Cluck Cluck Cluck!

Born fourteen December nine-three,

the year of the rooster for me.

Excited, I am,

To fly with friends.

Can’t wait for great sights to see!

Agnes Lee
Topic: Cluck (day 30)

The Soldier

He is amazing. His eyes gleam as he breathes my breaths.

The work he does can be seen on his face.

Each pearly breakout stems from the hardships

he faces for us, for my family. Each scar,

a memento of a battle with himself; stuck between

presence and protection of the ones he loves.

The dirt and grime of the forests he crawls and eats

and sleeps does not compare to the fondness of

her heart back home. Neither injuries nor hurt can compare

with the lost cheers of the boy’s first goal or the absence

of the small one’s first words.

The badges and awards tells of the tough decisions

made in the field but the white gold he proudly bears on

his face reads the hardest one yet.

He is Man. Strong. Resilient. Admired. Protector.

Almost impenetrable but the dots on that smile of re-unity,

they are the gateway to his soul.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Acne (day 29)

Shoe Defense

The total of bones from the head to the toes

is two hundred and six at twenty.

The place with the most number of those

is the feet, 26 on each.

They say bones give you structure, the hardest part of you,

they withstand the success ladder climb.

They hold you up when you’re happy or blue,

but even the strongest need protection sometimes.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Shoes (day 28)

Changes Everyday

One foot out and it's a new world.
The green of greens differ from recollections.
The air sandy, the ground humid, birds
sing hymns of rebirth.
The sun on your face pierces through you
again but never the same way.
The people hustle through the paths, the squirrels
nuts, lazy cat purrs.
Routines, but not constants today.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Today (day 27)

Weaknesses

So much power yet

if you think it hard enough

so little control. 

Agnes Lee

Topic: Weakness (day 26)

Musings of a daughter (stolen from my Facebook)

I guess my friends will find this funny, because I have been constantly battling with my parents for as long as anybody can remember. The wrath and degree of control my parents exert has practically become the stuff of legends to my friends by now. In fact for as long as I myself can remember, I have, for my whole short life so far, harboured an excessive amount of anger towards my parents. It's not been an easy 20 years on either side. With the three of us having extremely volatile tempers and stubborn personalities, it's a wonder (and sometimes a blessing) that my sister is the type to hold her anger in. 

So anyway, cliched as this may be, I think that many people (including myself) have always failed to understand that our parents are human too. God, it does sound ridiculously cliched. Let me explain. Why do we fight with our parents? More or less, the answer is that we disagree on certain sentiments because of our different personalities. Being merely human, we are all flawed in some ways, some more so than others. But that's okay. We forgive ourselves, our friends and even complete strangers for not being perfect: "oh, to err is human", "nobody's perfect". Yet, we cannot find it within ourselves to comprehend and forgive our parents at the same time. Forgiveness implies that the one doing the forgiving was right in the first place and in a parent-child relationship, it only seems natural for parents to forgive their children's transgressions but never vice versa. Perhaps we are uncomfortable with the fact that we could, at times, be better, smarter, more right than our parents. Or perhaps we still hold onto the notion that our parents are always right (however subconsciously). Or even perhaps some might feel uncomfortable having to 'forgive' our elders, attaching to it the connotations of a warped sense of self-gratification at triumphing over those who are older and wiser than us. Personally though, I feel that we must realize: forgiveness has nothing to do with yourself and everything to do with the person you are forgiving. And technically, one does not forgive a person but a person's traits or actions/words. What I'm trying to get at is that forgiveness is not bestowed from a lofty, 'holier than thou' position, regardless if this person is figuratively in a 'higher' position than you. You do not elevate yourself above them but instead, you pull them off their pedestals and seriously examine them on a basic level as a fellow human being. In any case, forgiveness is the second step. The first one is understanding.

