fxck me gently with a chainsaw

Based on the movie (and subsequent musical) ‘Heathers’, which I love more than anything. I reimagined the three Heathers as local secondary school girls and tried to place them in our context.

C/TW: Eating disorder (bulimia), sexual abuse, bullying, slut-shaming, fat-shaming, toxic masculinity, internalized misogyny.

heather duke is the girl in your class
who was always on her phone,
and is somehow a prefect, and a class rep.

she’s the one who’ll get just close enough to you
pry you open just enough
before she can rip open your chest
and spill your guts all over the curb
for everyone to step on.

but she always comes second place,
her voice echoes, her damage screams
yet she’s always a forgotten face.

she tries to organize the class outing,
but no one ever cares.
she confesses to a guy she likes
and when he rejects her
she writes long Facebook posts about betrayal
and posts passive agressive edits and inspirational posts.

sometimes, you hear retching from the stall next door
but there’s no right way to approach this,
not when you hear it all too often.

you wonder sometimes if she will ever realise
that she is worth more that what she believes,
that she is enough,
that she is is not the sum of all she’s been told.

you wonder if she’ll take back her life someday.
there’s a good chance she does not.

heather mcnamara is the cute girl in your CCA
who’s always just a little bit blur, always smiling,
and always gets thrown to take pictures for the yearbook.
the pictures never turn out very good.

sometimes she laughs when heather duke says something mean,
though she never says it herself.
sometimes she retweets pictures of cute animals on twitter,
but she never expresses an opinion, never takes sides.
sometimes, that’s the worst part.

she’s always a little distant,
though she’s always a little friendly.
her boyfriend is the kind of guy who wraps an arm around her shoulders
pulls her in with an uncomfortable tightness-
she always looks smaller when you see them together.

when you catch her alone in the bathroom,
she is reapplying concealer,
covering the darks under her eyes.
you watch her shoulders slump
her eyes go dark,
but that girl is gone
when she steps out that door.

heather chandler is the pretty girl with knives for teeth.
during chinese new year
every picture of her is against a brick wall,
every caption is #blessed.

she rolls her eyes when called out on anything-
she might be casually racist,
homophobic,
transphobic,
ableist,
fatphobic,
classist,
elitist,
but you know what, she doesn’t care about that-
who cares about that stuff?

she shares articles on Facebook about animal cruelty with three crying emojis
but scoffs at anyone with depression because “i get sad too sometimes and you never see me complain what.”

you’re not sure why she’s hanging out
with heather duke and heather mcnamara,
but you see them at the McDonald’s together sometimes,
she’s always got her kanken in the seat beside her,
if you lean in to catch an earful-
she’s always the one talking.

“oh my god. get fucked with a chainsaw, heather” she says, laughing, clearly at duke
“you’re such a slut.”

all three of them laugh,
but only one of them thinks she’s funny.

and you- who are you?

from the outside looking in,
wondering what made them special,
wondering if you were special if you didn’t want that.

you watch heather duke’s eyes sink in as her bulimia consumes her,
you watch heather mcnamara leave.
you watch heather chandler slut-shame and bully and rip into everyone else
and you thought they set the example, the grain to go against.

you watch them-
horrible and teenage and confused and tired,
filled to the brim with privileges and expectations
reacting to the world that groomed and demanded and stole from them-
and you pat yourself on the back-
“at least i’m not like other girls”.

you all graduate.
you will lose contact with everyone.
you learn. you unlearn.
you move on-
all of that was secondary school shit,
none of it matters now,
you’re a different person now.

chandler posts another picture in her yoga outfit-
maybe this time she’s on yacht,
or maybe she’s in a sarong bikini at the beach,
maybe she’s in church, failing to see the irony,

she posts reunion pictures with
heather duke and heather mcnamara
with captions like “catch up soon!!”, “love you bitches!!”
sometimes you can kind of notice
she’s always center front, poised,
they’re always at some expensive bar,
and heather duke always looks a little wasted.

duke’s social media goes dark-
sometimes,
you see her on chandler’s facebook,
untagged.

mcnamara writes a long thinkpiece about her
experience with internalized misogyny,
how it fed her depression,
how it fed the sexual abuse in her secondary school years,
how she did what was expected of her.

her facebook profile picture has a pride filter.
you hope she’s doing better.

maybe it doesn’t matter what happened then-
the cruelty of being a teen,
learning, growing,
never really realising you are being kept in a box
until you grow too big for it.

some never grow enough to notice it.
often, it’s not by any fault of their own.

maybe it doesn’t matter if you never find out
what happened to the girl who vomited in the bathroom
because her best friend called her fat
while her other friend laughed.

maybe it doesn’t matter.
maybe people don’t change.
maybe we learn to sharpen our tongues
and file our nails
because we were supposed to be sweet,
we were supposed to be ladies,
to be mature, to care.

maybe people don’t change
if their privilege grants them success
within the boundaries of the system
that oppresses anyone who doesn’t look like them.

but maybe you changed,
maybe what happened back then matters-
it was the mulch that fed your growth,
expand beyond the box,
slam your fists against the glass
until it shatters, until it cuts and you bleed.

you heart react heather mcnamara’s post.
the next time you see her,
you are a different person-
and so is she.

she seems to be doing better.

you’re starting to feel better,
too.

