by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
pool used to be free at chong fan’s :
we knocked back tequila shots in personalised mugs
slow-cooked soup too, then sweet, creamy coffee
from sulawesi, the longhouse ceiling in teak
a sudden debussy showing up the draftsman
and a book opened to a scalar diagram
like a tonic, and unified field theory :
cut that sprawl out of my life, long-running :
josie du shon’s at bogart’s bar, her hillbilly blues
a shared equal billing : an indie rock band at piccadilly’s
yuppie brood on the look-out, for an all-in-one free-for-all
seven-eleven has the cinnamon pringles, in mini bags
the harley diehards arrive in their chrome
poses and ponytails : there goes all the ad execs
in a black slink, arbitrary curl out to monroe’s
another dramatic clatter, and ice on fire :
draw the arch the way you pencil your brows :
and everything shapes, gets an outline
markered like almonds :
more aloof bouncers : such a tint of a gaze
before next-morning sobriety, whatever gets us
through the day : this deep rush :
y’know, sex – and puppetry and animal skin –
is behind the console, deejay and his yaki perm
suspended in a leather harness : and hammock
where the droll seems rife, just wrung.
Last updated September 14, 2011