Maybe there are people, like me when I was younger, who assumed that the phrase of "oh your parents are only human, you must learn to understand them more" meant that my parents are also prone to being angry, tired, having a long and annoying day at work and therefore is highly irritable. Those are all true, of course. Yet, what we don't often examine is the side that not many people want to see. That our parents could be angry and irritable not only because of a long, tiring day but because they may be people with ridiculously short tempers. They are quick to anger. They are unreasonable. They are narrow-minded. The list is endless, as is the list of sins stemming from our fault of being 'merely' human. These aren't particularly terrible traits. Many of us possess one or more of these traits ourselves. So is it really so hard to imagine that our parents, the people who passed their genes onto us, can have these characteristics too? And if we can forgive ourselves so readily for being 'merely' human, why do we hold our parents so much at fault for being like us too? As we grow older, we realize that our parents aren't perfect. However, there seems to be a gap between realizing and understanding. We may realize, but we do not understand the implications of our realization. And in failing to do that, our attitudes will forever remain clouded and narrow. It wasn't so difficult for myself to realize that my parents weren't perfect. What took me a lot longer was the understanding part that hey, it's okay that my parents have these flaws that I dislike. And I can't stress this part enough. Because I went through a very angry, though thankfully short, phase at being bitterly disappointed at my parents for not being as morally righteous as I was. Or open minded, or whatever. It was very hard for me to accept this at first because there are certain values that I hold very dearly onto and I was just unable to back down from my stand that others should believe in these ideals too. However, I guess it occurred to me after one too many times of feeling disappointed that I can't blame my parents for not being a certain way. If I don't blame my friends for not being like that, I figured that I can't blame my parents too, nor anyone else. And that's when I fully realized the extent to which we are blinded by the current lines dividing the roles of parent and child. As we grow older, we expect our parents to treat us like adults. But do we treat them like the adults they deserve to be treated too? Kids (of all ages, may I add), can we ever look beyond the pigeon-holed labels of 'Mom' and "Dad' and actually treat them with the respect and consideration that all human beings deserve?

Our parents may be lots of things. Some positive, some negative. From what I've heard, they can be bigoted, selfish, narrow-minded, racist, chauvinistic, tyrannical, unreasonable and sometimes just plain mean. But so can we. So what gives us this moral high ground to judge them by? Their age? Wisdom? Life experiences? Surely these factors do not make them (or us) into perfect people. And if we can find it in our hearts to forgive them, there'll be a lot less hate in the world. Because seriously, "I hate my parents" is no longer an acceptable form of talking about one's parents the older one gets.

I'm not advocating for a drastic change like some crazy parent-child role-reversal situation. Nor am I asking for parents to treat children as their friends and for children to absolve their parents of all faults. I just think that it'll be good to see how terribly flawed we all are as human beings, and to maybe show some understanding to the people who perhaps need it the most, our parents. It may not be much, like I'm pretty sure the relationship between me and my dad won't be all that different, but at least it removes some of the hate and anger from the equation. I guess that's a good start.

- Wen Zhen

The Smell of Her Locks

I brush her gold luscious locks and dry them

roughly with the towel. As my fingers run

through her silk, I get whiffs of the shampoo

she uses. Rose has always been my

favorite flower.

I carefully pull her fringe back behind those

dainty ears and twirl the ends of it between

my pulsing thumb and long index before setting

them down nicely at the side of her face.

Her lips still wet from her shower.

“Make sure my hair is neat for my guest.” Don’t

worry Missy, my hands know how to make you

glow. I braid her mane into two rows, intertwining

her threads tightly. A little pain is interesting. She

may command me, but I hold the power.

In an hour’s time, she will stand naked in front

of the banker’s son and he shall see the glorious

curls I am so familiar with. From the other room,

I will tear into those blond screams with

savage hunger. Just one more hour.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Hair (day 25)

Pink Is The New Black

Pink is the saltiness in my eye.
Pink is the shivers down my spine.
Pink is the tension in my shoulder.
Pink is the fingers going colder.
Pink is the anger in my fists.
Pink is the lines on my wrists.
Pink is the blood on my hand.
Pink is the betrayal of men.
Pink is the hate in my heart.
Pink is my soul torn apart.
Pink is the vacant broken shells.
Pink's for the fallen in hell.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Pink (day 24)

Spun Smoke

Look down
The webs wound round your
Wrists, strong as iron: this
Past that refuses to clear away,
Suffocates.

{Claire}

Tug of War

For the persecuted Muslims in Burma.

She hangs by her neck like the majestic colored

flag of her country. The sons beside her,

nine and five, upright and dead.

From afar, you can barely see her.

Against the brick red wall, she is but a speck of taint.

Should you go up close, she will tug on your heart strings.

The yellow floral dress brings you back to the

one you passed in the store. The lipstick used to

mask her pale kissables are the same shade as the one

in your purse. You see the resemblance.

She is as mother, as daughter, as friend, and as woman as you are,

but where you have pearls, she has rope.

