A Starving Singaporean Artist
Hardship, sorrow and projection apparently make you write better;
I’m not sure who thought this was an intelligent idea,
or one that respected the creative worker’s
essential humanity. One that thought about just how much energy
needs to go into tapping into saidar-saidin-saidang, without going insane;
without losing your mind,
and keeping your beautiful, golden mane.
I write best when I’m comfortable.
I write even better when I’m under tribulation and trial,
but I don’t want that to be the new normal,
and it will never be. Because your sad little attempts to fuck with me
appear to be seasonal, if not
hormonally induced—
I understand fear, and jealousy are mere chemical reactions that induce
a semblance of emotion, if we’ll take Western science
at face value.
I’m sorry, but I came to this place
to write Life-giving poetry, and not to feel
used, and worse—
—well, do you want me to say it?
Or do you want me to keep on faking it,
and trying hard to pay attention to
obstinate, repressive, quite frankly ridiculous views
that try to tear my sense of reality apart.
I refuse.
I’ll be out in the gardens, and the fields,
doing something creole.
Something queer.
Something new.