Hi, and welcome! (Scroll past this post if you’re looking for the updates :))

This is my new thought and fiction diary! Here I’m going to be posting whatever comes to mind, experimenting with whatever I feel like at the time. There will be a lot of first drafts coming through here, but the quality of stuff should reach at least a decent standard. The first post (‘#1: for the sake of flow’) is actually an example of experimentation gone very badly, but you know what? Next time it’ll be better, and that’s the point of this secondary blog!

My previous blog is at ChasjngDreams, a blog that’s taken more of the spin of personal thoughts and rants. If you like what you read here, maybe you’d like the writer behind all of this too!

Hope you enjoy!

– j. NG

213: Desperate Kisses

The desperate kiss is:

Fiery, explosive.
An admission of a flame that will never last
Admission of an eruption from one container to another
Self-contained, outwardly sparked
Not a flame brought to roar by a breeze’s gentle stroke
The first of desperate kisses is explosive.

The second, belonging to a different time or place –
Is long franticness of an open mouth held over another’s space,
Pleading for an eternity,
Sucking as if to draw out the soul of a distant memory.
The second of desperate kisses
Promises empty pledges previously disproved
Already a pointless thing,
Oftentimes the last one, the second desperate kiss.

The third of desperate kisses:
Sweet. A query for sacrifice. Late.
Begging openly to not travel past a gate.
Questioning fate for the wrong date,
To meet the perfect being with paths diverging.
Stay, for I can’t go – come, for I can’t stay.
The spice of lips as reminder for loss,
Teasing of a future with ways that will never cross,
The third kiss is passionate loss.

The fourth is hollow,
But full with the echo of bad times.
The fifth is clamouring for the past.
The sixth is investment, counting the years spent
Counting years left.
Desperate kisses are never in the now
Possessing not the past nor the future
Yet somehow they squeeze themselves in
Despite having no place ever, in time.

-j. NG

212: Shattered Glass

I have been, for many years,
crouched at the knees
with trousers tucked up into my stomach
and with my sleeves rolled up
so that it is all the easier to pick up
the shattered pieces of glass
that lay along my path.

I remember it clearly the moment it broke,
if I must recall it;
’twas not an article that I held dearly close
nor even knew I had,
it was simple glass;
mine, reflecting a face – mine,
and though others would grab it to view themselves,
the mirror was mine, not yours.

So how it happened, well, you drew close,
arms thick, so strong, your chest, puffed out,
your ego so much wider, and with a slight prick
of a needle of your own making,
the balloon erupted and out came seething
your arms, so wide, so strong,
round my neck so thin
my face so alien
as it turned beetroot red and collapsed,
and that was the shattering of the glass.

I’ve been ever since upon the floor
picking pieces up, peering upwards,
waving helloes to passersby and now
the posture’s become second nature
with bows, smiles, the how d’you do’s,
all swept into my knees, roughed knees
sucked into the downward glances and
accumulated dust and grey
shimmering underneath my fingernails.

My position, my class
not street sweeper by occupation
but street dweller now from force, and how?
How was blood not thicker than, than what?
Minor victories of your superiority,
held over my head for a decade and more,
force escalated, enforced, threatened,
how was blood not thicker than a wallet
and possessions not even yours?

And how? How did the protectorates
rush to your side and defend your ailments
stating they were in your mind
and never treat mine, was it all my fault?
Was I so divine to forgive and forget,
so strong to stand on my own
and witness that justice was never met?

Since then I’ve never stood up tall for the pickings of glass
are all I have done, do not look at me,
as I have no face and in place I’ve just got a broken frame,
jagged reasoning all cellotaped together to say
this is me now, hello, how do you do, don’t mind me
I’m looking for glass, glass, glass, grass?
I’ve forgotten now for what I stoop
for what I pick up, for my hands are covered in grass,
covered in soot, and somewhere behind
me on this path is a trail left of glittering sun
that cries like diamond tears.

– j. NG

211: Two Poems, ‘Train Growls’ & ‘Solution for Love’

I recently finished my first manuscript, compiling just over 40 poems. We’ll see where that goes. Regardless, what that means is that I’m back to forthesakeofflow, blogging with poetry. Really pushing for a new breakthrough in my writing before the next collection, hope you’ll be able to see and enjoy its development!

Today’s two poems are rather simple. The first’s scene is set in the trains and subway stations of Hong Kong (come visit my beautiful city), the second is a lesson recently learnt (as obvious as it is) on relationships. Enjoy.

Train Growls

Cement jungle.
High speed centipedes
Running through the underplaces.
Footsteps like the pitterpatter
Like the pitterpitter
Of endless footsteps echoing
Throughout burrowing tunnels.
Toucan calls of children break through
The low throbbing of murmured conversations
As squeaking wheels in cicada shrieks
Insidiously plot for derailing.
Constant humming and vibrating.
A sudden stop.
The roar of a beast.

The Asian-American
Bellowing her English
Stakes her claim to all the sounds.

Solution for Love

I’ll give it to you:
Vacations, security,
Those antibiotics of happiness.

I’ll offer those pills, swallowed
Twice a year in a plane
Flying over the sunset.

But more than those I suppose
I’ll mix in a smile and a laugh
Crystalline joy in a glittering droplet,

100 percent pure –
The catalyst fizzing so that
Now when you down me you get

Up from your belly erupting
A volcano of unrestrained laughter.