You can see the bitter-sweet in her lifeless face,

the sadness endured of losing her boys accompanied

by their prompt reconciliation in the next cruel world.

In a short while, the birds will feast in celebration.

Then, she shall soar with them into the sun.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Strings (day 23)

Sanctuary

Quiet. Not a sound.
Run to the other box in that box in the flat.
Feel the tension seeping around.
Choose to actually live in that.
Enjoy the freedom from the societal town.

We must be cats.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Rooms (day 22)

Debris

I once was whole when there was life in the street
And love built in me a home,
Where the hearth-warmth once was cheery-sweet
And on the dressing-table lay a comb.
There once were pictures on these walls
And laughter echoed through the doors
I miss the footsteps down the halls
The quilts and rugs upon the floors.
For darkness fell and all these things
Were taken, in a flash:
Screaming sirens, wailing shells—
Innocence's ugly knell
Have left me here in ash and dust
Wooden frames broken, nails left to rust.

The walls that once held what was whole and bright,
The warm lamplight and kisses goodnight
Stand no more—
In crack and crevice, the wild flower blooms
Where once I nestled life in rooms.

{Claire}

Forgiving Yourself

You drown that voice out with white noise.

Pay close attention to the lady in the talk show

or the fat guy dancing. Beer in hand in belly in mind.

Do whatever it takes to drown her!

You fight her like a rebel in an uprising. You speak

speeches of battles and sing songs of war.

Don’t you know most revolutions are snuffed?

Let’s not get too ambitious, she mocks.

Listen to the silence around you. Hear how they scream.

The crickets rubbing their palms in evil laughter, the

frogs croaking for help. Hear the disapproval of the

lake as the light breeze disturbs its peace.

Hear the symphony of nature – the seamless blend

of untainted voices. Pure tones that work in

perfect dissonance. Their lyrics touch your heart

as they touch your skin.

She smiles loudest.

Look at yourself in the mirror. You witness her

critiques through your eyes. Your mouth shaped

wrong and your music’s fogging up the audience.

Do you see the conviction she has?

The conviction to succeed is the same one that

sees you as a non-entity because she does not recognize
failures. If the just world does not acknowledge

the tears on your pillows, Why should I?

You have to believe in salvation; the past should not

define you as much as she makes you think it does. It's not

easy to put so much faith in something so insubstantial but

Acceptance, they say, is the first step.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Forgiveness (day 21)

The Husband

Our marriage is like the desert –

almost bearable in the day. Seemingly

never-ending as we drag our feet through the

terrain. Exhaustion takes over words. The vows,

unable to withstand the blazing heat, buried deep

three yards behind. We communicate with stares of

resignation.

Life goes by on routines; dry. He – the office and

back. I – the living room, the study, the kitchen and

bed. This cycle repeats until a storm hits. Then it is

every man for himself. The fit survive but only the fittest

last. I, will live. As the thirst becomes overwhelming,

I shall quench it with tears. Luckily for me, he cries

like a man.

The nights are freezing, usually with the kid between

us. The calendar marks our next appointment; two

minutes of our minds fixated on sand in uncomfortable

areas. His wedding ring like a noose as I gasp for air.

Only he can make me feel as dead as I am alive.

I would not trade him for anyone else.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Desert (day 20)

Elbow Grease

I never understood the term elbow grease. Dad used to use it all the time, but he never once explained where it came from. The details of it never bothered him. It was “just something people said”, and that was good enough for him. It wasn’t quite good enough for me, though. The where of it kept nagging at me, buzzing around like one of those fat summer flies, teasing, mocking, then darting just out of reach. 

I had an inquisitive mind. My dad used to say it was like a squirrel before wintertime, running around collecting scraps from just about everywhere. He said that proudly, said he’d never be as smart as me, said I’d do great things if I put that little squirrel to work. Put in some of that elbow grease, he was so fond of saying.

I did well enough in school to go to college, a decent one at that. Dad wasn’t doing too well by then – a life working, spraying the fields under the sun gets to you. But you could still tell he was over the moon. School was a long way off and I had to move out, but every time I called home he’d say the same old thing – don’t forget to put in some of that elbow grease.

Dad passed away suddenly, during my fourth year in college. I dug his grave myself, right there beside my ma’s. I dug and dug till my back was sore and my arms were as numb and as raw as my heart. But I guess, standing in that hole, I finally understood. Sweat, dirt, blood and tears – those are the things that go into making that good ol’ elbow grease.

