Hall of Inspirations 2007
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Posted by Keii on 27 March 2007
Flawless
The burning sun stands smugly, hiding behind levels of cloud.
Always hiding its full splendour, only parts of it can be seen.
The extraordinary feeling it oozes, it also heals.
Like how you fufill my senses, with your brilliant smile.
It comes and goes, giving way to the night, as if to take a rest.
Once it awakens, it fills the darkness with illuminance.
The unique sights it brings to the eyes, it also soothes.
Like how you caught my eye, with your flawless beauty. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 6 April 2007
You were my cup of tea,
You have stolen my heart.
It was love at first degree,
Right from the start.
Was it you? Was it me?
Somehow, we fell apart.
Like a rainbow above the stormy sea,
It was wishful thinking on my part.
Baby, I have set you free,
Sadly, we werenÂ’t meant to be. -
Posted by Bluesky_Liz on 6 April 2007
The Cashier
She returned after getting the change she needed
and the customers-in-line slashed her with glares
of where have you been for the past five minutes
of my precious time ;as she counted through
the heavy stack of fifties: change for the thousand
dollars the asshole paid for his three-bag $40.55
groceries, the silent knives broke into softer sighs. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 8 April 2007
Thinking of you day and night,
I try not to with all my might.
Me and you in such a plight,
Like the sun and moon will never unite.
My life was black and white,
Till you brought in all the colourful lights.
How I wish we could just take flight,
Out into the cool, silent night.
IÂ’ll don my silver armour tonight,
To save you from the dungeon site.
On my stallion weÂ’ll ride at the speed of light,
How nice it would be to reunite.
Oh my dear princess, why canÂ’t I be your knight? -
Posted by ellzrae on 11 April 2007
In cooking; earthed of all arts
dry sherry, tumeric, rice wine
these i have, but not the art
nor respect,
for living food, or dead birds &
crustaceous crabs
painted as they ever are the beginnings
of gluttony in dutch masters frames.
This is what I think of fish,
white meat.
& beef,
red meat.
& fingers that paint the chicken with spice,
mad
magic. -
Posted by ChingAlvin on 12 April 2007
Is this writing real?
If reading makes this real,
Our sight made it real.
Now close your eyes,
Are these real no more?
If eyes see differently,
And brains process differently,
Is this, still as real?
Suppose you canÂ’t see,
Suppose you donÂ’t smell.
Suppose you canÂ’t hear,
Suppose you arenÂ’t you.
Would this, still be real?
Now if I create into space,
Someone just like you.
You see, you hear, maybe even touch,
Do those make it real?
Sadness, happiness, anger,
We canÂ’t see, donÂ’t smell nor hear,
But emotions we all feel.
We cry, we smile we frown,
ArenÂ’t they all so true?
If senses equals to real,
Emotions canÂ’t be real!
Yet we react when we feel,
DoesnÂ’t that make it real?
Ah! Now I think I know.
The brain creates all thatÂ’s real.
No, wait! Is that really true?
Now convince yourself this “truth”,
What you now see is not real.
Armed with the new “truth”,
Close your eyes for a moment.
Then open your eyes and look,
If brains create reality,
ShouldnÂ’t this writing be gone?
I guess, “reality” is really real.
We donÂ’t sense to make things real,
Nor our brains make things real.
But if we canÂ’t sense or think,
How do we know that “it” is real?
How do we know reality, is real?
If the mind creates reality,
Can you create a dollar bill?
If senses creates what is real,
Are emotions and thoughts unreal?
If “reality” is really real,
How can we tell without our minds?
These questions we ponder,
About what is real.
But will an explanation,
Will be accepted as the absolute truth? -
Posted by ChingAlvin on 12 April 2007
Farewell I shall bid,
The heart which fails to beat.
Fallen to defeat,
Feelings come with it.
Feelings of defeat,
Ice rains on skin.
Then all began to melt,
Cold rain on the skin
Torment, anguish and cold,
Manifests, unable to hold.
Like soldiers invading a hold,
Battling till kings fall!
First they flee their fleet,
Then fight back from below.
Farewells, why I bid,
To climb up from down low.
From the lessons of defeat,
I shall be reborn.
When the day comes to me,
Return the smiles once worn. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 12 April 2007
Jingle, Jingle, whereÂ’s my bell?
Has anyone seen it fell?
Searching like hell,
Till my paws are swell.
How I wish there was a spell,
To bring back my jingle bell. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 12 April 2007
Sigh, Mr Cat, you have lost your bell,
While I have lost my belle.
I have cried a well,
And yelled till I fell.
Come on Mr Cat, lets get out of this shell,
To a place where happiness dwell.
Two mugs of milk and a tale to tell,
And weÂ’ll say farewell.
