Best Written Poem of the April Slam (Once-Upon-a-Time Slam)

4/27/2017

Please post your entries in the comments section below by this midnight, Sunday, 30 April.

Hafiz link

4/27/2017 11:03:19 pm

Singapore’s Next Top President

“So you want to be on top?”
We are on the hunt for our own Singapore’s Next Top President
But, you have to be Malay
or half-Malay also okay.

Join our President Challenge now!
Just conquer our Standard Obstacle Course
rigged with different obstacles
and the presidency is yours to lose.

The first course is a simple MCQ test.
All you need to do, is to put Yes.
Yes, you may be required to veto, put down No or other choices,
but oh no, you should not
the best is to Just Say Yes.
Yes, and you shall pass.
No? Yes.

The second is a language test.
Here, you have to be pun-ny, yes
be marketable to the masses
you must have excellent Yus-Of two languages
even three,
have a repertoire of best wi-Sheares for the people
you have to be Nathan but the best
A dollar-genic face Wee-Kim win the hearts of the people.
See what I did there? No? Yes.

The third and the toughest
is a test of your mental stress.
You need to be focus, yes
put your hand on the car.
You must tahan for days
so the public knows
that you are in it to win it,
that you strive for success,
that you do anything for a free car or a freebie,
that you qualify as a true blue Singaporean.

Now the next course
is The Voice,
do you have the X-Factor?
You have to be able to sing, yes
All Malays must sing.
All Malays must carry a suitcase of songs
and a basketful of charisma.
You have to tarik upon request,
“Tak sanggup aku lagi..”
“I want nobody nobody but you..”
and a Chinese classic song,
that is a must,
“Wo Men Qi, Wo Men Qi..”

Do you have what it takes
to catwalk down the aisle
and shake hands of military men
and SOKA aunties
and make small talks
and smile and wave and smile?

If you can win the President Challenge
then you are fit to run the country
but only if you are Malay,
and Muslim.
Yes, you have to be Muslim
because all Malays must be Muslim, yes.
You must pray five times a day
and attend cocktail ceremonies at night.

So join now
find our link below
You don’t have to be good
just Malay will do.

So what are you waiting for?
#gojerdontscared
We’ll even throw in a guaranteed lifetime Reserved Seating on the train
when you retire
because the President of Singapore deserves nothing less
but the best seat on the train.

Shahredza Ridzwan

4/27/2017 11:15:57 pm

// Blacksmithing A Story //

Since the pen is mightier than a sword
Storytelling is sword-making, actions
Do speak louder than words but my words are
Actions speaking softly for you to see
Loud stories

Introduce your bronze or coal or steel or
Iron, let them feel the heat before you
Heat them, for you to nail it you have to
Repeatedly hammer it for them to
Get the shape and pause suddenly to let
Them cool

Don't let them jump to conclusions so its
Perfectly fine that you let them chill 'till
They become the likes of an empty cup
Easy to grind, to be moulded into
A proper story, be sure to wrap them
In a material that challenges
Their mind

Begin screaming

climatic isn't
It? Cut out the edges to get the point
And add whatever you wish for beauty
You havent come close to the ending you
Are still too soft and incomplete that's why
Just wait

Tensed and heated, should be your current state
Quench your thinktank by placing it in a
quenching tank, you'll finally understand
The harder parts of this story and more
Incomprehensible

Repeat repeat and repeat in different
Manners and begin to be calm so that
They will understand the story also
So that your points will not come across as
Too sharp

Your story is now done you are ready to
Cut cutoff points and more importantly
Cut cliche's such as once upon a time

The pen is mightier than a sword
And my stories are no exception except when
I fail to craft my pen like a story and story like a sword
Because then it becomes boring if you don't bleed enough to warn
Others of the blade that is cold hearted yet warm

Aimee Lewis

4/28/2017 12:25:40 am

GREEN THUMB

There once was a garden.

It was hidden in the post-war, brick-built geometry of government tenements,
Underneath a polythene canopy,
That gasped in the summer breeze,
And sighed it out unenthusiastically.

Not even prying eyes,
Peeping through the neighbours curtains,
Could spy the beauty beneath.

It was a treasured piece of land,
Kept by one man.

He had planted in rigid rows,
Flower after flower,
Single stemmed chrysanthemums,
That towered above him.

