I don't know which is worse
Cognitive Dissonance fuelled passion-- or apathy---its reverse.
If your self awareness is a curse
The lack of self awareness is a curse
2pm slump:
Cars were crawling at a snail’s pace, the heat turning the air into wavy lines of colour. As he crossed the street, he saw glimpses of faces behind tinted windows. And minute tendrils of smoke leaking out from the cracks between the door frames.
Almost everyone has ailments that manifest as parasites feeding on their bodies, some of them larger than most. However, it is absolutely normal to have these entities strapped onto you, as these are equivalent to the bacteria he can see in the physical realm.
You can say that he's a doctor. But not the kinds humans go to see on a regular basis. he's the one that exterminates the life-sucking bacteria that their doctors cannot see.
When I am ready to write a full piece (3-5 mins in length), I am usually in front of my laptop because I’ll be spending a lot of time checking the meaning of words and doing research on the subject matter. The real test however is to memorise them and reciting them out loud. By listening to the words, that’s when I’ll know the changes that I need to make.
HIdeous funnel of miasma Hissing Hoarsely
oui caress goosebumps on clammy skin in
the celestial caverns burning flares rising in-
finitely in tunnels, oars out row dip
drone down deep doldrums
Deafening drums Discombobulate
So obstreperous we act
Demarcate our freedom
Exacerbate our situational Milieu
obsequious offerings you want
we acquiesce
Violence and layering in between action and goal.
animal cruelty, not animal
consumption
violence detached dismantled behind filters
Give now, rip the band-aid- we tell you it's for the best. It is law, It is tradition. Do not question. Declarative statement. Factual Claim.
Then only do we provide our end of the transaction, subbing—sub-con—subcon-substitute teachers
No seething. Stay calm, cool, collected. Substandard service is satisfactory
Save searing complaints for filling out foul files
unread, unopened, untouched.
Subscribe to our news! Red-Herring. Red Herring. Red—tomato ketchup is surprisingly sweet!
[Student 1 POV: Pleasant demeanour, arrives to class within 10 minutes and kindly dismisses us an hour before class ends. Does not inspire students at the level expected in a university-level degree but always has excellent answers—referring us to Mr. Google. Unfortunately, we can't sing praises all the way, since there are mild issues in making cohesive and factually accurate presentations (especially regarding history and technical terminology).
Student 2 POV:
-acceptable attempts in bringing forth valid points regarding the module topics.
-does not go off-topic, but could reel in points and refer secondary sources to support claims.
could maximise and utilise time left by providing thought-experiments or engaging in a deeper level of discourse regarding the topics at hand.
what is the purpose of this topic as an entire module for the Asian? A month has passed, still not inspired or quite convinced of its importance or relevance (in application) as an entire module yet.]
1. The car ride back home from the airport
2. The silence after slicing a finger under the running water red
3. Sweltering at the bus-stop full of strangers
4. Realising that he will never again be there to cut my hair.
5. When her songs weakened, dulled, and ceased.
1. When my breathing stopped, stolen I could not take in air,
2. and my worth dropped from the price of one to none,
3. Love only shown on the dinner table— if my mouth could water, my heart would do too.
4. When eyes once alive turn rheumy denied of healing hugs, embrace darkness,
5. Touch-starved unquenchable hurt in an acquaintance’s embrace
THREE FRAMES
Writing Wrongs
And so the wall drips white again—
again, hands hastily smear over the familiar splatters
Of blood blooming red
Of red ribboning into names
they fear. tutup pintu! cepat! catkan! I tell you it’s true.
behind doors, behind bars, rubber hoses dousing,
swish, slosh, slugged by sheep in shiny blue.
Gloved hands repeat
a customary rush
worn brushes lazily dipping into whitewash tubs,
patching over flakes of rust—
coloured stains peeking out from under,
unavenged, unforgotten in spite
of the spotless tiles, defiant despite
being scrubbed clean from official files.
When will we win?
He who hurts Justice is stagnant, still
soaked in in-tangible sin,
he who has Her scales stolen, Her heart missing,
he who stands still in the rift, who bridges the mischief of mice—
squeaking lines into the staccatoing machine,
relentlessly blurring, redacting, doctoring
print after print stacking onto the tarnished tomes of honourless “tradition”
Bloated
with baggy cheeks loose, protracting his demise
By breaking bones after wind,
he lauds whims
whelmed in the exorbitant plague
of prisons and police, bullets peppering their promises to
protect us—
Us. We by the wall,
we do not stand silenced.
We write red over white.
Under Streetlight (19)
Dusk. Humid gust of dust.
Hand uncovers
steam. Salty porridge. Briny Bubur.
Consistency of water and mosquito eggs
a hot bowl balanced on legs
on thighs too thin.
a pause—Prayer.
Then,
lifting,
gulping, gasps,
ikan bilis up the brain, down the chin.
Divine, divine,
hunger pooling out from feet—
Sweet, sweat, heat
pinpricks surfacing skin.
Smile
Warm
for a while.
Witness
Berkibarlah!
Flap loose, Jabber free!
Taste once-hallowed air in solemn rooms now
reeking clownery;
Spittle sunk in sticky floors,
Mouths with sugar crowned lips sip-sipping from
sewers, leaving open sores —
festering a muffled rhythm of lies for buzzing flies
to scheme, to rub their hands in glee —
Rhythms, rubbing one off to brutality,
silencing scores of names,
of souls trapped in unmarked graves guiltily
hidden
in secrets hastened to oblivion.
We witness these crimes and
While the screams straining the swell of our lungs are
lost in more sonorous shades of
Deceit, dribbling down watery tongues,
We remember.
We, the rakyat
We grind our palms working
in all forms of prayer, surrendering
layer upon layer of our losses in
sweat-stained singlets-saris-sarongs-tudongs-turbans:
We remember
the scrap of our allegiance hangs
onto two tiny rocks nestled between straits and seas,
Hanging by the vital strand that is Hope,
For Malaysia to really boleh—
Witness, remember.
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