Fanon and Friends - Chien S.T.

The waiter made you wait with your hand raised - before you caught his attention. The maid thought the crows attack her twice, on separate days, because she’s a maid. The bus doesn't stop when you flag. You aren't as slow as an old man.
It is night time, the street lamps are on, the street isn't darker than your skin.

Clementine - Chien Swee-Teng

the poet of chips and beer,
interrupts our strumming and singing
like a grandpa;
asking about the last train
but he is also the poet of flowers, although I forgot what he said
when he was walking past some red tropical flowers of december
is there a difference between chicks and ladies?
no, says the poet of half-moon, as he points to the sky
the poet of the river, look at the murky brown water
was it ever green?
the same river we threw glasses, beer bottles and one chic plastic chair into
asked the poet of
flower
women
moon
and river
and out of spite, he called his best friend Harry Potter
the poet of rock.

Fireman - Chien Swee-Teng

1. It was not exactly an affair, 'I met her before him.' [Although we were young, she's my ex. She left me for a fireman]
2. 'But it's so unfair, now he gets to smell her hair'. [E, B, Am]
3. I can only see her when he is working: sleeping, slacking at the station waiting for the next disaster or putting out fire.
4. I am not a pyromaniac, but I started burning down buildings within our district, to keep him busy, so that I can see you, sending him 5 or 7 miles away from the Central Fire Station, 10 km from home, and return with a shade of charcoal, no, a layer of soot... but he is not the tired grey of the miners, he is the endless replay of the heroic firemen who died in 9/11, a simulated version though.
5. Each time we meet, one building, or one unit is on fire. Thus, the only surely fire proof day is the day he is on leave.
6. I started with the overpriced restaurant, the pawn shop where I pawned my mother's jewellery, the indie book store (where the owner pretends to be your friend), all the art galleries and museums, the spas, squatters, bars, clubs and pubs art students frequent, the playgrounds, golf course, casinos, amusement parks, public and private estates...
7. but I left the sleazy hotel alone, and the provision shop, the hardware store untouched.
8. And soon, was it a year or two, I ran out of things to burn, but the heat did not die down,
9. like her hair, like most stories it needed a twisted. No, I did not start burning random people on the street.
9.1 Burn my house, or on one occassion there was a fire somewhere although 'I' didn't start the fire, and when I got home it was my house, my apartment.
9.1.1 My flat to trap and kill Mr Fireman
9.2 Burn the fire station
9.3 Burn her apartment, Mr Fireman returns to see her with him (which is me)
9.3.1 Saving his wife and the man like a hero
9.3.2 watching the adulterous couple burn
9.3.3 both stood and watch the woman burn (to provoke the feminist readers)

Lungs - Chien Swee-Teng

Zhou returned to the village last week. We were sitting outside a tavern that was closed too early - like all the taverns in the world, he said. Zhou was drinking a jar of wine, a fat clay jar. I was sipping a bowl of plum juice. He asked me a direct but difficult question. For me, it was more difficult to answer than why banditry is axiomatic. A scholar he encountered in the city said to him, sometimes we simply like our job, we enjoy our task. Zhou asked, so is alienation or exploitation still applicable in this case? Intuitively, I said it is merely ideological, false consciousness, I used examples such as those in the assembly line, the producers are seldom the owners, and deviated to the peasants and landlords, personal preference would not change anything, the feudal structure. But I know it was not clear. He did not ask any further. I am not sure if he was perplexed or thinking. He looked away and gazed at a young lady walking by. Although I have the image of him dozing off or distracted by a new pimple on his face during class reading, I know he would be able to understand if it was clearer. I was thinking about the rice fields of the other provinces, although I have never seen or stepped into a rice field before. I was thinking about the slogan Ne travzaillez jamais! Perhaps that was the only thing I could remember. Perhaps it was because of the nightly heavy drinking. Then we both heard the cymbal, it was the middle of third watch. Then I told him a prostitute who loves her job because she is a nympho would not change the fact that the body is used or abused. Instead of seeing it as countering the notion of exploitation, it should be read as an instance of double exploitation. First, the body is abused by the brothel, and then, the body is used by herself, for pleasure. I could elaborate further until I contradict myself, but I didn’t. I was a little disappointed that I only know how to use vulgar examples to elucidate a point. Then he turned back to look at me and grinned and then began to laugh, the laughter was at once idiotic, mischievous, and drunk, his trademark laughter, it was a deep laughter, I could hear his lungs. It reminded me of a teacher who is studying the movement of ants. Then we moved on to eradicate this binary between holy and profane, introduced Agamben into the discussion, about proper use, friendship, marriage as a contract to use each other’s organ, about the notion of profanation, and its relation to Catholicism, the Romans or Greeks.