Death of a Poet

This is not an epitaph for
the lights in my eyes
and this is not a requiem for
the clumsy scoreboards
and this will not be
the ending theme to
our final episode

This is a party
for the last finger-snapping rhymes
for bleeding tongues
and aching hearts

My history begins here,
the struggle to find my voice
I speak my poems too hard
raw passion surging in my veins
my face turns red from the pressure
I am too young to be in this space,
an alien in a human spacesuit,
still clinging to the arm.

I never make a good 10 score
But I don’t care as long as
there is room for
my old polished leather boots
on the carpet stage
naked, all my words laid bare.

So here we go with a-
(Stomp-Stomp Clap)
(Stomp-Stomp Clap)

This is not goodbye
Not yet, I don’t think
The pencilled murals are not yet done dancing,
And yet there is a way to be
when the curtain calls
Say thank you, roll the credits and take your bow.

So this is goodbye
to spaces we used to know

To dancing, to stage dabbing
to falling in love with girls way out of my league
to learning that there is no league
to breakups, to connection.

This is where I learnt to stop being sorry
This is where I learnt to march to the beat of my own drum
This is where I will have to learn to say goodbye

Three minutes will never be never enough
to learn to love myself
but I’ve been here for three years running so
perhaps the math should count
Where will we go?
aliens in spacesuits, spinning past the stars

Are these three minutes what I have left?

This is not an epitaph for
the lost poetry slams
This is not a requiem for
bottles of silence, carelessly strewn
This is not a final poem
this can’t be a final poem.

For this is not the end.

This is not

The End.

The Last Slam of Blu Jaz Cafè

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Written for the last slam of Blu Jaz Cafè

Yes, allow me to grace you all with this glorious image of myself at age 16-going-on-17, fresh out of Secondary School, sporting bright red hair, a single fingerless glove and (in retrospect) horrible poetry.

This image in particular is a screenshot taken from the video recording of my very first poetry slam on 25 August 2016.

I performed in Blu Jaz Cafè for the last time last night for the Break-Up Poetry Slam, organised by Word Forward. As always, I stepped into the space – Empty, because I was too early – and there was something about it that struck me. For the first time, I’m able to take in the whole room, stained glass windows and all. And it hit me- This is the last time I’ll ever perform here again, unless divine intervention kicks in and the entertainment license is revived.

My beginnings in poetry can be pinpointed to the carpeted stage in Blu Jaz Cafè, too young to drink, too young to be in the space, and too young to understand that I will come to realise that the poetry is only a small part of why I was so enamoured with it to begin with. I was an anxious sack filled with self-righteous vigour, fuelled by the unending obsession with changing the world, thinking that poetry was the key.

And of course, it is. Anything can be anything if you strive hard enough for it. But I learnt soon enough that it was the people in the space who taught me to see the world for what it was, to realise that I cannot change the world with just a flip of a switch. I can only change myself, and if I’m lucky, perhaps one or two others. So I learnt to fall in love with Blu Jaz Cafè for its warm, dimly-lit atmosphere, the smooth jazz from the first floor travelling up the stairs to the third floor to spice up our slams. If anything, I ended up falling in love with the people, poets, musicians and audience members alike whom I’m honoured to call friends.

It is very easy to sink into the trap of writing a whole rant about the lack of support in Singapore for the local poetry scene, though it is true that there is not enough funding to the scene. And this is not to blame any one person or entity or society, but this is an honest, longstanding opinion shared amongst many in the scene, that it is still difficult to survive out here as a poet. We don’t write, or perform because we want to make money or attain fame – That’s unrealistic. We do this because we have something to say, because we want to be heard. That, or because we love the feeling of performance. We do what we do because we love it.

So yes, I’m upset that Blu Jaz’s entertainment license is gone now. It almost feels as if these 2.5 years has been a wild fever dream where at some point involved standing on stage to perform writing that will always be personal to me. The vanishing of a veteran space, after so much time, almost feels like displacement, and what remains for me is a real sense of loss as I departed the space for the last time. I felt as if I was leaving behind memories of messing up lines on stage, laughing with friends, grooving to good music.