- Adrian

Sunday's Chore

Apple juice. Banana spread. CoffeeCoffeeCoffee.

Doughnuts. Eggs. 2 pounds Fish. Garlic Gin Greens.

Ham. Ice-cream. Jelly. Ketchup. Lettuce. Mint.

Nectarines. Orange. Potatoes. Quinoa. Raisin.

Shallots Soup Sangria. Thyme. Unleavened bread.

Vanilla pudding. Wheat Waffles and Watercress.

Xacuti with chicken and coconut, XanaxXanaxXanax.

Yam Yellowtail Yoghurt. Zucchini Zuppa Zest.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Food (day 19)

Poison Me

For the stranded refugees in Southeast Asia

How in thy ordinary did I brand’d as poison pray?

Shunn’d like plague of winter nights in May.

Our tongues doth not meet. My mistress lost.
Mine children art gone. Mine name forgot.

Paper identity sits at bottoms of waters.

I, no longer man, but pest in thy world.

Mine dirt and skin a deadly potion to touch.

Mine face bleeds acid in judgement eyes of angels such.
Mine voice the starving serpent hiss "Big bro'ers,

why art thou changing thy hands o’er o’er?"

Who the po’r unfortunate acquired me!

I yearn to clasp her embrace and feel their souls.

But storm, unkind and punishing.
It swallowed me whole.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Poison (day 18)

Mrs. Montag

Inspired by the book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

I got my stomach pumped tonight.

That’s no big deal. Everyone has done it.

It is almost a weekly routine for me.

In fact, I crave it.

They inject you with this amazing concoction

of dancing colors after you get pumped. It helps

you forget your pain.

They call it Euphoria.

I have tasted it so many times, the body has become

more resilient than the burning flames on the next

government street.

Protocol is to up the dose.

I crave protocol,

so I make sure I’ll always take one pill more than the last.

My insane husband has fled to join the hippies

on the tracks. Something about giving

happiness a try. I call it naivety.

Do I miss him? Well, I get the parlor walls

all to myself and the seashells are never offed

these days. I listen to them as I count the capsules.

The bombings in the adjacent city make the best songs

for each session. Upbeat and dynamite.

The poison coursing through my empty veins,

slowly seeping into my hollowed mind. Hear

the low hum of the machine, sucking the sleep

out, next to me. It sounds like his voice.

Euphoria. It brings me to the perfect world,

their perfect world, my perfect world.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Addiction (day 17)

Lazarus

I rose to the surface – head, full of hot air,

first, followed by my decaying body. Merciless

waves crash onto me but it is the crack of

dawn that rose my eyelids. I rub my eyes with

bloated hands, full of chipped nails, 8 fingers left.

They buried me once.

I had to claw my way through the God’s earth.

Fulfilling, but tiring nonetheless. My cold shadow

triumphantly displayed by the moon shine on

the ground, heated by the fires below.

Hear, with only one ear, the birds cheer as hope rose.

Headed home to find the Missus pale as

a ghost. I smiled as wholly as I could and blamed it

on the Haver*. His plans are going to get me

killed again.

When the black flag rose for the second

time, they threw me into the ocean, praying the

animals would do the job. But, the fishes that kept

my dead flesh company, they know of His spirit.

And Lazarus rises once more.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Rising (day 16)

* "Haver" is hebrew for the word friend.

Nails

We have an unorthodox relationship.

I shield you from the cruel hits of life with my own being.

I suffer pain so you don’t have to but I do not mind at all.

I believe it is what I was meant to do.

You dress me up now and then.

Your favorite is the polka-dotted overalls, red with passion
and green with envy. I wear each outfit proudly. I believe
this is how you express your devotion.

But your love is possessive.

I sometimes venture and try your limits. You’d surely cut
me off, keeping only what’s close to home. I want
to see the world. But I believe I shall never
leave your side.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Fingernail (day 15)

Anti-fate

I smile today.

I smile today because I saw a child

with a pup that does not growl.

They played around in the mud and sand,

getting dirt on feet and hands.

I smile today because I saw a man

with roses counting one to ten.

He looked around and anxiously wait

for a girl promised as his date.

I smile because I saw a bride

with her groom that’s standing beside.

They kissed each other at Saint Valentine’s church,

hopeful of the new life they lurch.

I smile because I saw 2 dads

with their daughter that they just had.

They hugged her tight and caressed her cheek,

singing a lullaby to get her to sleep.