Just like a spell. -
Posted by peebrain on 19 April 2007
Walking The Line
Thinking ahead, I bought myself a golden
ticket, an original idea, walked and
got in line like the rest, beholdened
to a subscription letter in my hand.
In front, the women, no -- ruddy giggly girls
dither in the queue for one of your kisses,
hardly aware that I've quietly reversed
back in line, a once-removed missus.
I don't mind (I lie) if you've had ten, twenty,
even a hundred (God forbid!) since then.
I've had my share, dismissed others easily
from a line not unlike this. Sweet chameleon,
so what if it ends where the sun doesn't shine?
Despite the odds, I wish I were last in your line. -
Posted by peebrain on 19 April 2007
Falling
The hands of the clock
have stopped,
as if to mark the transit
of inertia into permanent motion.
The brownstone cracks
from the brunt of disrepair.
All is falling.
In the grand scheme of things
I fall so others may rise,
though they remain
where they are,
the act of falling
tricks the mind into accepting
the way things that are
and will remain. As a whole, unwhole.
Just like the winds
rushing to fill in an opening,
a beginning
that begins from what is already missing.
I become the illusion,
a comparative one,
a contrasting one,
a one that forms a stern letter 'I'
braced for the weight of the sky.
In giving myself up, I give away nothing.
What is left of me
is no longer right.
So it moves to move away the excess.
So it falls to fall behind the rest.
When it falls.
If it falls.
All is false.
In falling,
the failings of life's delight
rise up like the moon
shrouded in fog, milky and unclear. -
Posted by peebrain on 19 April 2007
Elementary
A bastard heart is impossible to quantify.
It defies logic, existing only in theory,
a falsifiable fact. No equation is elegant enough
to equalise this atrophied state.
Like Schroedinger's cat, it is both alive and dead.
How do you reason with a soul-ache?
With a trembling half-smile. You pummel it
back into subclavian caves, check its sell-by date,
reach into the back of your throat and vomit
one promise after the next.
Bang. It explodes. A cracked bumper hanging
on a solitary screw. A long slow honeymoon.
How do you divorce a massive overdraft of
statutes carved in stone? With an ice pick.
This bone-hurt sings from the bones
of your toes to the tip of your nose.
It lives in a dreaming nightmare, it feeds off
your sleep. The night wind kissing your lips.
How do you quantify something so basic,
so urgent in its quasi-solid state? You can't.
A heartbreak, a bone-hurt or a soul-ache is
completely like you, impossible to comprehend. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 19 April 2007
The days go by.
The birds still fly,
The sun is still in the sky.
Why should I cry?
Why should I sigh?
ItÂ’s just time to say goodbye.
Was it really goodbye?
Or was it just a lie?
I cant deny,
You are my sweetie pie.
I try and I cry,
IÂ’m just an ordinary guy.
Do I really have to say goodbye? -
Posted by LazerLordz on 20 April 2007
Dreams
The grey door.
You know, that wooden
door.
With signs afoot
with dreams stuck
to the tiny, little, unforgiving
space.
Where the postman
secrets evidence
that incriminates
and irrigates
the judgement of
a court without.
To say,
many things.
But I do lament
that here is 1725
and there lies 1925.
HowÂ’s that pie?
Shall I bring you
the wonder and glory
the shock and awe
of Chai CheeÂ’s reformed
Bak Chor Mee,
instead? -
Posted by LazerLordz on 20 April 2007
The Prize
The days be weary
and greys be my companion
I have seen the sun
arched high in the sky
the call of my brothers
echo in the death and life
which the desert calls
the song of misery.
I have eaten dust
kicked by a tango of bullets
I have dreamt of you
while the smoke of flares
covered me like a veil.
Do you ever think
that I might see you
again?
Today we launched at 0600
the stars above Arabia
winked at me.
I entered the mosaic portal
and I hefted my mistress.
She gleamed and glistened
I could almost listen
to her sweet clicks.
But something laid me
down to the sweet earth
and I saw a daffodil
beside me.
It glimmered and I shook.
I reached for you
our son, our future.
The grey cleared
I stand here,
clad in peace.
This is my prize
my sweet reward. -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 21 April 2007
I didnÂ’t believe in love at first sight,
Till I met you that night.
My heart took flight,
When you were by my side.
Was it the light?
Or was it my sight?
You just look so right.
With all my might,
I'll never give up without a fight.
I hope you would accept my invite,
For a candle light dinner some night. -
Posted by peebrain on 22 April 2007
Blunt
In so many aspects,
in all manners that ought to be well,
you were like a needle cast in silver,
only blunt. Unkeen. Poised for piercing.
Except you were blunt,
and therefore cruel in your intentions.
