Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2005 - 11:19 p.m.
1980
I saw the hope of a better age destroyed,
descend into mediocrity, you and I, and I and you,
our stolen minds offered to the silent gryphon that bears our ignorance,
we had to scale these iron gates under the midnight ache of trees,
how they watched us in the midnight light,
the trees saw our violence,
violence like a fistful of rice on the sidewalk,
in the broken fluorescent light that came down in a womb of glass,
that proud screaming hole in the window,
the symmetrical sound of my laughter reflecting off your liquid body,
which was like the psychic imprint of a soccer ball you left on the white wall of the netball court,
I don't know what you smoked when you escaped to the roof,
to be closer to Jesus, God and Bob,
but you came back, and that was all that was important,
did you notice that the guitar that we stole and put back and stole again was Bob Marley's,
that guitar had a sound like the sound the stars made when they came out of Jupiter's shadow that night,
the moon hidden behind some angle of the school's roof,
we sat there on the running track watching those stars burn,
commiserating women,
those non-existent creatures that fell each one of us,
you taught me to say she is a bitch ten times every morning when I wake,
she is a bitch, she is a bitch but she broke my innocent and perfect heart,
how we are all so frail, these quiet bodies that are brilliant and at the same time - ours,
we walked away under those same trees on Mount Sinai lane,
they are changed under the light of an intrusive staggering dawn,
one day we too will be changed,
and stagger to follow the photograph-memories of all those nights,
the jagged trail of our laughter back here,
only to find out how we have changed,
broken by the only ideals we had which were not ours,
what do you think about when you drive through the CTE as each flash of white light, naked as my skin,
then more parsimoniously the orange sodium light, explodes across your unthinking face,
do you see this country as artificial,
then are we not the most artificial of beings,
but you have stopped asking these questions,
you will never stop again at the Balestier flyover to yell at the overhead traffic,
because we now have other things to worry and pray about in our vaulted voices,
the joss, the cross, and even the absence of gods will save,
cover the multitude of secret sins,
that none of us are normal, all of us are dysfunctional,
that the veil of civilization is exactly a veil that covers our innate madness,
there could be cities floating on top of cities and water could flow upwards,
but we have cut out our eyes and the remaining retina sees,
only the iterating blocks of flats in Tampines, Simei, Bishan,
that stretch to the confined horizons of this island,
except the one-roomed flats which are amnesia and will not be remembered,
how did the paradise land turn into a bitter island of incarceration,
for the men who walked the line of the infinite sea from Fujian and Kerala,
for the promise of a life that even the blindest of prophets could see,
but we have no prophets or concept of prophecy today,
or angels, even the practical ones that grant the dreams of the holiday in Pattaya,
where we can have more real sex than the poverty of our imaginations allow,
and then cross the border into Vietnam to buy a bride,
there is more sex happening now in Asia than the rest of the earth,
and we have become the new kings, except that our skins are not white (pale beige),
they are infinite shades between brown and beige, never yellow or black (sorry I called you blackfuck),
what do you think of the old men who walked the line of the sea from Fujian and Kerala,
so many people walk that corridor to the lift everyday and descend,
we have grown older and now your superficiality matters to me,
only because it will matter to you and your half of a country,
because if we believe the world our fathers gave us is broken then we have no choice,
don't quote Kant to me because Kant is dead there will be no quoting of the deceased,
1980 I know all your names,
I will be with you in the void that is now ours,
the void-deck in Jurong East where a man with Down's is given physiotherapy by his father every day,
like them we will cure our minds by moving our hands,
my body will be close to yours and we will move our broken limbs together,
calibrating our sadness to each other and to the sorrows of this country,
these brilliant quiet bodies of us,
1980 you are my generation and I am not afraid,
do you see that I am not afraid of you,
and do you see that you can say the same thing to me but you do not,
the only unafraid ones left in this land now are the children,
but everyday they too are learning the familiar shape of fear,
do you see that this fear can be broken, only if you and I,
and I and you stop fearing our madness and ourselves,
you and I, and I and you have to be better than what our bodies will allow,
you and I, and I and you, must say, I am not afraid, you must say,
I am not afraid, I am not afraid, I am not afraid.