Temple Fair - Chien Swee-Teng

His surname is Song but he doesn't like to sing. How is he related to Song Jiang (宋江) and what was allegorised between Song Jiang and the Great Song (大宋). Estranged. A man and his state, the Great Song Empire (大宋帝国)! Song marginalised Song! The official is the bandit. He reads history to make up story. He ignores those who spoke to him about historical accuracy and dates. They are like those who enjoy being condemned to cataloguing books, paintings and artefacts. He was at the temple fair. He says, I met him at the crowded temple fair. Noon, he was there with her. She was bored, lacking happiness, at the mansion, staring at her reflection in the pond, longing for the return of the other man. He suggested to her the temple fair, the peddlers and acrobats. The biggest bully in town and his lackeys would harass her but he will be there to protect her. But he doesn't know martial arts. He would be beaten up. But a hero from another town might be passing by and could save her while Song savours the taste of the dust on the ground. He felt down, lacking prosperity, because in the morning someone at chasi (tea hall) judged his character from his calligraphy, from the black ink he spilled, but the picture of her in the garden framed by the pillars...I cut him off, not his head. I thought Song must either be very drunk or mad. This is Paris, fin de siècle, 19th century. What kind of Song dynasty nonsense is he trying to feed me? We are along the arcade, the long arcade, the long passageway. It stretches so long that Walter Benjamin couldn't finish writing about it. He was just too long winded, Song says. This is the age of iron and glass not wood and stone. The poet is Baudelaire, the chee hong kia, Rimbaud, the siow ging na! But our jiu is neither bee jiu (rice wine) nor ang jiu (red wine), Song says. We walked slowly along the shops, mostly shops selling jewellery and watches. I stopped and peered into a shop window. But only nude velvet jewellery busts and amputated plastic hands were on display. It was midnight. Where have they hidden the watches, necklaces and rings when the shop closed, at this time? I told Song we should give it a try one of these days. Break the glass and steal the busts, fuck the alarm. I noticed our reflection on the glass. The humidity here has flattened our hair... fucking tropical weather.

An Indian security guard, with a torch in hand, walk towards the two drunken men and chased them away from the shopping mall, "Excuse me, no loitering outside." The two men threw the half-empty beer cans it at him, and ran away.

Point Form

1. On the bus, about twelve midnight, I past an empty carpark next to a hawker centre. (actually, it was only almost empty, a white truck was parked there)
2. Faint amber framed by the dark trees surrounding the rectangular lot, this scene was quiet and still. But I, as the only passenger on top of this slow moving double-decker, was the one who could not keep still - to make an image move without moving it.
3. I thought about what I always remember, each time I see a huge empty carpark at night, what he said about twenty years ago, when the band, all the way from Seattle, was here to promote the album but did not perform, 'give me an empty carpark and I will play you a gig.'
4. The white truck is the type with a heavy air-tight door at the back - good for transporting ice, chicken, laundry or artworks. Perhaps, the type of truck that killed a French literary theorist I half understood.
5. I thought about the awkwardness of being a loquacious stutterer, all the colour-blind painters which are celebrated as unique in art schools now. I thought about the trouble of a half-literate man who has decided to write down what he is too shy, or lacking in eloquence, to say.
6. Trouble, if only it is an exaggeration to call it misery. Two hours to type a paragraph is trouble not misery.
7. Or told to write instead of telling because his son told him he is too long-winded.
8. I find the convenience of silence suspicous than virtuous.

Kafka estaría orgulloso

Casi pierdo la vida de un volantazo intentando entregar a tiempo un shampoo para piojos! Desde la Farmacia de Dios, Kafka estaría orgulloso