how long.
I forget how to remember
and remember how to forget.
That makes my life easier and livable.
Every time I collapse,
I see George Clooney,
the sexist man alive in 1997.
He is a philosopher on beard.
His beard is an exposed secret,
not mysterious, but seductive,
growing on his naked chin,
like low grass sprouts on a piece
of bare land.
It emerges from the tiny sweating pores –
the spines of an urchin,
salty and dangerous.
Women also have beard, invisible one,
he believes.
That’s why they buy shavers.
Her beard is a disguise, like make-up and glasses.
It reveals what is concealed.
I slide my palm on his chin,
the sound is less peaceful than hymns,
more forceful than speeches.
It’s a tasteless,
weightless,
lifeless
marker of time.
Why can my own lips and
beard never embrace?
I wait, and wait to turn his beard into goatee
without coming round.
copyrights owned by the author, 2006.
City of Sameness
A man's chest without nipples is
a city with no landmarks.
A massive, empty and hollow haunted house
filled with sobs of loneliness.
The desperate compass fails to
point to the heart for the dwellers.
We all get lost.
People become invisible to each other in
the landscape of the chest.
Names are trivial,
only the touch matters.
Perhaps,
we do not need our eyes, nor nipples.
Live the life of the deadly blind and
soothe the skin of the living ghosts.
Every city looks the same.
Every body feels the same.
Everybody has the same.
copyrights owned by the author, 2006
a city with no landmarks.
A massive, empty and hollow haunted house
filled with sobs of loneliness.
The desperate compass fails to
point to the heart for the dwellers.
We all get lost.
People become invisible to each other in
the landscape of the chest.
Names are trivial,
only the touch matters.
Perhaps,
we do not need our eyes, nor nipples.
Live the life of the deadly blind and
soothe the skin of the living ghosts.
Every city looks the same.
Every body feels the same.
Everybody has the same.
copyrights owned by the author, 2006
"Colourless", "Transformer", "The Evolution of Beard" and "City of Sameness" are read by Elliott Woo.