More Limp & Droopy Porn

Junior grade C-suck perfectly sufficient here in this kiasu lottery of life. (Mr. Ng was right on the money yesterday morning coming out of the local Cheers with his 4D ticket. “Buying 4D is a job in Singapore.”) The youth, the impressionable, malleable young fed this Novichok at every turn from all quarters without pause load upon noxious load. A naïve artistry in the copywriting is the hallmark in the mimicked first world culture. SOLO Acres—the shining sun for the second vowel, when the truth was the alluring shade in the desirable half of the photograph: — greenery to die for on the deforested island. Young married couple turned back for the camera as they stride into the future, bride trailing her gossamer veil metres behind. Ahead lay the two options before the pair: left the drab HDB towers for losers (Living Happily Ever After?); while right (Living Fantastically Ever After In Style?) the condo portico featuring front of house luminescent pool & design motifs. (The choice is clear.) Page 16; which came after I AM THE Star of Kovan (page 9), Coco Palms and Forest Woods (p. 10), Live the Lush Life @ the Glades (p. 12), split by a new line of Luxury Frontrunners in-between. (Buffed and gleaming chariots like cut jewels.)

         The condo banquet through the Saturday pages as sumptuous as the food Sundays.

God Bless & Blimey Jan25 pol

Bald Bushy declined top range weave or implant, because it would be problematic rounding up the steers, possibly. I think I told you of the rich gay guy here spending...I forget now exactly how much. $350 might have been monthly on the upkeep. (One would seriously never tell.) Saw pic of Hil arriving seemingly sans make-up & Bill beside her not a happy camper. Now, according to the Malaysian media, Mich looks like she put on a glum face and clapped only halfheartedly. Reckon it’s stretching things that crack about Putty calling his hookers best on the globe. That would definitely qualify as fake news. And I do believe Don on that score. It's not likely, come on, the jokes about his hair color. (You might not believe this either, but I saw cow urine on the shelves of a place in JB. Not that that would come into calculations with Trumpet, or those so inclined. Price RM3.20 from memory, just tipping a dollar.) Anwar no dice, it’s not going to happen I'm afraid, they have got the show all locked up tight there. But breaking news here in this happy neighboring republic. It cannot really be committed to paper, a little dangerous. Citizen pretty close to top of the pile here, toppling over the apex and nobody expecting, family man with 3-4 kids, looks like he goes both ways in fact. Chappie providing the news over dinner last night was adamant, people at all the clubs and lodges whatnot have known for years. Personal assistants all handsome young lads ringing round, a masseur to die for. Some months ago too same informant conveyed the news about Paul down there. Equally adamant in that case, too. Why do you think he divorced Anita? fellow challenged. You heard any whisper?

NB. Pol. scuttlebutt a month ago on Inaugeration Day, fished outta the files.

On the Slog (CNY)

During the two hours at Feidu last night hashing over the submissions the boss gifted a thick slice of yellow watermelon from Malaysia. Wordlessly coming around from behind with a full tissue pack beneath, the fruit was placed two-handed in the narrow space between keyboard and screen, like an offering on an altar. 

Graceful gesture. 

For CNY the offer to join the table on the pavement had been shyly declined and beers and other food on numerous earlier occasions before that. This time there could be no avoidance.

The following morning the Mainland sweep in the lorong opposite the hotel jumped from his tricycle to photograph his gutter along Geylang Road, then both sides of the lorong. 

A sense of duty or conscience led the man to go over to collect a couple of stray items behind one of the pot plants on the right that could not have been visible in the shot. 

You winced and muttered to yourself going on from there.

Having forgotten last night’s print meant a return to the room. Almost at the half-way point at City Plaza the realization dawned. Damn! Will I/Won’t I? 

The morning prior to the paper and the teh was always good for clear-eyed revision, if there was any in the pipe-line. 

Ya, gotta do it. (One recalled Rade from the neighbourhood back in Melbourne, who was superstitious about such retracing of steps. On visits Rade also always insisted on leaving by the same door he had entered.) 

Coming back there was the same group at the bus-stop outside City Plaza. Young chap with his wife who bore a large tattoo on her calf, couple of kids and oldies on the adjoining bench. 

Malaysian or Filipinos perhaps hanging overlong. Did they need directions? They looked lost. Where were they going? Pergi mana?

Didn’t seem to understand English at first. 

Geylang, the husband finally answered.  

Geylang?... But man, you’re arrived. This is Geylang…. Nomber?... 

They didn’t need a street number…. 

Iz OK. We know where we go. Just resting…

Ah. That was it then. They were beat; wearied by the footslog. 

Even with the Easterly and the cloud these guys were done, chap and his wife more than the older generation it looked. 

Bus tickets for six rough-riders would cost near enough ten dollars, even just up to Middle Geylang.

NB. A piece kept in draft form previously. Gong xi fa chai!