I smile because today I get

the chance again

to cause some pain

and turn it all so brilliantly bad.

The pup will bite and the child shall cry,

the man will see people pass by and by,

the groom will leave scars on her face,

the dads will be the daughter’s disgrace

Oh, the excitement to see their tears

I smile today,

the 13^th of May,

as little mortals brave their greatest fears.
I'll sit back and watch for it is interesting to see
exactly how fragile happiness can be.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Happy (day 14)

Clutter

Where did I leave my mind now.

- WenZhen

Clutter of Friends

They are all over the place

Never seem to be where I last

Leave them. Almost like they move

Themselves when I'm not there

Still, they always find me when

I need them most

Agnes Lee

Topic: Clutter

Love is neon coloured

"When a person is in love with someone, that one person stands out brighter than anyone else. So no matter how many people are around, that one person will be the only one to stand out in your eyes." 

-G Dragon, 2012

Jiyong can't remember when exactly it started but he has always been extra perceptive if Seunghyun is nearby. Perhaps it's the deep rich timbre of his voice or the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that make him stand out, but Jiyong finds himself naturally gravitating towards his hyung. During interviews, concerts, even when it's just the guys recording in the booth. He can't help it if he clicks better with his hyung. Who else would Seunghyun look for when he needs a cigarette break? Honestly, he's being such a good dongsaeng doing his hyung a favour. And Seunghyun is such a good looking man. It's only natural to look, right? Jiyong can't help it if his eyes are naturally drawn to beauty. It's the artist's condition. It is also of course absolutely natural to want in on his stupid jokes, to try and catch his attention, to want to stay pressed up to his sides all the time. Right? After all his hyung is very tall, and very charming, and also very handsome. Jiyong honestly can't help it. Even when he's surrounded by thousands of people. Maybe especially when he's surrounded by thousands of people. Seunghyun just... stands out.


No not this one, no that's not gay enough. No, Yongbae hyung's in this shot. Seungri sighs again and wonders why he's so invested in keeping his hyungs in the closet when they're just gonna start screaming and banging on the panelling at the next available chance. Don't they know how obvious they become when they start acting like lovesick preteens?! The fire alarm could go off right over their heads and they'd still be giggling at each other. Seriously, where is all the credit due to Seungri! Their wonderful and caring maknae who's ruining his chances with women simply by always having to promote Nyongtory. Not that he doesn't like the attention Jiyong hyung lavishes on him. But it's certainly different when the attention is directed at Seunghyun hyung. Jiyong hyung literally blossoms in Seunghyun hyung's presence. Seungri often feels like he (and the surrounding scenery) automatically become ten shades darker whenever Jiyong hyung gets that fond look in his eyes. He would be retching into his mouth if he wasn't so busy trying to deflect the attention away from them. Finally, he decides on a sufficiently intimate photo (that also happens to capture his best angle) and quickly uploads it to Twitter with the caption "Nyongtory! S2! Jiyong hyung saranghae!!" before he changes his mind again. The things he does for his hyungs!


Soonho awkwardly twists his fingers while waiting for the coordi noona to be done with addressing the costuming department. "Ah, noona... So sorry to bother you again but uhh the management was wondering if you could give Jiyong more sunglasses for when he goes on stage or for interviews?" He doesn't tell her that it was actually his own idea, nor does he tell her the reason though he's sure she guesses it. How would he explain it anyway? Jiyong keeps making puppy eyes at Seunghyun and it's getting a bit out of hand so we need to cover him up. "Ah... Eyebags is it? His eyes... are too... revealing?" Definitely too revealing. The way Jiyong looks at him you'd think that the sun was going to start shining out of his nostrils or something. Or that Seunghyun was a precious historical work of art. Groaning internally, Soonho remembers Jiyong's comparison of Seunghyun's half naked body to the Statue of David. These kids...


Scrolling through Instagram, Seunghyun notices a phrase from one of Jiyong's old interviews. Love is neon coloured. He never really understood what Jiyong meant by that. But then again, Jiyong was a much more exuberant person. Much more careless with his heart and his feelings, and much less afraid of showing them. Seunghyun isn't sure if he would dare to attach such a vibrant colour to love. What if it attracts the attention of others? What if they disapprove of the colour? Or even worse, want it for themselves? Seunghyun frowns, mindlessly scrolling past post after post. When he finally looks down at his phone, he pauses. It's a silly photo of both him and Jiyong in Singapore last year for the YG Family Concert. Jiyong looks nice here. So bright and happy. He double taps on the screen and feels extra pleased when the heart icon appears.

