an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

this morning I lay in bed
awoken by my bladder
the lone motivator for my voluntary movement, these days
but I lay in my bed
and it was the early morning, mind you, the time when the city was alive but not quite awoken
where the masses stumbled under the greater influence of routine than of conscious individuality
although what is individuality but a matter of perspective and scope
but for the sake of the next 29 lines of prose
let’s assume that with enough similarities
individuals form a cohesive enough unity

and I lay in my bed
listening, to the sounds of this mass of a city
go about the beginnings of a truly ordinary day.
and I thought to myself
I have never heard the crickets sing, in woody forests
nor have I heard of a silence that, to hear my father say it, becomes so encompassing that it overwhelms your senses
that you cannot help but take notice of it
so look, I am 17
I was born in one city
and brought up in another
and this morning I find myself awake in a third
where my grandparents complain we live too close to the road
and the cars make too much noise
but I know of nothing else, and I want nothing more.

so I lay in my bed on this normal morning
and thought about how much
I love the sounds of this city
and how soothing they are to me.

then I closed my eyes on this average morning
and let the warm hubbub blanket me
the bells on buses ringing
the exhausting pipe poisoning
the tires, multiplied by friction, added the variable of tarmac, spat out the sound of resistance
these urban sounds – the most enthusiastic,
most comforting usher –
guide me to slip, gratefully, back into a settled slumber.

 

 
[a note: lil love song to big cities. love y’all]

who is your enemy

the ending of poems i did not mean to write

(I WAS GOING SOMEWHERE WITH THOSE OPENING STANZAS, I SWEAR. I JUST DID NOT KNOW WHERE AND SO NOW I AM HERE, A PLACE I DID NOT WANT TO BE, A PLACE I KNOW NAUGHT HOW TO GET OUT OF. SAVE ME. SAVE ME AND MY TERRIBLE ENDINGS.)

i find it hard to enthuse about the current news

title from a poem by ogden nash. highly recommended, btw. also, ranty personal ish blog post ahead haha

i cannot do this. jesus christ it’s 2:38am and i’m reading an nyt article about how trump is doing all these terrible things to sustainable energy and you can’t even talk about it because you’re so tired and they won’t listen so what good does it do. we can be better all we want but one asshole can come and bulldoze all our efforts away and how is that worth it? how is that even— why? is it money? because how much money to you want? how much money to you need to have?

on a separate not jenn ah aiyo i thought we were gonna do this anymore. b i thought we agreed to leave that all behind? yet here you are again. flustered, vulnerable, trusting. you’re so eager for friends on the same wavelength as you. you’re scrabbling for people who have the same (unconventional) values as you. didn’t we talk about this, when we talked about independence? loneliness is the 0 value on a sin graph; we’re gonna encounter it again and again and again. and how are you gonna learn how to deal with that if with each time you just say “it’ll tide over when i find a stopgap”? i’m trying really hard to be more positive about these things. cynicism is fucking tiring, thats what they don’t tell you. is it better than disappointment from hope? idk, & idk if i wanna find out.

can we just hit fast forward and get to the part where everything is comfortable?

here, give me that

[a note: idek what this is. i might brush it up???? i genuinely have no idea what this.]

here, give me that

here, give me that— no, the other one. give me another muse. for there is but myself and another, and the cities that sprawl, and the nature that sings. i wish to see more, feel more, receive more, so that i can devour the words, process the images, digest the colours, and give it back to the world newly arranged and freshly minted. give it back to the world how one’s eye might see it knowing full well that another’s will likely see a wholely different thing.

here, no, give me that— the other one. give me a new perspective, for i have had that of a child, a toddler, and a teenager. for i have had that of a female, an asian, and the other labels society puts on me. for i have had the one these eyes offered me. but give me another, i wish to see these concrete buildings and see beyond that to the flatland it used to be. i wish to see my own wrinkles and shaking hands and judge for myself then if it is as repulsive as i’ve always believed, so i can come back, and tell them, all of them like me, that we were wrong, that we were right, and rightfulness no longer matters, that we should value something else instead. so that i can come back, grown, learned, and eager, to spread.

no, give me that— here, the other one. give me more emotions, for i am sick of the ones i’ve been made to feel. the boredom of time squandered, the urgency of time meant to be better spent, the happiness and sadness so fleeting it is hard to recall just how they have felt ever again. give me a hopefulness so strong no negativity can extinguish it. give me anguish so pressing i cannot tell the left hand from the right one. let me feel all i can feel so i can come back and tell you what it felt truly having lived.

give me that, the other one, here— no, actually, please don’t do that. for life is for us to grasp ourselves, for the joys of fruitation will not be as sweet have they been handed instead of pursued. for life is, after all, just a series of tries. then because we will, we must.

[end notes: completely unintentionally, this mess of a piece has the same ending as lanterns, the one before it, except lanterns was about how necessity spurs will and this mess ends the other way round. lel idk I HATE ENDINGS OH MY GOD]