From root cuttings he had tended to them tenderly,
And had perfected the science of soil composition,
Making every decision an educated one,
He was a man with a library card as well as a green thumb.

For hours each day he would toil,
Ensuring no stem,
Or leaf,
Or petal would spoil,
Oil was spread from root to bud,
Ensuring no bug could climb up,
Unwanted shoots were cut to allow a single flower to thrive,
So it could reach high towards its translucent white sky,
Unencumbered by keeping other things alive.

Through that forest of blooms,
Those great orbs of colour,
Skipped the giggles of his seven children,
One of them my mother,
Who were running rings around the woman who was once the man’s lover,
As she finished wringing out threadbare laundry in a small yard he had allowed her for the chore.

As she carried boiled clothing back through the kitchen door,
She called out to the man,
Supper would be ready soon,
Served hot, in the dining room.

Clambering over a second-hand table the children continued to play,
Lobbing food scraps and ignoring their mother’s threat of a slap.

“Can you do something?!” the woman asked the man desperately,
But he was too busy watching the day fade away,
Wondering what would happen if he lost his way home tomorrow,
And travelled to a meadow,
To lay amongst flora,
And seep into the ground like rain water.

Aimee Lewis

4/28/2017 12:27:47 am

STITCH IT.

She stares down traffic as she crosses roads,
Imagines the noses of cars crumpling in her wake,
Even though the drivers hit the brakes,
And unscathed she escapes.

She takes her coffee black, strong and long,
Inhales the bitter liquor over a sharp tongue,
The day hasn’t begun until it has soaked into her fibre,
Stoking the fire of a fighter.

She runs to angry music, away and back again,
Pounding the pavement like she hates it,
Pushing her body to break it, until she feels her shins split,
And calls it a commitment to her health.

She wears her make up stark,
Swipes concealer where the dark creeps,
Sweeps black onto lashes,
Lashes out if she’s not looked in the eye.

She shouts.

She shouts at him.

She shouts at him for being too clean,
Or not disposing of trash,
Or trashing her work,
Or working too hard,
Or hardly trying,
Or trying to please,
Or pleasing himself,
Or selfless sacrifices,
Or sacrificing their time,
Or filling their time with noise,
When all she wants is silence.

She needs the quiet,
To shut herself away with a pen and a page,
Safe in a cage where nothing could hurt,
Nothing is felt,
Nothing is real.

There’s a wound somewhere that needs to heal,
Needs fixing,
Needs stitches,
She just doesn’t know where it is.

Aimee Lewis

4/28/2017 12:30:53 am

SINGAPORE STORY

Clouds creep by,
Shy, cautious not to disturb the parties beneath,
Tiptoeing across high HDB rooves,
Mumbling thunder only to themselves,
Careful not to turn wakers into sleepers,
Or thinkers into dreamers.

It’s a time of merriment,
A time of family, festivity, and friends,
Glowing lights, lanterns, and grins,
Souls at the beginning of their years,
And some near the end,
Gathered generation to generation.

The clouds know these are the moments to be spent with eyes open,
Their time will come,
To sweep us all away into slumber,
When bellies are full and cheeks red with wine,
But until then, they move steadily on.

She looks up at it all,
The clouds,
The celebrations,
And sniffs the breeze,
A rare tepid breeze that cuts through the damp air,
A wisp of wind that makes the palm leaves hiss,
And moves cats on home with the threat of dark skies.

She knows the lightening will come,
To strike the trees and split the bark,
And send fruit falling to rot into the ground,
Under sheets of rain,
Those rare hours when the seasons change,
on the seasonless island.

She wanders homeward,
Through empty white-washed blocks,
Full only of shadows as crisp as the corners,
And then out into the street-lamp suns,
The synthetic ones that bloom like moonflowers once the other has been scattered into the stars.

She strolls the barren streets in the fuzzy quiet,
Passing more serene buildings,
Feeling the gaiety somewhere inside them,
Until to her lobby, her door, her bed she arrives,
And finally choses her eyes.

Clouds descend,
Gently, finally, they sweep her away,
Six years and six thousand miles away,
To a time of family, festivity and friends,
Glowing lights, lanterns, and grins,
And in the depths of the dreamful darkness,
Her homesickness finally suspends.