- WenZhen

A Walking Consciousness

I am all air, a reverse reflection, a ghost:

I am emptiness that looks into a mirror and sees a person staring back

Heavy carcass, do you belong to me?

Turn down the volume of the white noise.

Stop-motion

Lilting, quivering

Sudden death,

Cardiac arrest,

And epinephrine.

I soar, all the while never moving.

The world turns, somersaults;

Paper figures

People pass me by, eyes look at me,

through me—

My mannequin, not me, leaden tongue and vacant eyes.

They are too far away

Or I am too far inside my skin,

too small for my suit of flesh.

I am all air

And around me is numbing shadow

Invisible space, frigid air;

I reach out, but I cannot touch

And cavernous silence swallows my meandering

Before I set foot out the door.

{Claire}

My Sexy Binoculars

I see you in the kitchen.

Our sexual tension is unbelievable. 

As you peel the onion, do it slowly.

I'd like to perform. 

My sex grows for you as your soup

simmers. You stir your pots - sometimes
with one hand, sometimes two.
Naughty girl.
I can't wait to delve into your world.
Tears, the size of virgin pearls,stream
from your eyes as you cut into the

bulb of my deepest desires.
This is sexy.
I like it when you cry.

At the core of your tight messy bun is a
thick manly rod. I see you sweat in our heat.
They trickle seductively down your
forehead, to your kissable cheeks, to
your kissable neck. Leading me closer
and closer to your pleasure gold.
You gasp desperately for air in the
midst of the steamy passionate room.
I hear my love juice calling out as
your kettle screams my name. 

Quiet now. Mr. wedding ring is in. We

have to keep it down. 

You place your wooden spoon into

your mouth and lick the gravy off

it. Every single drop on every

single inch. 

Monday, 5.30pm, apartment 6D. 

I look forward to Mrs. 7D tomorrow.  

Agnes Lee

Topic: Fetishist (day 12)

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The globe today is a funny thing.

We connect with phones that always ring.

You speak to a face that does not move.

Emojis is all emotions need as proof.

You broadcast yourself but you don’t shout.

You make new friends without going about.

You share the news through a tweet.

You go for interviews without having to meet.

You listen to messages a few days late.

You talk to a voice without a head.

Your finger speaks when you’re in a call.

Is this a small world after all?

Agnes Lee

Topic: Connection (day 11)

Tissue

We waste a tree. Just for this?

The most malleable metal is gold

If you were a metal you would be gold. Shining proud as day, lustre never fading.
Your beauty is unparalleled because it is timeless. Other metals, lesser metals, may have their time in the sun, but they could never hope to replace you.

Gold is not fragile, simply because it yields. It bends to the whims of stronger hands, true. But there is grace in its easy surrender, for it to be transformed into something new, something beautiful. No, gold is strong because it adapts and changes. It bends but does not break, like wild grass in a storm. You are not weak if you succumb to their taunts. You will come back stronger than ever.

You are gold because you are number one. The pinnacle of excellence. With all eyes on you, you shine brighter than the stars. Despite so much pressure, you climb ever higher. People just want to watch you crumble and fall. Nonsense. Gold doesn't crumble. They can try to hide you, shame you, drag you through mud. But after everything that happens, you will still shine; beautiful, as you are meant to be. Do not be afraid when people try to change you. The essence remains regardless.

- Wen Zhen

Gaping heart

A tribute to my cousin, Chua Guo Wei (1993-2015).

When men of men ask of space

They talk the stars of stars that glow and shine

No. Space is where he used to place

Where now I cry, I weep myself blind

Where his smell still lingers on the sheets

Where his ghost still haunts my dreams alone

Where my regrets redden, blazes and heats

'Cause space is a cruel, gaping black hole

Thus with the devil, I’d readily sell

My soul and life and material things

For a ticket to the fires of hell

As Saint Peter sounds the judgement ring

If for a minute, you may rise

And watch me breathe my final sigh.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Space (day 10)

The Pam writes at last

The Challenge in this Challenge — Pamela Aurelia Tay

To writing she said "Yes!" with aplomb,
Neither poetry nor prose gave her qualm.
She then sat down to write,
But ended in a fight —
Against robots on Neopets (dot) com.