Zephyr

On our old footy ovals down in the South these February winds of late might have been judged worth five or six goals. Captains tossed the coin and the winner decided in which direction their team would kick. Coming "straight down the guts" of Geylang Road the strategy would have been long bombs to Chaddy in the square; Tony Gaggino was another big marking target — when those lads were available. Chaddy often missed with illness, with failure to get a lift from Sunshine and late in the season cricket commitments. (Like another of our lads, Chaddy would go onto high-level district cricket, sharing partnerships with big retired international names and on one occasion telling of a former Australian captain bowling up to a woman in the social club and, in the Australian version of celebrity gumption, asking her straight-out for a fuck.) Conventional wisdom was you always took the wind if you had the opportunity; later it might die off or rain arrive. For a captain schooled by old Bab that went against the grain. One did not leap to easy offerings: put in the hard yards first, dig deep and put on the squeeze, then in the second quarter after you had achieved something you could cruise. Catching the pill in the wind was tricky for sky-jumpers, the big blow making judgment difficult and also disturbing one's equilibrium and rhythm. A leather rocketing in the wind was almost as bad as a slippery ball in the wet. The last couple of weeks the sky galleons have been sailing the empyrean here afternoons and early evenings, when usually they stood as if painted onto the heavens. Hanging out the washing from the bathroom window required not only a second hanger to tighten the play on the brass fastener; better also a bulldog clip to further limit movement. With some colour in the clouds the drama of dusk through supper was turned up a notch and when the other evening the call to prayer came on over somebody's radio the whole stage was elevated to another plane. (At the former Labu Labi one of the workers always turned up the call shortly after 7pm, a captivating moment in that phase of slow darkening that first gathered in the pavement trees.) Currently the bura, bora from the Alps would be belting down on the Montenegrin coast and up in the interior around Belgrade one would need to keep one's mouth clamped tight against the cold. Invariably due easterly at ground level in lower Geylang here, whereas at the heights the cloud movement suggested northerly. Almost entirely absent through this period, some heat creeping on today. The remainder of the year there was not the merest stir of air—another of the deprivations one wanted to blame on the PAP. Forest greenery would have made up for that lack.

Easy Brother

Fellow man van driver; you're in the bus. Two panes of glass between, one reinforced maybe. Pointy fellow looks a bit like a raccoon; you more than likely one of the ape family. Stopped at the lights, Malaysian-Indian chap can do it leaning his chin on his shoulder at a glance: Not much hey?... Yeah, well, pal…. The lads in Southern Serbia, Uros and the others, would murmur, Da ga jebes. Just like the other not an interrogative; literally, To fuck it. Sense being, This life: you fuck it, you're still back where you started. Square one; cannot be done. You're the one fucked ultimately. Da ga jebes. Sharing it though helped, as the van driver knew. (The more common and polite among the Indians in particular in these climes, — What to do? hardly an adequate substitute.)

Daoist Standard-Bearer

 

A pronouncement now. Case duly decided. Fully resolved.

After five years & eight months in these environs on the equator, finally, finally, an outright winner can be awarded the ultimate prize by this judge and cultural critic. 

Delighted. Relieved & charmed. Hours later at the Cyber the grin was still not wiped. 

A short, altogether unassuming Chinese amha seated on the bench outside the newly opened Rochor MRT, on Bukit Timah Road, just up from Sim Lim Square. Was it a dye sported? Kicking her feet with some girlish élan, possibly.

No more than a glimpse through the No 23’s window. 

Faded yellow hippy tee one would have described it, were that possible in this particular red-spot hot dot location. 

Soft tone. With a kind of fairy-wheel or mandala centred in simple, black script. Within that frame some kind of geometric shapes, along with the admonition, the suggestion, deliberately soft-pedalled here. 

A woman of some years and experience. Kindly, understanding and compassionate; unmannerly blaring was hardly her style.
                                    FIND A WAY

Grannie gently suggested, for those with eyes to see and mind to comprehend.

There was a way; there was scope and possibility. Even in the midst of this our inheritance, the sweetie seemed to declare. 

         (Steely heavy form has certainly been spied in different colours and design on these hard streets.)
         In this instance a photograph might possibly have served.
         Daoist, rather than the more common management conjuration, if this observer has attained any understanding of the lie of this particular land.
         When one considers the brands, the logos and colours, the cuts & designs, the corporatising, the turned-up collars, all the heartsore fare that has been pasted upon the retina over this long journey through the streets and lanes of the republic, only by some miracle has the chin remained above the flood-tide.

Emily in the Mall (Jan25)

Not sure how Emily would have liked this particular cheek-by-jowl juxtaposition at the Giordano outlet, OneKM here prominently displayed facing the passage by the escalators. (Presumably the estate is aware and rights approved/sold.)
         Would the retail gurus arranging have considered the possible dissonance and mixed messaging?
         For Em powder or sky blue on black:

         I'M NOBODY
       WHO 
          ARE YOU?

         Honey-bee yellow adjacent semaphoring: RADIATE POSITIVITY
         Note-taking promptly at a table across at Starbs, there was Billie Holiday’s smoky lounge re-mastered, undercut in this instance by a French chap on the bench seat behind spieling nutrition, supplements and proper dietary balance to a young Chin lass, either in need or climbing lower rung company rungs.

         This after having come up from the basement Cold Storage with the milk and Who Killed Billie Jean…(Someone)? also re-mastered.
         ….Checking later online it was of course Billy Joe who had been killed. Bobby Gentry hailing from Chickasaw County, Mississippi (circa 1967), the disk-jockeys back then never failed to mention.

         Some of the take-offs, the tributes really top notch you have to hand it to them, you could swear originals—when the temptation to over-produced orchestration was declined.

NB. Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog – 

To tell one’s name – the livelong June – 

To an admiring Bog!