– j. NG

210: The Homeless in the Square

The madness in their eyes
The squalor fading as they realize
That unbidden you have joined them there
Not inside, but outside, in the sun, clouded
Where sunlight has not made monopoly
Of the brightness of the square;
Why are you there? the unbidden question;
To not shy away from their odours,
Blank stares – they turn – mall’s still there –
A cool sanctuary, glass doors as a boundary
Shooed out by men in costume
But you are there, in the square.
A sudden unbidden shame –
They shuffle off, oil-stained rags unarranged.
How well we have conditioned
Those who breathe in the same air.

-j. NG

209: Scaley Intent

The scene is set, carpeted with a cut
of what would normally be a golden sheen,
but now aqua, lit up with the semblance of
golden rays cutting through the top,
dyeing everything sapphire blue
save where the weeds wave, ticklish,
save where the castle waits, holding.
The scene is set, my lights, castle, plants.
I go out to greet my girls.

They’re there. I tell the host, I’ve prepared a place
and he nods, affirming my efforts with a wink.
He shows me around, they float in schools,
the braver ones on the outside, some gems in.
I look them up and down, look at their scaled dresses.
I like the active ones. The ones that never tire,
so long as you give them more and more to eat,
though if you give them too much, they’ll never let the others feed.

I watch them from behind glass, drifting from place
to place as I go from blue waters to violet, white, shadowy.
Time is ephemeral. It is the way we exist, floating, drifting.
Every moment counts, I tell them, and the ones that seem
to listen I point out. My host nets them for me. I ask them
if they’d like to come home with me. Their eyes are glazed.
Don’t seem to see me but I take it as a nod, a yes. I know it.
They come home with me. Droves and droves. To my weeds.
My castles. My blues and the scene is set every so sweet.

They forget me come morning
and sometimes, oftentimes,
I empty the tank. They wouldn’t
have lasted long anyway.

208: Modern Delights

Off of an undeserved, harrowing one day break as I fell back into self-destructive patterns, I just now attempted to write a poem to get me back on track. A little bit pessimistic, a thousand percent hypocritical, and only slightly poetic. Whatever, back to the manuscript!

Modern Delights

We have never known the meaning
of sheer darkness for sheer darkness
when coupled with warm beds and
covers and easy access to a flashlight
is not the sheer darkness of knowing
little to nothing in anything around.

Switches know it better than us,
the time of day, the feeling of night.
If it is past 5:30 and if the air drops
beneath 26 degrees, depending on
your region and also, if photorecptors
receive little, then they know that
it is the time of day for them to
-switch- and make the streets bright.

If it is hot outside a bundle of wires
connected to circuits running through
roofs start to undulate air through open
metal gaping tunnels like whales mouths
just swallowing and exhaling, breathing
coolness while stores’, all similarly named
lights shine underneath, look at me, look,
my name in lights, I have what you need,
come visit me, I supply your daily needs.

Not knowing anything means nothing now,
recycled encyclopedias sitting as heavy volumes
on parents’ shelves, proud things once, a promise
of knowing, for children, to always be able to know
but now facts are relegated to shrugs of well, that’s
obvious, no I didn’t know, but easily searchable.

Cynical responses online are the delights for
invisible crowds, with the strongly held opinion
that all must always be reserved, and the discussion
the regurgitation of a popular statement causing
that mental break that we call comedy is the
most valuable thing to spend our time reading
alongside of articles and pictures of frowning cats.

It is fine, I think, so long as we as a race provide
an outlet for us all to be part of a better place, so
let us not steal and annihilate cultures but to hold
them in respect and learn with gratitude what it
means to have identity, individually learnt, let us
learn about privilege and acknowledge the lesser
blessed, in treatment from race, gender, birthplace
and so long as all of these things are developed by
this human race then this incessant pampering is fine.

But hah. At least we have some advantage
on those stupid street lights. If an asteroid
comes rushing down at one place one day,
burning hot, scorching bright, past midnight,
we’ll know better than those silly switches
the meaning of sheer darkness and feel far
more than they, the meaning of the night.

-j. NG

207: Ruffled Feathers

Ruffled Feathers

She flaps above the dining table
but far beneath the sky.
She has always been my love,
my joy, my beautiful blackened pride.

She is a dove with feathers shifting
from a black to a tarnished golden.
Her eyes rivet in their set place
while her head does all the twisting.

Once, she sat at the table with I,
dining, hopping, chirping.
But not long after one loud crash
she took off for the ceiling.

It was days before I found her again,
never saw her in the rafters.
A selfless worry had broken me
her absence had my world shattered.

She announced her return
with curious, sorry chirps.
I left out feed for her sake
but to her I spoke no words.

One day sitting she shuffled to me,
with an unguarded, worried coo.
I ran a finger down her feathers,
down her back. I had been worried too.

To keep us safe from further harm
I drew a string of harmless yarn
And loosely bound it tight,
banning her from future flights.

She did not even know,
she was such a beautiful fool.
Then she tried once to soar –
That was when the table pulled.

She landed with a sudden shake.
A squawk, a peck.
Twas not about her neck,
So I left her binds on for days.

One day I decided that
her penance had been made.
Her shackle was free, but she ruffled twice
and stood stock still in place.

She used to soar from room to room
on stairs only visible to her.
She used to appear with a drumset shuffle
Wired flutters landing next to ear.

I missed her as such, so
I re-inaugurated her to sky.
On a blue and free, sunny day,
about her leg a tie.

But not a flap or shake was there
so I loosened the string and portal.
There! Her step towards that opening,
a jump! A plummet. Just mortal.

I took her to a man with art
who made her alive with stuffing.
Found her? he asked, My friend, I said.
Her favorite thing was flying.

She has always been my love,
my joy, my beautiful blackened pride.
She flaps above the dining table,
but far beneath the sky.

-j. NG