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 (Nov25)

On our old football 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; 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 & rhythm. A leather rocketing in the wind was almost as bad as a slippery ball in the wet. The last couple weeks the sky galleons have been sailing the empyrean here afternoons & 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 restrain movement. With some colour in the clouds the drama of dusk through supper was turned up a notch. 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; up in the interior around Belgrade one would need to keep one's mouth clamped tight against the biting 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 breath 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.)

Stash - Published by Aletheia Lit. Quart.

 

Couldn’t blame Beef for struggling with the term. Man had good English, but not that good. The rest of it was understood well and more‘n well. Newspaper taken over especially after the teh, the page unfolded. GOLD, gleaming ingots pretty as a picture displayed. Text reported 20 of them; a fair stash. In Beef's own time back in ‘96 it had been a level dozen items, diamonds and cut smooth, presumably. Newly outta the cage, old pal Ali had called in to tell about the job. They saw the local buyers—a doctor, lawyer and professor—in their office. OK, we get it down. Money first; you pick up later. Beef knew how it went. You gave them the product and then waited around with hand out: Please sir, you promised. First and only time up in KL, the neighbouring capital, Petronas Towers still rising up in the clouds.  Overnight train arriving at the old Tanjong Pagar Station bright and early, Customs fighting back their yawns. Article said they watched for goose-leg ambling, stumbles and little hitches. Grimace of any kind of course you were cooked, suda, straight back to Changi. In the paper they said the runners exercised in preparation, stretching, squatting, limbering. Food, water, coffee no-nos; and fasting highly recommended. Ali provided cover, some wayang, shadow puppet. Separate compartments, getting off together, clowning & bumbling on the platform. Beef slipped through without a scratch. Fifteen big ones, minus the two for Ali. The chap in the paper reported 500 Rupees for every kilogram brought over to India, where the yellow glitter fetched appreciably more. Big guy here however hadn't got the half of it. Wrapped in plastic, he guessed, indicating around his big fat flabby belly. Blimey Beef, we gotta put you back to school. Duh. Showed the digit, man inched closer to comprehension. Oohweee!...OOOhhh. Pulling distressed, wounded faces now. (The recollection had not dimmed so much.) But. But… In the photo the load had looked an impossible wallop true enough, gold bars like in the safes in movies. They said 800gm was max a body could bear, no more squeezed no matter how you turned it. Beef had got that part himself without the full import. Noooo. Not interested in going back to that lurk, not in sober years. Beef’s current "product" was doing nicely enough, thanks all the same. Case in the paper concerned a flight back to Chennai. Scanners usually picked it up at airports now, but look-out was always useful. REC-TUM, Beef my man.

NB. Published by Aletheia Literary Quarterly, #3 Spring, 2021

https://www.austlit.edu.au/austlit/page/24614452

Daoist Standard-Bearer (Sept25)

 

A pronouncement. 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. 

Soft tone. With a kind of fairy-wheel or mandala centred in simple, black script. Within 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 the 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 & 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!