The Insomniac’s Excuses

Lying awake,
On the brink of the little death,
Ecstatic to no end, perhaps
Blitzed on crystal meth.

Not the only cause, of course.
Possibilities abound,
Reasons upon reasons,
That one’s mind is not sound.

However, such reasons
Can only fall under
Certain categories, to be sure.
A few examples:

I. Excitement

Tomorrow’s the big day!
Graduation, marriage, jubilaté!
Time to move on, to ever greater things,
Or maybe that stupid ad was true,
Red Bull gives you wings!
Caffeine, sugar, orgasmic bliss, will
Drape your mind in hypersensitive mist.

II. Insomnia

Staring at the ceiling, listless,
The clock ticks on, lazily,
Your brain weighs heavy, patience thin,
While time spirals away, crazily.
It is hard when you know
There’ll be hell to pay, tomorrow,
Nodding, nodding, dozing at work,
Ratted out to your boss, by
Your co-worker, the jerk.
(Who no one likes anyway.)

III. Fear

The pit of the stomach stirs, and
The sandman shies away,
Why won’t it come to me,
A small voice asks plaintively.
Faster and faster goes
The thumping in the chest,
The fear and the sorrow,
Staying any rest.

There’s no way out,
Lies come to light,
Your doom is upon you
So why don’t you just…
Give up the fight.

Shadows in the room grow longer,
And dawn breaks on stuck-open lids,
For it is impossible, you see,
To sleep when the soul is uneasy.

 

The Student’s Observation

Pupils focus on paper.
Silence falls, heavy.
Failing, achieving, leaving.

 

Corinthian thoughts.

When I was a child,
I spake as a child.
Now I am grown, yet
Childish thoughts remain.

When I was a man,
I was a fool.
Now a child,
That choice is no more.

When I was a fool,
I knew many things.
Now wiser,
I know I know little.

When I knew much,
I felt strong.
Now I am weak,
Yet content in my weakness.

When I had want,
I thought only of happiness.
Now grimmer,
My wants seem petty.

When I was petty,
Things held my fancy.
Now less fancy,
I see far more.

When I had foresight,
I tripped over myself.
Now I have balance,
But only stare at my feet.

When I am a man,
I will be but a child,
Who will be foolish
Yet wise, and
Know little.

When I am a child,
I will be but a man,
Who will have foresight
But forsake it, and
Be petty.

When I am weak,
I will be content,
And trip every so often,
Yet be not grim,
For I am a man.

-Fin.

Cross-reference 1 Corinthians 13.

 

In life…

Of all the people in the world,
There are those whose lips curl
At commoners;
Those whose heels are taller
Than their wit;
And those who plod along,
Like horses chewing their bits.

In life,
There are the leaders,
Wisionaries, Missionaries and Dictators.
They do the dreams of others,
And much else besides. No time for
Asides, waysides, fox hides.

Then come the followers,
Two by two, three by three,
Roots for the politic tree,
The religious bee, the
Stagehands of a ballet.

The dregs come next,
Always last to act,
Or, if first, last
To get done acting.
Beggars, choosers and losers.
And the odd dot-com
Entrepreneur.

Maybe another category is present,
Those who don’t regret, resent.
Neither prince nor peasant,
Hell-bound or heaven-sent.
To waft through life, content.
Not just their lives,
But the lives of others;
Leaving the merest odour, or scent,
And perhaps a half eaten hors d’oeurve.

 

Seein’ stars.

I have stars too.
They’re in my head.
They call out to me.
Telling me to go to them.
They’re beautiful.
I try, but I’m too fat.
‘But you’re not fat,’ they say.
So I see myself again.
And I go to them.
They’re beautiful.

 

Synaesthesia is beautiful.

I was browsing the Internet one day,
in the merry, merry month of Ma – November,
when lo and behold,
a game that wasn’t sold
but instead freely downloadable and
it’s GOOD. And pretty.

Alright, so the above is not one of my better poems. Whatever. But it is a true story, and true stories are not usually so poetic.

Right, I found this game, independently produced by four Digital Art and Computer Science students. It’s called Synaesthete, after the medical condition, though this game is primarily focused on sound-colour synaesthesia.