In particular, I was recalling the “A Most A-Peeling Slam” where our dear host Ajay quizzed the audience on random Banana facts, giving away free bananas to whoever got one right. My friend Edwin was one of the lucky individuals who answered the question correctly, and so in true fashion danced his way up to the stage, received his banana, and took one big bite out of the un-peeled banana. Half the crowd was left baffled, in stunned silence, Ajay sputtering and trying to remain his composure while trying to find his words, while the other half of the crowd (and most of the poets) cheered him on.

And of course, Edwin then takes a second bite. And the crowd erupted in shocked, yet amazed applause. Ajay, our wonderful host with the golden voice, remained completely bewildered.

These 2.5 years, the wealth of memories I’ve amassed, have been extremely important to me and my growth as an artist. Blu Jaz has been monumental to everything I’d been through, things like polytechnic, toxic friendships (that I’ve since departed), and heartbreak.

It’s been a wonderful journey. This odd rant, is by no means an indicator of the end of the poetry scene. But it seems to be the end of an era, and so we will remember Blu Jaz for what it was, a home to all of us poets, brimming and already overflowing with words.

We remember our past, and live in the present. That, of course, is how we move onward onto the future.

As put best by Stephanie Dogfoot in their soul-wringing, heart-wrenching poem Tell Them It Was A Castle

“tell them how the kingdom we built
is so much bigger than a single building
can contain

if they you ask about this place,

tell them it was gorgeous.”

I will be uploading my own ode to Blu Jaz Cafè soon enough, after I finish polishing the video recording of it. But for now, we will just have to wait and see where Word Forward will be hosting the slam next! Because this is not the end, of course. It will not end as long as poets continue to read, as long as there is a microphone and a venue, the music will never end.

The poetry carries on.

Que Sera, Sera.

— Alex Soh, Spoken Word Poet.

Could You Love This?

It falls alone like wilting flowers.

La vie en rose

Like a lipstick stain, left on a carseat
An egg-shaped rock chosen by gay penguins
A butterfly wing on a windowsill.
Just shy, just short of a prior.

Je suis amoureux, mais je suis mort

What is context but a broken backdrop,
What are details but lines,
What is a story but colours spilled beyond?

Someone sings in a kitchen, alone

‘Et ça me fait quelque chose.’

Toes rounding the corners of old ceramic tiles
Ragged, cracked, abandoned,
But the singing continues, carrying on, carrying forth.

Que sera, sera.

 

i wanna take you with me baby lets just fucking overdose

i don’t know what to say, today.
but i guess that is how we had always been,
with lips steeped in silence
soft bodies folding over
spilling
easily
pooling around
our unspoken conversations

this is the norm, to talk about
things we could talk about
and to think about what i want to show you today
whether you would laugh at me again
please, laugh at me
i am but a clown waiting for the tightrope to snap

does anyone else see this?
the pretence of a joyous departure
the idea of adventure
the blanket globe
our assumed future
where are we going? does anyone have a map?

14 hours
13,060 kilometers
5 more years
you, and me
a westbound train

all you had to do
was say you never want to stop dancing
to our off-beat liquid love
and all you had to do
was live like you wanted to die
like tomorrow we were going to fall off the earth
like the flat-earthers were right

if only —
all we had to do —
why couldn’t we —
if you were —
why —

I have questions in my stomach
where our butterflies took flight
but I still vomit wings into the bathroom sink
I want to know everything
and you are an overdue library book

all you had to do was —

it must be the depression.

I’m not great at repetition.

When you are awake at 2.35am, feeling like crap
It must be the depression.
When you are making instant noodles to fill the void,
It must be the depression.

When you can’t tell whether you are happy with a poem,
It must be the depression.
When you can’t think of a good reason to skip school other than “I’m tired”,
It must be the depression.

It is easy to chalk everything up to the lack of a chemical in your brain
Just as easy as getting out of bed
When you aren’t able to find a good reason to wake up
So you say it must be the depression
Even though it no longer sounds valid.

When you are just so tired of trying to find a valid reason to live
Eat
Breathe
It is just so much easier to say that you are tired.

When your friends asks you why your eyes are puffy
It is just that much easier to say you watched a sad movie where the dog dies
Than say that you were watching said movie at 3am trying to feel something
And you weren’t crying because the dog died.

When you are too worn out to feel anything
When you are too apathetic to care if the house is on fire
When you are too fucking frustrated that you can’t just feel something while reading an emotional poem

It is easier to just say that you are tired
Even if
It must be the depression.

-End-

An Ode to the Asshole Cat That Wouldn’t Leave the HDB Flat Someone Else Was Trying to Move Into

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Stupid asshole cat.

Are you trying to fly again, my dear?
You’re brandishing the broomstick like a man on a mission,
Staring out at the boundless sky, where the lady in the moon
Is awaiting her replacement.

Shoot up the bedroom-
Bang, bang, bang
Scream out “IT’S ALWAYS ME LAH, MY FAULT LAH-“
I will still be here, always here.