Meenakshi

4/28/2017 01:45:46 am

Where do birds go when they die?
Maybe they just fall from the sky.
And when they fall where do they lie?

Do they dissolve into the air ?
Do they sink earthward unaware ?
Maybe they float on like a prayer...

Does a coastal bird end in the sea?
A tropical bird become a tree?
Does a city bird just cease to be?

Where do birds go when they die?

Srawan

5/30/2018 07:57:35 pm

This is a nice one :)

Patricia Chew

4/28/2017 01:54:27 am

Look here, young ones, walking carefree
Why do you turn away from me?
Am I not good enough to work?
Don’t worry, I won’t go berserk.

My salary is to upkeep
My flesh and bone and place to sleep
Retirement age is sixty-two
I’m standing ready in death’s queue.

I may be hunched, I may be old
Even then, my spirit’s bold
The sun may beat down on my face
That does not mean I’ll slow my pace.

Behind, a warehouse still stands tall
Despite the dilapidated wall
And in its space, the whole parade
Of labour, sweat, the smells pervade.

Look here, young ones, do you hear me?
Let me show you my decree
Though the sky is cloudy overhead
I proudly wear the colour, red.

Shilpa DIkshit Thapliyal

4/28/2017 01:56:37 am

~~ chapatti ~~

The surest path to mother in law's heart
are soft and fluffy, home-made chapattis
served hot off the griddle with dal-sabzi.

Step 1:
Take some unbleached whole wheat flour
feel it's warmth under shots of tap water
dig both your hands and watch them get sticky
welcome to messy domesticity.

Step 2:
Think of battles fought in dark history
people who showed little faith or mercy.
So knead and twist and slam it upside down,
wipe that sweaty brow and smoothen that frown.

Step 3:
Here is the part that can bring your golden win
so arm yourself with a slim rolling pin.
Roll in circles without any compass
traverse all sides like you were Columbus

Step 4:
Heat the iron griddle and lay it flat
flip it over like an acrobat
flame it up and watch its belly puff,
take a minute and wipe the sweat beads off.

Now repeat and make fifteen chapattis
and then start cooking the dal, the sabzi
serve with endless love and spicy pickle
You have just earned the Indian 'Bahu' Title

Michelle Chua link

4/28/2017 04:07:36 am

The Secret of Indigo

I’ll tell a secret from long ago, the story
Of an indigo midnight glowing red and blue:
A veena plucks the stars on Saraswati’s saree.

My blue return to Jaipur’s pink-walled city
Unearthed a lake near by the flower gate.
I am retelling a story from long ago, a secret.

One lady covered in midnight and the glow
of the Taj Mahal, adrift on the Yamuna river.
She dances there in silks and pearls of inky tears.

Then quivering, the mouth of Goa’s sun
Peels the waves like sheets of green georgette.
And I will tell you from long ago, another story

Unfolding free from Kandy’s feathery hills,
of leaves and skies that drip, a breeze that listens.
A saree-covered veena plays until a finger slips.

Here black and yellow rickshaws wait and wait.
Traffic trills and dusty children flutter.
I will tell and tell the secret story of indigo.

A veena stirs. To a starlit dawn they dance
Till west to east, the rivers overflow.
Flooding the land, over and over with indigo.

Nuzhat Khan Kazi

4/28/2017 05:50:03 am

A Perfect Cake

Mix it well, try not to shake,
Let the bubbles jump up and down,
You leave it on the shelf to bake.

The story starts and it’s not fake,
Chocolate, flour your own, don’t drown,
Mix it well, try not to shake.

Did you dream it would be a calm lake?
That stays still, never kicks like a clown?
Just, leave it on the shelf to bake.

Did you know then, it was your wake?
You were not a queen, who wore the crown,
No break, mix well, try not to shake.

It’s not the end yet, there is a lot at stake,
Wait till the top turns slightly brown,
Just; leave it on the shelf to bake.

Accept everything, even a quake,
Don’t be disheartened, resist the frown,
Just leave it on the shelf to bake.
Don’t fret, mix well, try not to shake.

Priyanka Srivastava link

4/28/2017 07:23:58 am

Poem name - Light and Darkness

How do you walk away from
Your own shadow?
How do you separate
Ash from stardust?
How do you blend
Light with the darkness?
How do you become
One with yourself?

