My desk and what sonnet

Life is what you make it, they say.

My desk is a mess without a doubt.
There's not a chance of clearing the decks
This side of Christmas.
It thumbs its notes at me; it flouts
My determination to settle my debt
To the waste paper basket, as if this was

Its reason to be.
The karang guni, the collector I am,
Battles the urge to sweep away
The mound of paper - nay, the tree
Cut down to supply a sham
Appearance of a productive day.

I must escape this lethargic maze,
This mire of latitude
And enforce a rule of law, to whit:
Let not pass another day
Of dilatory lassitude.
I'll not have it a single bit;

I'll clean this desk and leave it clear
When I'm left and gone from here.

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  ¶ 4:21 am

 

On Learning The True Value Of Creativity

emjay = gem in igpay atinlay
emjaygee, with a lazy e and a ceedeetee
urgent management, resurgent banishment
write my résumé
before I'm sent away, repent away
there's no counting on recanting
no cant worth recounting
concerning earning
it's not worth turning in a profit
take my cap and doff it
nothing to use, all to lose
all is lost: at what cost
is more than most are supposed
to choose or choose to say
makes no difference anyway
no defence of difference
no sense in inference
it's just $$ and cents
and creative interference
in sincere intent
i draw no conclusions
from accomplices' collusions
drawing accomplishment
is not something meant
to be worth all the money spent
much less heaven sent
repent (i said)
architecture is dead
(gasp) hold-your-breath-&-count-backwards-from-one-hundred
curvy-wurvy makes one nervy
unnervingly nervous
unswervingly servile
what is the purpose
of answering a rival,
a spy-all with a smile
and a green mile of bile
go down, go down in style
and leave this pile of shit
and everything under it
and on top of it and topple it
just go away; leave today
it doesn't matter anyway
that's what i say
amscray

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  ¶ 4:22 am

 

Coffea arabica or The Human Bean

The plimsoll rings of brown on white
The progress of my mouthfuls mark.
O, bean of bitter, 'Opian delight,
Divulge the secret of your dark

Descendant.  Black ink in my
China mug, you elevate
The heart and clear the mind;
It must be biochemical fate

To arise where Man began her climb
To ultimate dominion of her state--
Or was it this which by sublime,
Narcotic effect upon an ape

Made this dull and puny being
To use its brain to grasp a stone
To pound on rock this wondrous bean?
I knew it!  Man could not alone

Have found the motive to inspire
A proto-human's Promethean act--
To learn to master the sacred fire
--Except to roast her coffee black.

Man could not have learnt to thrive
So many millennia, albeit fleeting,
And learnt to work from nine to five
Without her coffee at a meeting.

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  ¶ 9:48 am

 

Sing A Poor Song

The MRT rails sing their cicada tone,
A tuneless note in harmony with a descending moan.
The train slows to a timely stop,
Precisely on the dimely spot.
The passengers are silent, in neutral mode,
Their thoughts focused on Orchard Road
Or Pasir Ris or Boon Lay Way,
Where home or office or shopping or mosque
                                      in their private paths soon will lay.
But what of their selves, each one called 'me',
Each mind alone in a peopled sea?
Do they wonder how the others feel and live?
Or simply wish that MRT door would give.

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  ¶ 1:46 am

 

The Esplanade

I would like some lemonade
Down beside the Esplanade.
Finding it should not be hard
When I'm at the Esplanade.

Perhaps I'll see a gay parade
Or children playing at charades
- I say, 'The immortal Bard'
Is my favourite charade.

But what's this discovery I've made?
Today I've found 'The Esplanade'
Does not rhyme with 'The Old Guard'
- Or does it, does The Esplanade?

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  ¶ 1:13 am