So easily you batter the coffrets
that house a treacherous heart
drunk on lost hopes and lost faith.
And because you were blunt,
the thick muscled walls cannot give parting,
in spite of your ministrations.
So they bruise.
Patterned like the stars that mark
the darkest nights; a tapestry of celestial tears.
And because you were blunt,
there is no pity in your cruelty,
no gentleness in your touch.
Can one blame the heart then, or blame you?
A conundrum that brooks incomplete reproach
save an unholy truth: you were blunt.
And therefore the most memorable, the most unfleeting. -
Posted by peebrain on 23 April 2007
Dreaming
each tattered page of a picture book,
a symbol in fragments, disarticulated,
not unlike a Y-incision stormily ripped apart
from greying flesh, stitches raw and frayed.
embroidered cloths from heaven's weave
cast into Lethe's parched waters; payment:
a dying man's coin, imbursed by the living.
Charon's raft groans under its debtless weight,
such is the blood memory of his quarry,
the indelible massacre of hopes and dreams. -
Posted by peebrain on 23 April 2007
Construct
If God were an architect and Life,
A denominator of base products --
Are we then mere jellies in a vat,
Existing for the next stabbing impulse?
I am Superman with an invisible gun,
My body is a rough of ones and zeros,
With entrails gutted out to make room
for pure, unadulterated vice.
Save this peccadillo I am anybody:
I could even be the one who gives you
your new breasts or a next-to-discrete lift.
Tear sheets off your face until there is none left.
Will that be all, lovely Galatea?
I'll sculpt you a brand new face,
throw darts at your wild black heart.
Strangle, silently, this Pygmalion construct. -
Posted by binarynwitz on 27 April 2007
Your porcelain mask
Slowly, your mysteries unfold.
Yet already I was told,
Do not be easily sold.
The plot thickens,
Your mists hinders,
But they do not deter.
For I'm hell-bound to know the truth!
Hell-bound to break your porcelain mask.
Do not hide,
You have no where to run.
Sit back, and enjoy the fun.
I pick your mask,
Bit by bit.
And slowly it shall crumble.
For you know I'll be there!
There to break your porcelain mask. -
Posted by Bluesky_Liz on 30 April 2007
Dinner Together
He was on his phone,
and she was on hers;
when they both sat
down at the table,
she shut hers off
while he talked on;
when the food came
she thanked the waiter
and he ended the call;
then they proceeded
to dine in silence. -
Posted by ironoxideman on 30 April 2007
Bunk
your ceiling fan up above is wobbling
tilting crazily on its axis
corridor lights intrude on your rest
tactical mosquitos you never find
but these are just another
and then another right after another
of those stuffy nights
you think of home
and the things you hadn't yet
put right
and now,
all is not yet quiet
oblivious 747s passing overhead
so near their lights
are the only stars in our sky
heading where we left our affections
here we are,
upon humble identical beds
(some more humble than others,
yellowing with age,
or smeared with kiwi)
our weary bodies are readying
for the worst of the coming day
blankets left folded
are at the foot of our beds
a pre-awakening
to pull at them
amid the 3am chill
then resuming dreams;
prising open letters and parcels
inscribed upon we find
are all the words
milk and kisses
you'd never have in here -
Posted by ironoxideman on 30 April 2007
our pillows nestled between
these cold steel lockers
them, they do keep us apart
brothers born under a november sky
the intruding corridor lights
and the occasional roar
of an oblivious passing jet
them, they do keep us awake
brothers born under a november sky
sleep creeps across the bunk
a blanket slips over a bed
the night chill is arising
perhaps the sandman recalls,
swaddled in infancy
asleep in a ward
in identical cots dreaming
brothers born under a november sky -
Posted by l0st-s0ul on 3 May 2007
Good Morning
Wakie, Wakie,
Rise and shine.
ItÂ’s time to get to the MRT line.
Do not rush and make a beeline,
Be there early to avoid the long queue line.
And remember to stand behind the yellow line.
Drivers and riders keep in mind,
Stay between the two dotted white lines.
The ERP rates have been reassigned,
Avoid it or letÂ’s all whine!
LetÂ’s be good and weÂ’ll get to work just fine.
(holy crap. ERP rates are insane) -
Posted by Bluesky_Liz on 7 May 2007
Kindergarten
Mothers stand with open umbrellas in the rain,
watching their babies through the shutter windows.
Say goodbye, wave a little bye-bye, blow a little kiss
before the teachers shut the windows and break out
the crayons. I don't remember my first day except
that I cried; shamelessly; and why shouldn't I:
to be taken away from my lovely mother and made
to sit in a room full of strange children and hags
who wear dresses with too many flower prints and
demand obedience. Who does this to their love ones?