You walk,
You pick the pieces together
You paint darkness with light
You keep wandering
Keep searching
Till the clouds hovering
About you rest.
And
Pure peace prevails.

Rajita

4/28/2017 07:14:29 pm

<b> POEM #1</b>

Then their faces were open, upturned to skies
Blue and clear, or gold and red
The brush would fly, strokes on a canvas primed.
Now their faces are cowed, bowed to cries
Of babies buried in ashen paint flecks
Fallen from the sky.
Once upon a time this graveyard
Of hopes and desires sprung into life
Like a windup toy
With clanging bells and children’s voices
Their exuberant joy
Soaring like rockets above a domestic din
The colours of their youth bursting like fireworks even in
A world rapidly darkening.

Can you see them in the dust and sweat of the
Market place, the order and chaos
Of draperies and scarves dancing in the dry breezes
The ornate buildings with monolithic pillars holding up an
Ancient civilisation, where civilians are upholding the aging traditions of their nation.
In and out the people throng and shout, the songs of merchants, the bakers
The butchers, the priests, the teachers, the soldiers,
The police, the booms, the sirens, the screams, the silence?

A once bustling metropolis now policed
By bustling political chiefs
With eyes like hustling cheats in the city square.
“I promise you can win your freedom!” – but where?
Under which bowl, which cup, which cover up
Will truth be laid bare?

When the wretched citizens look around
Their eyes are shrouded in the cloud that surrounds –
The exhaust sourced from the factory of political discourse –
Distorted shapes shapeshifting like clouds into half-truths and lies.
Unable to see through the wiles of well-spoken liars,
They sigh, resigned, and despair in the mire
Of their environment, designed to suppress any fires of rage and maligned desires.
Their faces as ashen as the debris.
Their spirit as trodden as the dead.
They have tired of inspiring war cries and now look to the skies
For a higher power’s favour – a plane? An ally? A saviour?

Rajita

4/28/2017 07:17:35 pm

POEM #2 - SUGARFREE

“My love and me, we’re sugar free.”
In January I posted this on my Facebook wall
The enthralling prospect of my
Falling weight drastic like the
Dropping ball at Times Square
In time for new year’s eve.
Partnered in mutual commitment,
I was assured that I would be insured
Against the allure of mature cheeses
And chocolate, pieces of my core identity,
Now being given up indefinitely.

But who would have thought
Giving up was a grieving process
As I daily mourn the passing
Of the tray of muffins at work
Under my nose,
Or compose my polite veneer
To sincerely decline dessert
Over my violent agony
That severely entwines and hurts
My heart.

“My love and me, we’re sugar free.”
But not so much, because turns out that low-fat
No-fat Yoghurt?
Its as sugary as the Brady Bunch!
I lunched with ladies, munching on lettuce,
And celery and yoghurt and what do I have to show for it?
A misguided diet plan
And waistline like Singapore’s ever-expending coastline
Into reclaimed land.

And my love? His weight is like the tide…during a tsunami.
It went out before sunrise, and kept going -
As the day swelled he surfs on the curves of the waves,
Like a feather pushed and pulled by currents.
As I am crushed in the murky waters, gasping for air
And almost consumed
By my consumption.

Despite this setback I persevere.
New Year’s is only 8 months near
When I will stand before you here
Sugarfree and free of fear
Of what I could be.

I presume my consuming of suitable food
Eventually will assume my identity
And with a sense of serenity
Eventually this will get easier.
I will renounce the pies!
I will denounce the pizza!

“My love and me, we’re sugar free!”

Neil Basu

4/28/2017 11:57:46 pm

Zen Garden (poem #1)

I used to think that once upon a time
zen gardens cast a shroud of pure mystique.
Their aura powered me to perfect prime.
Their maintenance avoided all critique.

I'd go adventuring both up and down.
Their rocks would rise and fall as fit my whims.
I'd sit atop one mound and wear a crown,
commanding kingdoms until day was dim.

They had these pebbly paths through which you'd crunch
before you reached a pond that teemed with koi.
The cool short grass invited me for lunch.
The trickle of the brook made calm this boy.

But boys are simple, teenage boys are worse.
With puberty comes messes to no end.
I'd feel the crushing load of homework's curse
and feel the curse of crushing on a friend

I found these gardens lost their hold on me.
When I was agitated, life moved quick.
There was no time to see the maple tree
and conjure up its arms with every stick.