Bubble Buddy

Golden and bright and cold

Bubbles enslave my soul

Control I lack
My puke will project

Aye, one more round we go!

Agnes Lee

Topic: Fluorescent (day 9)

Orthopaedic love

"You have really great bone structure you know."

Jiyong pauses mid snuggle. "Is this you... Hitting on me."

"Umm"

"So... what about my bone structure" Seunghyun decides that Jiyong really needs to stop with his shit eating grins, they're awfully distracting.

"You have ummm. Really nice... Elbows."

"Elbows"

"Elbows."

Jiyong does have nice elbows. And ankles. And knees... As an orthopedician, Seunghyun can't help but notice. It's in his nature to do so. He notices that Jiyong's humerus tapers rather thinly towards the joint. The thin layer of muscle that envelopes his arms only serve to emphasise the jut of bone, especially when Jiyong unconsciously flexes his double joints. Like now.

Seunghyun's eyes follow the movement of Jiyong's arms as they stretch above his head, delicately intertwining at the knuckle before being pulled upwards, his elbow knobs gently jutting out both ways. He counts six notches in Jiyong's spine and three ribs before they are covered by cloth.

"My eyes are up here"

Seunghyun's head snaps back up, feeling sheepish. But Jiyong's eyes are warm and full of unconcealed affection, "stop ogling my bones".

"But you have beautiful bones" Seunghyun catches Jiyong's hand and raises dainty fingers up to his lips. "Phalange... Knuckle... Carpal... Wrist..." He murmurs each name into smooth skin and kisses the corresponding bone, committing them to memory.

"You're so weird" Jiyong pulls his hand away and turns, cheeks pink.

"But I haven't reached your elbows yet"

"I'm gonna be late for work." He pauses at the door. "Maybe... later...?"

"Later..." The thought of seeing Jiyong again so soon fills him with inexplicable joy. "Okay. Good."

"I'll see you tonight then" Jiyong laughs and quietly shuts the door.

Seunghyun thinks of elegant bones and delicate joints, of slim arms and knobbly elbows, of gummy smiles and bright laughter. "Tonight."

- Wen Zhen

Family Myraid

Inspired by my amazing grandmother

4 years 6 months and a day - I have not spoken a word. The

corners of my bed define the purple sky where the pink and thistle

mocking birds fly. Olive greens and orange daffodils dress me

today. They smell of bitter honey and brown drops of caramelized coffee.

Kids? I had 7. He promised me the rosy world and I gave up mine,

shooting tiny stars out of my coral womanly womb. Grandchildren?

More than my mind can count. Under the layers of bleach,

I sit atop the mattress that cores my red. I used to sing the shadows

away. Now I watch the gray world pass by me. Ivory walls with

hypnotizing indigo drawings. I see their work more than their

peachy looks. They see their work more than my hazel eyes. I've not
seen my face in 4 years 6 months and 2 days. I see only the devil.

The lines paint my story. This one on my thigh represents an

effort, golden ages ago, to impress the sweet invalid on the left,

who now walks with one leg, pees through a tube and lives on

a tiny orange bottle of pills. The navy cadet I adore now counts

the digits, in rows of four, every cadmium sunrise. He thinks he will

win the turquoise world and make good his promise. Idiot. This

one at the corner of my eye comes from the littlest. When she

moved, the vacuum drew a stream for the crystal rivers. This last

one between my milk machines is favorite. Ignore the nipples,

abused and chewed up in burly love. This line, now sienna, burns

still. It conceals proof that they chose to give me life. Parts

of me is laced with silver silver, parts with steel steel but the

bisque pacemaker is best. It represents the fuchsia unity I long

for so dearly. There is little opportunity for that now. But soon

they will buy a box, together, that sends me to the fiery gardens.

I don’t think they know my favorite color.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Family (day 8)

The Worst Hauntings Happen Behind Your Eyes

As a child you were tiny, and timid, and the night was full of terrors.

You saw in every window a mythical monster, heard the voice

of a demon in every windstorm, the creeping step of the bogeyman

In every creaking floorboard.

Then you'd run to Mother's arms

And all would be well.

Those were the days when the monsters were apart from you. Not real.

Now you cry in your sleep with no one to hold you

Phantom pains in your limbs, phantom bodies

Visions of bloodshed and terror in your head

In your heart;

Ghostly hands burning you where they touch,

Greedy, demanding; violent words eating into you like rot,

Echoes of explosions and mocking words on and on

and on.

