Where


Oh Dog, if you should
Die one day,
Please don’t do it in the house.
for the stink of your beautiful carcass
would never leave my nostrils.


Don’t Do It in the garden either,
because then I would be arrested
by foolish American utopian-suburb romanticisms,
and decide to bury you there.
How gruesome to have you lying there
beside the spinach patch
for all eternity.


Don’t Do It within a 2.4 km radius of my house
because walking home,
back from some
Gothic heaven
would be even more disappointing than it already is.
You have taken away
my sorcerer’s stone of poetry,
of idyllic days and idle nights.
I would have to face your bridle presence,
knowing that you are somewhere better,


But without your blanket.


Oh Dog, this seems to leave the vet’s as the last option.
but you must think that cold black table
much too harsh for your baby navel.
It occurs to me that I would have to
schedule an appointment with the Doctor.
Mengele has awoken from the grave of Auschwitz,
and arrived at Clementi.


Together with my
wellpaidharlotaccomplice
I will tenderly plot,
over the phone, the
timedatevenue
of your Swan song,
Dog song,
Morning song,
Death song,

Or whatever it is you like to call your final bark.
My howl is that of a dishonored samurai,
Accompanying your lissome whine.


Then doggie bone to ashes,
after we have all
Done It Together,
You would be plucked,

gently,

flake

by

flake

and placed in my pencil box,
for you are more important than poetry.
Perhaps you would eventually fossilize
in that cuboidal domain,
Finally, then, can I truly write and love with you.

My bedroom provides the ideal conditions,
there, your scent can diffuse,
continue to mingle with my
Food, Clothes, books, hair, tongue, heart.
At least crystallization takes place within my lifetime.


I will cradle you in the sweet gutter of my bloodied arms,
mangled and tainted,
but still loving.
My fingers will wrap around,
licking the angular urn
tracing out your name.


Aren’t these hands familiar dear dog?
It wasn’t the bitter needle that you last felt,
But these very hands.
I cradled you then as I do now.
Oh dog, you died at home.

feel like i'm being buried under all the work. some oxonians (apparently, that's what those good folks call themselves there at oxford) came by today to show off there academic achievements/ promote their stinking university(ok, fine, i'm being bitterly sour here). anyway, found out that the too cheery female promoter is our grand-grand senior from 01a15....starting teasing us abt barnard in mock earnestness. argh. irritated. wanted to ask if she was on a scholarship, but was afraid to do so, lest it provoked the wrong reaction ie. the govt rejected her and daddy had to pay for everything.

unfortunately, that is very well how i may end up, and perhaps even that is an over-positive forecast. nus law fac is not such a breeze to get into either. according to mdm kwan (sec 4 chinese teacher, whose beauty pagaent contestant daughter is currently studying there) only 200 friggin ppl get in, amongst millions (ok, maybe nus isn't THAT hot) of applicants.....

smu....possible option. sigh. ahwellwhatevernonotreallybutstill.