Through school and college, sounds grew loud inside,
irregularities the heart can't teach,
and I leaned hard on setting. Sure, it tried,
but gardens couldn't pass my skin to reach.

Sometimes I didnt see gardens at all
in glorious green and smoothly manicured
My temperment would shift the scene to sprawl.
Like leaves turned brown, it seems I had matured.

I'd think, 'Well this is it'...
I'm getting older, life's getting colder
I'm losing the quiet order of my youth.
Uncouth, the truth is, but I'll soldier on
I'll paddle tracks of choppy currents, get beaten,
and battles stack uneven like sloppy cakes,
rattling me into making mistakes, trying to get things restarted
lying broken hearted, pining after the departed, confused,
seeing failed exams move into failed interviews
words jumbled, walls crumbled, feet stumbled,
fairy tales mumbled but lie, forgotten insults,
this must be the rotten result
of feeling like an adult.

But whoa there! Adults are often prone to say,
after which they offer... "It's gotta be okay."

The trick to untangling messes is focus on one wire first,
then a second.
Take a day that's not the worst,
look away, and then check in.

And as I build things up again from scratch,
I find myself again riddled with weeds.
I sought a gardener to plant a batch
of longer-term and hardy, sturdy seeds.

It started with my sleep, then exercise,
of mind and body, run and meditate.
I struggled through these tasks with weary eyes.
Each plant felt too demanding to create.

But I thought back on zen gardens before;
to make them took one all he could afford,
to pull and hoe and rake and pat and more.
Well, acting like an adult has rewards.

My rest has lifted fogs with a stiff wind.
My exercise has lent my spirit clout.
My meditation radiates through skin...
no need to seep things in... I'm zenning out!

And if I can hear my own beat and dance,
I'll make surroundings conform to my zen.
Times Square has lights to put me in a trance.
I'll greet work as an old familiar friend.

I'll see an argument and think of how
when people really care, life never fails.
A temple makes my gym, my bed a cloud,
and when I fly, I'll think of fairy tales.

Environments will change as eras pass,
but anywhere I am, I'll heed its truth
and strive to pardon chaos, melt its wrath
and sculpt it into a zen garden too.

Neil Basu

4/29/2017 12:06:38 am

First-Time Expat

I sat at a Second Street bar surrounded by warmth.
My team swarmed around as I was presented with a sliver
of my pre-transformation, then a river of emotions
informed me I'd used up all the arrows in my quiver of farewells.
I was simply solitary, a compelling time to deliver.
A shiver ran up my spine as I stared at my bags.
Rosy filters affected every aspect of my cozy groovy little bubble...
then my Uber manuevered toward my future, and I soon reflected, troubled,
on a move that felt peculiar.

You see, once upon a time I dabbled in travel.
It dazzled, delighted, when I went on vacation;
no commitments at all, no long term creation,
but still with the benefits of cultural exposure,
of keeping my composure in foreign situations.
And yet, full disclosure, knowing I had a home to go back to
stabilized the fluctuations of mood caused by lost in translation.
I said cheers with chalices of ostentation.
No long term baggage, no grieving, leaving me only with achieving.
I'm in my groove at the Louvre,
Macchu Picchu made me a climber,
and I'm breaking down walls so great they just might be china,
and wait, theres the Royal Amsterdam or Buckingham Palace
or the Aurora Borealis, a grand slam of a light show!
Making sure people know where I am,
embellishing memories through Instagram,
running laps around latitudes, taking snaps with attitude,
but the gushing felt like spewing platitudes
when faced with the crushing fact,
the ineptitude of being a first-time expat.

I landed in this land, warmly met by a supply
of humidified air that was too saturated to soak up my stupidity.
An aggravated assault on the skin, to my chagrin.
The exalted adventure off... to a halt.
Needless to say, return airfare commissioning was not a real choice,
so I sought air conditioning, felt a squeak in my voice as I tweaked toward a kneel
positioned myself for prayer,
wishing somewhere would declare itself my sanctuary,
appealing for this feeling to be merely momentary.
I felt like a child again, naive and innocent,
asking questions, heeing and hawing, the culturally encumbered
making an ass out of things while looking for comfort.