These are the days you realise

There is no mythical monster that can be killled—

Just you, and the indelible past on repeat in your head

Over

And over,

And over again:

A part of you, too stark, too real.

These are the days

When you have nowhere to run.

{Claire}

By His Grace

"Stand still." and I do. My body only moves as
his tongues commands. He defines me so. His word is law.
I, a mere sheep, follows his voice. They call him Master. He
yields moments with his hands, arresting parts of me. If I
listen well, he will make me immortal. Years after, they will
chant his name but it is the form of me they seek. He creates
timeless angels with the earth, not clay but wood.

"Beautiful" and I smile, just for seconds. An indiscretion
never to be made again. One day, I will be adored by thousands,
bought for millions. My body would be seen by the wealthiest
supreme and the richest poor. No one will see my porcelain face.
Many would hold my robust palm, full of grace, but none will
feel my tender caress. Brilliant! They would exclaim. The
details are exquisite. Unforgiving bastard.

"Stop wandering." My arm aches with the control he reigns. His
furrow speaks his displeasure. Was it for me or her? He is talented.
His chisel hammers repeatedly hard into me. His eyes have left
their lingering gaze on every indentation of my flesh. His mind has
played and replayed with every position of my thighs and my flaws
and my scars. His fingers has touched every inch of my brown skin.
I see him grow art with his wood. I smirk.

"They are going to love you." Show off. He blows the splinters
off my nails, intricately manicured. By His grace, I will soon hold
the power to make the fools drool and the politicians think. My feet
will wield their minds, entrancing them. Hypnosis will be the spell
they gladly come subdued. My breasts will entice their lips. My arse
will make them heave. My sex... Shhhhh. They are going to want me.
But they will love him.

They will not know me. She will be rejoiced as I roam back in
the shadows I came from. He has made an angel out from me.
He has made her perfect with every curve and every line. Her
presence, as large as her self, glows under the artificial lights.
He signs his name - six strokes that seals the digits in his
wallet. I pick up the change with my bare fingers.
"You are not worth the money".


Agnes Lee
Topic: Grace (day 7)

Misconceptions

People seem to think that, when you get up into space, you're leaving gravity behind. It's a pretty notion, one all wrapped up in poignant symbolism worthy of Tennyson himself (or whoever your favourite poet might be - I don't really give a shhhh--- shoestring). Leaving everything that could possibly hold you back down to Earth in those few moments of gut-wrenching, blackout-inducing, rocket-boosted acceleration, blasting off into the great unknown. As the g's build up and your stomach tries its very best to emerge out the back of your spine, you feel yourself moving faster, faster, faster fasterfasterfaster - tearing you from the grip of all the lost dreams, bitter disappointments, iron-bound heart-hurts and spirit-hurts, all the lead weights sitting pretty in the depths of your soul. Just before you lose your vision (and your lunch) -poof!- out you come the other side, floating, spinning, free-wheeling among sparkling diamonds set in that immense black velvet-ness of space. You're free.

It's a pretty notion, sure enough. But any tenth grader worth his A grade in Physics can tell you - it's complete and utter bullshit. Gravity isn't that easily hoodwinked, and you sure as hell - or, well, gravity - can't run away from what's inside of you. You're still burdened, still falling - just that now you're falling around the earth, not towards it.

- Adrian

The Curse of Being

I love you, but I must kill you.

Your drunken delirium of colour will fade.
My gossamer touch, butterfly kisses,
fingerprints on your skin are your death:

Your life, for your art.

We are told, from our birth, that you, your kind, are prey.
Keep your distance, guard your heart; do you want it to break
every single time? Take them as liars, sweet ones, pretend
You do not see the ardour in their eyes, hearts razing to the ground
for you.
If you fall, you fall spiralling, and you will never hunt,
Never live again—
You will hate what you are.

Don't bend to them, to what they call love:
Be strong as steel,
Hard as rock.

But you, your soul singing through your script, move me;
lose me in our brief but fiery ceili.
Pure metal gives, igneous rock melts:
I, at the end, must face the fading of your haunting,
brilliant eyes,
Watch you wither like the cereus:
here tonight, and dead by dawn.

My greatest failure is love.

I looked back, I let my heart be swayed, moulded,
marked by your hand:
Never hunt, never live again

And once before so proudly fay
How gladly now would I burn my wings
set myself among mortal things
to love you yet another day.

{Claire}