Sunday, September 13, 2009

Lorong Something

Stephanie Chan was kind enough to allow me to re-post this here. This is a poem created out of her first trip to Geylang.

Lorong Something

Some stray cats here have collars, sit in doorways of houses, others shit on piles of ashes. All, the same grey-white marks. One cat sleeps between the old lady by the drain (saying, she told me she felt itchy down there i tell her always tell him wash his mouth before bleblehbleh. because you dunno how many he bleh before after you---common sense) and the tall skinny Malay kid with the miniskirt some guy yells Ahmad at from his car, driving off. On a bad night, he stops: contusions, pulled hair, handcuffs, Ah Kwa. The kid leans against the drain railing. Waiting like the old lady. Still early: the moon not up yet. Just fire everywhere.

Blazing, both sides of the road, blazing controlled in metal drums. First day, Seventh Month: tis the season for sacrifice. Paper prayers turn to embers, ashes, heat. Smells changing from block to block, MRT station to coffeeshop: traffic fumes to belacan, garlic, bad breath; to where it spills onto the alley: smoke and sweat. Its hard to describe, though you’ve been here before in bad movies, TV. Here the streets are cleaner. No creepy music follows you round every cracked corner. Men push past, give you second glances. Clinical street lights, brighter. Clan association house: in front, a grey van, saris pushed up against. Red Bull inside for one dollar. Chinese man selling drinks to Construction Workers. In every house an altar (eh hurry move don’t block). Perfume, foundation, mascara, short-shorts. Checking faces in pocket mirrors, checking over their shoulders.

Eyes dart. They stand. Not really there but who is? Not the cars, taxis, drivers that slow as they crawl past. Don’t stare, keep going. All that separates you from her, human from girl: the difference between walking and stopping. In alleys behind coffeeshops, the Men and the world prepare to meet again:

Man U match on outdoor TV, beer, VCDs. Purgatory. We are all in limbo here.