Fast forward a year, and I haven't yet found epiphany
but found comfort in consistency of solving puzzles, mazes,
a patchwork quilt of experiences that nuzzled me on rainy days.
Of course there were numerous cases in my local lion city.
It's hard to pick just one place, and yet one appears in mind's eye,
at a hawker center, flanked by gawkers as a flame rose three feet high
just because I told this guy I wanted more chili in my Thai!
And my ambivalence grew then as it did throughout this poem
and like the fire, for which I didn't know if I'd die or cry or perspire...
but expatriation need not lead to impotence, and so in this incidence
I showed those chilis insolence, ate every grain of rice on my plate
and my anxiety abated. Sure, fine, with my tongue devastated (barbequed really)
but it was still better than being disappointed voluntarily.

I'm attuned to the dancing laser pointer, as cats be.
I'm chasing orgastic green lights like Jay Gatsby.
While what's current beats me back, I swim forth
to drag my body in pursuit of my spirit due north,
hoping that when it catches up, I'll be pleasantly augmented
by the fragmented memories of my travels,
sediments formed by time and a regiment of sensory accessories.
No themes to these scenes, but still, a directory of eminent necessity.

I've gone from dabbler to babbler, frazzled to razzle-dazzled by travel,
but there's still clock chimes left to hear,
and when I think about that once upon a time,
it would be a crime not to say, in rhyme, that I fought through fear my first year,
and I'm still here existing.
So three cheers for persisting on even the bumpiest of rides,
and for glorious stories of climbing hills so you feel the thrill of the other side.

Neil Basu

4/29/2017 12:20:15 am

Slam (poem #3)

P1
I'm contestant number 1 and I'm psyched to be here!
Once upon a time, I'm sure you saw fear,
but even stammering out my name brought a cheer.
Being first was enough, I could frame stuff as new.
When first i stood up and walked, "Oh so cute!"
How they squawked at my wobbly form.
Ambulatory norms meant I was somehow taking the world by storm.
But I'm out of firsts, not seconds.
Time to check the watch, yes, I'm still ticking.
Can't be twiddling my thumbs
when whole hands are moving like clockwork.
I'll do my homework and I reckon
as they get hungry, they will beckon,
consume, stuff their faces, then beg me for seconds.
It's in their lifeblood, I just know it, and I'll own it when they show it
cuz when there's a flood of emotions, they will need a dam poet.
I won't be selfish, just like shellfish, I'll let my armor peel away
and while I'm cooking, you'll be looking at raw hearts revealed today
and since I'll have surrendered, I'll be fairly easy prey
but understand you should be tender, I'm in demand at this buffet.

P2
I'm a judge with a whiteboard that they thrust in my hand
to pass judgment on this horde, and help pick a winner.
Understand I just came here to eat me some dinner, watch a show,
didn't know it was interactive though.
I'm not good with poetry, all its bells, whistles, trappings,
and this first guy, he sounds more like he's rapping...
but I'm clapping cuz his confidence is bottomless,
so uncommonly fast, I didn't hear a third of the words.
I mean, what just occurred?
Well, the crowd might boo me
if I dwell on my duty, so sue me, I'll give him a ten
and hope he slows down if he comes up to speak again.

P1
I can't believe how well that first refrain went.
I'm a spent entertainer, used up all of my fuel,
no remainder, spouting gruel I may not even believe.
I see a friend or two grieving, face-palming,
but grant me this reprieve, this thought shouldn't be alarming.
If this is my last shot, I want to really feel the words I'm saying,
acknowledge the game that I'm playing by obeying the rules of the slam.
I'm a rhyme scheme hobbyist, a resonant lobbyist,
all for the sake of a captive audience.
There's no glare of the phone as they check on world statuses.
There's no eyes wandering as they ponder analysis
In addition to entry fees, attentions are paid,
and they stayed, no heading off for the bathroom,
almost like this was an idealistic classroom,
and I'll admit that I fantasize people hear my words and gain wisdom.
The words would exercise prudence to speak of reality
with debonair... with a flair for the honest but extraordinary,
words that rip and tear at facades, words that are scary,
words that are daring enough to break through
the hullabaloo, the chaos that's the obsession of the bureaucrat.
I aim for words that will cut through, weigh on you,
leave an impression... like that.