You are dancing in the living room,
Stirring up the dust mice, shaking up the grout
I will chase them away, the rats and the roaches
Just for you.

I trip over the same spot every morning.
A little ledge before the kitchen,
Just before you drop.
The threshold gets me every time.

Slowly and shakily, shivering into a stop
I try to avoid the puddles on the floor,
They are deadly to you, your sightless eyes,
But I do not understand why.

I am afraid, sometimes.
The broom swishes unpleasantly, trapping tasty spiders
Before it crash-lands upon my back,
But I’m still here, and that’s okay, isn’t it?

You are the only home I’ve got left.
If you fly away, take me with you
If you dance a pas de deux, hold me closer to you
If you fall, I will pull you up as many times as it takes,

Just don’t leave me-
Please.
Don’t go, darling, don’t leave me.

I left a dead mouse
At the foot of your missing bed.

It’s the only one I’ve ever managed to catch.

I Should Learn To Read Bus Numbers Better

 

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I took the wrong bus and ended up at your place today, dear.

The trees still look the same, even though it’s been a while since I last saw them. There is still graffiti on the walls and it still smells musty, like old lifts. But the diggers and aluminium walls weren’t here before, so I suppose some things have changed.

It’s not hard to just take another bus and get back on track, and I was already late after all, but it grew more enticing, more sensible, and perhaps a little more fun to wander around the block of HDB flats and pet a stray cat, hope that no cat-hater ever finds it. But the cat doesn’t really care, it just purrs as I scratch behind the ears. I left it sitting on the bench, and I watched as the cat yawned and went back to sleep.

You never liked to leave your house, but I’ve only noticed this in retrospection, from hours of Instagram-chasing. I’ve always been like this, too late, only remembering things in retrospection, realising things and noticing it, miles after something has passed me by. The person you knew before now wasn’t shielded by rose tinted lenses, just blind to things that weren’t reflective.

Do you remember that there was a frangipani in front of my block? The white flowers were always in a pile beneath it, like it never stopped growing and shedding, all at once. I never told you how when I was little, I used to watch my friends climb it, while being too afraid to ascend. But I wasn’t afraid of the narrow ledges, you held my hand as I tight-roped across.

It has never occurred to me, how much of me you never knew. It has never been like me to notice the lack of information we had of each other, and perhaps that was where we went wrong. I think it was where I went wrong- Not that all of it was my fault alone. But it seems to me that I never asked questions that were important, how the surface of our concrete ground seemed enough for the two of us.

Occurring to me now, is truth that remains buried deep under. Occurring to me now, only after everything is over, is the part where I went wrong.

Everything, in the end, became all about me, didn’t it? You know the answer- No one else will know the truth we hold within our bodies. Tell me if you know it, please, if I’ve finally gotten it right.

There are more important things, clearly. I know that now, and it’s far too late to tell you about everything I know. The fact that I know will never be enough. The fact that I’m different will never be enough. The fact that I’m sorry will never be enough.

It’s not that I want you back. I don’t, you never liked telling me that you didn’t want to go out and you left me feeling used. You gave me dog tags with our names engraved on it and I lost them, deep in my body where it became tidal waves of anger and sadness and regret, and I know it’s because of you.

But it’s not about me, or what I know, or who I am. It’s about you, what I turned you into, in poems and stories, it’s about who you were that I never took the time to know. I knew you then, but who you were was lost to my obsession with little things. You, who never let go of me, the tightrope walker.

A branch from the frangipani tree in front of my house broke a while ago. Some kid tried too hard to climb. Nothing will make that tree the same again. But it keeps growing.

I boarded the correct bus this time. I won’t look back again, so listen carefully, before the wind steals these words that will never be enough:

I am sorry.

And just like that, you were gone.

(in)Visible

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Poem for the closeted

If you can only watch Pink Dot from behind closed doors,
Remember that there is always a room outside.

When you take your binder off at night,
Listen to the rumble of constellations in your skin
Where every burnt-out star wishes they could rework themselves
To wrap around you in a new shape, one that feels right.

If you must laugh at slurs in fear of repercussion,
Know that the world owes you safety, and they have failed you.

When you press powder into your pores at dawn,
Feel every molecule embrace who you have not become,
Where you have always been your loving reflection
As the vanity counter breathes “I love you” before you’re gone

When your Tinder matches feel empty,
When the cigarette smoke unclogs your tear ducts
When you feel claustrophobic in the dark confines of your closet,
When the words fall flat and you grow tired of explaining yourself, over and over again,

Know that the reflection in your mirror still thinks you are beautiful
And all the stars in the sky still shine just for you
And the world still owes you safety, but they have failed you.
And no matter where you stand, sit or lie,

There will always be room for you here.