At first glance, it seems innocuous enough, just another rhythm game with scrolling notes and such, and perhaps people who try it will find the actual gameplay a bit mild (at easy level). However the way the game is executed is perfect. I will not spoil it for you, but suffice it to say that this is a game for everyone (except those who experience seizures from strobe effects and whatnot), and basically it is poetry in motion.

I urge anyone who reads this to play it. It shouldn’t take up more than half an hour. Just in case you missed the link above, here’s another link to the website: Synaesthete homepage.

Here’s the homepage for the games produced at DigiPen Institute of Technology, where all four game developers studied.

 

Bus 176: Pt. 2

It is 11.45 pm. Today I had my first lab class. And I played table tennis for the first time since arriving. So doing, I discovered that most of the actual club members were science students, the president is a computer science BSci, and VP is a physics major, two other guys are also physics.

Sad to say, I got pwned by a white guy.

Anyhow, afterwards, me and the four mentioned above (excluding the white guy) went for dinner. It was uneventful.

Even later, I waited for the bus that would take me from the Strand back to my halls of residence, my humble abode for the year to come, mi casa, wo de jia.

So I present you with a poem, which shall be entitled Bus 176: Pt. 2. Pt.2 because it happens at night, Pt. 1 to follow when I can remember what happened this morning.

Bus 176: Pt. 2

10.50 pm

I shake hands with my new friend and we part.
I stand patiently at the bus stop, an unremarkable
Pole, with numbers at the top and numbers in the middle
And concrete below. And a necking couple besides it.
Minutes pass. They don’t stop.

His left hand grips the pole.
Desperately, grudgingly…
For he no doubt longs to feel her with both hands.
One will have to do.
His right hand wanders, wanders up her sweater,
Up her shirt, searching, searching. Like a
Laser guiding a cruise missile,
A prelude to the carnage to come.

More minutes pass,
Though I cannot be sure how many.
Suddenly they pull apart, and look toward the street
As if suddenly self-conscious.
I am surprised.
Everyone else pretends not to notice.
The moment is gone, and her face dissappears behind
Her brown-blonde hair once more.

11.05 pm

The bus arrives, the numbers
176 shining on its front.
I get on and touch my card, and
Watch them get on behind me.
At first I go upstairs, hoping to find a seat
Though I know I won’t.

Forced to stand, I go down again
And find a small space between a man
Who has a permanent glare,
And a French couple,
Obviously very much in love.
They speak rapidly, arms clutching each other.
I can only catch a scattered ‘oui’ once
In a while.

Another station, another few
Get on and off.
Finally, enough come off that
I can be sure of a seat.
Both the French and the necking duo
Are already seated,
Female draped over male like a
Chiffon scarf.

11.15 pm

Making my way upstairs once more,
I sit next to a black man.
It is one row from the front of the bus,
And a terrifying sight when coming
To a halt behind
Another bus. Two feet away, I swear.

In the row in front of me, and to the right,
Are yet another couple. A man with a moustache,
And his girl. She has obviously dyed hair, a striking red,
But undoubtedly a brunette at the roots.
They listen to music on his iPod touch, mouthing the words
Together.

The bus stops again.
More people get on.
Next to me two sit down. The taller
One curls her arm around the other.
They talk. Slowly, the shorter reaches up
And clasps the hand with her own.

Behind me, a man sits next to a
Reading girl, and asks her what she is
Reading. She shows him.
In an instant, they are talking. Moving on
From Hanif Kureishi to Peter O’Toole
And Notting Hill.

We (the man and I) discover that
She is German by birth, and
Not very patriotic by nature,
And carries an idealised view of
England.
Much like myself.
So far.

11.35 pm

I almost drift off to sleep.
The clumsy text to speech sounds,
Signalling my destination.
I go down the swaying stairs in
The swaying bus. And
Get off.

Swiping my card,
Climbing the stairs,
Walking down unusually
Silent corridors (for a Friday),
Unlocking my heavy door.
I step into my room, and think,
I’m home. For now.

PS This poem was written spontaneously with no corrections.