P2
Okay so I may not be the most acclaimed rater of talent,
but there's something imbalanced about stating content
that's happening live while you're speaking about it.
It's meta... he might let a stray thought be grounded,
but I'm resoundingly astounded more thoughts aren't sinking.
My head is swimming, it's winded, my glass is brimming with liquid,
so let me take a swig of this drink.
He's making me think about how I think.
He's creating a frustrating impact.
But he's talking about what he's talking about...
and so how do I put a rating out about that?

P1
At the end of the day, what is left on the page
is reflecting on those that passed the test on stage.
The only correct attitude is gratitude.
I cannot help but be in awe of you all and your choices.
This medium gives voices to the abused,
the accused, the used, the disenfranchised brood.
I'm learning a lot about privilege and neglect.
I've thought more about ignorance and regret being here
than in my first twenty years,
and it's all because I like the rhyme and meter.
Because I teeter on the edge of love, entreat her,
I get to sit in the bleachers and watch this affair.
In this place, I've found my fair share of teachers, in poets.
But have I learned enough to show it
or am I still trudging through the sludge?
Oh look, the seconds have run out now...
so I guess you'll have to be the judge.

Kok Wei Liang

4/29/2017 06:48:46 pm

BEYOND GAY FORMATION

Y'all homos horny for that Caucasoid lusciousness
Grindr snatchin' – show me white on that GPS
I'm so thirsty for a European birth address
I'm so obsessive that I'll stop playing Chinese Chess

Your daddy pale-complexioned
Your momma, WASP perfection
She prob'ly chose to give birth to you
By Caesarian section

I like my white boy butt with white boy butt dimples
I like my cracker chest with shiny pink nipples
Got all this suntan
But it never take Caucasian off me
I want white boys for a shag, fag

I see it, I seize it
I want to, just squeeze it
I blow it, I smoke hard
I snort 'til I sneeze it
White chocolate is the hottest
Potato Pocahontas
Laying way low in a Honda
Sippin' white wine in a sauna

Sometimes I go cough (I go cough)
I've no shame (not my fault)
Get gay pride (take gay pride)
From a cock (that is white)

Cause I gay (gay), I gay (hey), I gay (okay), I gay (okay)
All day (okay), He gay (okay), You gay (okay), She gay (okay)
We gon' gay (gay), gon' gay (okay), We gay (okay), They gay (okay)
I gay (okay), okay (okay), You gay (okay), okay, okay, okay, okay

Okay, ladies, now let’s get some Caucasian
Okay, ladies, now let's get some Caucasian
Show me how you get to the Aryan nation
KKK, or you have emancipation

When his skin so light, I take him to a TED Conference
When his skin so light, I take him to a TED Conference
If I hit it right, his Vanilla Ice get whooped proper
Douche and repeat, six times a week, or he’ll stop up

Blond hair, blue eyes give cock market inflation
Blond hair, blue eyes give cock market inflation
You just might be a fair-skinned Drake on vacation
I just might be the gay Yoko to your Lennon

Julia Tan link

4/30/2017 07:11:13 am

Title: Poetry is a luxury we can't afford

Once upon a time
Someone said
"Poetry is a luxury we can't afford"
Because what use can bits of words have
I mean, POETS! Just say what you mean
Your sadness is like the rain
Things are like other things
We get it.

But they don't get it, do they?
They don't get how words are like sunlight
Stretching into infinity
Waking you up
"Have you had breakfast yet?"
"Take an umbrella"
"Do you need a ride to school"
Words mean what they mean
And they also mean more than that

How can poetry be a luxury we can't afford if we use words everyday?
Words are a currency we use in an economy
There is no shortage of demand
Just supply
In a world full of contracts, promo codes and lies, how do we find words that are sunlight
Words that illuminate the soft secrets we keep
And the things we think before we sleep.
Quote GRAB10 to get 10% off your next ride!
But sometimes you want to grab just one, an take everything off before you ride.
To be completely naked in the light
To see what another sees
Sometimes you just want the bare flesh bare bone descriptions of your life
So tell me, how can poetry be a luxury?

They tell us poetry is a luxury we can't afford
An economy of words where the value of some words fall every day.
I love you
I love you
I love you
Maybe to them, but not to me.

Best Written Poem of the April Slam (Once-Upon-a-Time Slam)

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