pursuit and its afterword

November 1, 2017 69 By Maggie Tan

loose ends.

all these threads hanging –

my breath stinks of memories’ stench,

forgot to wash, forsaken but not taken.

lost phones,

familiar faces who grab you by the ears,

how did we get here, i don’t remember you at all.

123456, access code for which door,

you looked straight past me, serving these shots of sin,

that we gulped with fear of missing out.

how old are you, red?

“too old for this shit, but too young for the other shit”

proud moments we hung on the balcony,

airing out my dirty underwear,

i have nothing to hide.

but do i have anything to show?

every time the typhoon sweeps across this harbour,

the innate desire to slap it in the face,

rises in a crescendo of self-doubt, of self-loath.

why is it so lonely, standing on this ledge here?

why is it so lonely, standing on this ledge here?

we sometimes forget. we sometimes want to fuck dirt.

we sometimes urge ourselves to embark, yet we fail.

all the miseries and pisseries, splattered across these galleries.

straddling onto the cardboards,

the streetwalkers held their heads high, hands strewn and ruined.

coins clink while the champagne slides up the skirt,

his fingers fiddling and you don’t say a word.

deep down you want it.

deep down there’s the less than ideal world,

the darkness that permeates the glitz,

the glamour long past her peak,

the privileged wanting to be oppressed.

these steps, imagine all those feet trampling by everyday.

who are they?

do they call you by your name or are you just a digit?

glitches in the system, malfunction once in a while,

you’re caught looking like a deer, roasted lamb,

how about that bottle of 78, red?

78, 79, who cares, ted?

******

drenched. stop raining.

choking on these wet crumbs, puking in disgust.

her face contoured by the lamps, stood staring straight ahead.

the lure of the down and trodden, those who seek solace in dark corners.

goddamnit, it’s tiring to be good.

goddamnit, these kids with their kale spirituality.

goddamnit, why are these biscuits so wet.

why is everything crumbling, when it feels so good.

who am i?

someone pull her hair back, it’s the same stench.

it’s the same goddamn stench. how do we get rid of it?

stop pretending it doesn’t matter. your mind is not free.

your mind is your prison. and you know it.

your ideals are bland. they taste like shit.

your vanilla flavoured sexuality is packaged by society.

you want to be a good woman? sure, go ahead. here’s a taxi for you.

two boys takeaway please.

******

that horrid island, that wonderfully horrible island.

with all its imperfection.

the last thing she said to me, “those who are incapable of loss, are incapable of gain”

let go… let it go.

margarita saves the day.

she blew out the candle.

all flies and goes –