A Collage is Surreal In-between

A Collage is Surreal In-between

He gave his girl friend a buzz, After
Paying a visit and climbing over the Tiananmen Square Tower Gate
The virtuality is in reality realistic
He did not go to the Imperial Summer Resort
The reservoir of the Great Wall is frozen;
Snow not melt
The Dong Wind Missile and the cannons in the Military Museum are promised
Permitted to visit..with the jet fighter J7 on display
We had our dates as said in emails
Coffees were sipped
The first time was the cafe in which croissant were consumed
<1942> was seen in the Cinema of Golden Rooster as a film;
Motion picture of
Wailing tears – You as a allegory of Death
Famine, Tribe in wars
Not yourself but the evocation
Of calling upon the images and visions
And the memory clicking through the Laughs
I smiled and you cried
We knew each other as a trial
The sax sung the melody and groaning monologue plus
Yearning for another visit to the National Museum
You are amused
I am confused
It adds up to 4 dates altogether
Our karma is coincidental
She was a bit for a little while.
Regrets are useless
The frigid 14 degree sub-zero
Even the tears of love and hate are glaciated
We dated twice twice
She did not go out for the Free Jazz gig of improvisation
I did not go to the Imperial Summer Resort


a scar is like a flaw buried deep in his memory in an technological information societyHe lives in an industrial suburb called Brooklyn in the west of Melbourne. The rent is cheap and
not far from where he dwells stands a chemical refinery that occasionally emits smoke from its
silver-coated tall chimney. The smoke smells a bit like chicken refuse when the weather is humid;
the odour stays in the air and seems waiting for a gasp of southerly to clear it away. There is a big
Shopping Mall called the Plaza not far from the factory and the house where he lives. The house
is a weather-board functional free-standing semis adjacent to a large garage in which it is scatter
with old clothes and plastic bags and rusty tools. He drives his station-wagon to do shopping in
the NQR, a discount foods supermarket, a acronym also means Not Quite Right.
He has a Bachelor of Science degree in Electronic Engineering and the stuff he learned then was old
analogue theory. Now the information age of a Digital Cyberspace has arrived and he struggles to
get to know the software programming and applications. It is not difficult since the Window 7
comes to the market and it is just as good as the Macintosh. ‘The core of a processor is the RAM
in the CPU – Central Processing Unit. RAM is like a human’s brain – cerebrum left for emotion
and right for reason…’ he looks at the screen of display that radiates plasma’s glow and lights up his
face. He divorced a few years ago and with some of his inheritance from his deceased parents he
just meets his ends. His libido is not as strong as before when he was younger; still he has sexual
drive and needs. Nowadays he does everything online: bank transaction, any inquiries about his
life and government services.
I rode my bike to the Grace Darling Hotel in Collingwood. There was an experimental gig there
in the basement with noise churned out from 50’s British vantage synth and trippy soundscape
feedback blasted off from the tape loops of a retrospective nature. The record label, the Ice Age
Production, arranged the gig. There was a bar in the basement with some sort of artifacts on
display, glittering and shimming in its shine of focus. The basement looked like a bunker 400
square meters with two couches lying against the wall. There was an entrance to the cellar and
the fluorescent light shone a whitish milky colour. The wall was very very thick and the bricks
were made of darkish granite laid out with a rough and jagged surface. I had a couple of bourbon
with coke. I felt tipsy. Glittering twinkling What a holler! The sound of a diminished saxophone is a
husky innuendo. The whine is fine. Your guitar wails some bravados. I am riding my bike through the
darkness of sky. My poetry is your insanity! Our thin hugs threaten the Desire of swallowing down…
‘Domination is genetic.’ He said, while I am riding into the Night
The earthquake striked at four in the morning and people were in deep sleep. That was in 1976, a summer that was sweltering hot in a coal mining city . It was July. People awaken to the collapse of the buildings and concrete slabs. The tremour shook the Soviet Style apartments for the people in the City of T.S. Running water pipe was cut off and twisted. Suddenly people died in blood in the debris mingled with the dirt, dust and fallen structure of the building. The road was split in slits by the quake. People were caught off guard and ran for their lives. The next day people started to search for their relative but helpless to find any survivors in front of these architectures defaced, destructed and doomed by the nature force. The corpse were scattered all over the city, which was basically flattened and flogged by the calamity. It was deadly quiet contrasted to the people bursting in tears: wailing, crying and simply screaming out loud lamenting on the loss of their beloved ones. The cloud was sickened thick and over-cast reminding the city of its sorrow and pain. The sky was leaden in a dreadful mourning. Then there was a shower wanting the washing away the unhappiness and chaos and rubble. The day after the stench spread out in the air and soldiers were sent in to dig for any survivors and corpses. The dead were piled up and laid reclined on the ground under the sun. The rain was gone and the hot sun shone over the city. But the apparition of Death still loomed over. Evening approached and night fell. An old woman stealthily sneaked on to the street and climbed over the broken walls to look for any dead people mostly middle aged people. She squatted down and took off their watches. At first she wanted to put into a bag but later she had a second thought instead she put on her own wrists and arms. After a while she wore six watches on both of her arms and wrists. A soldier found
her suspicious nearby as she walked over the corpses and started to question her.

– Stop. What are you doing here?
– I am looking for my son… – Show me your wrists. This is an order. – Oh…ok…
Then she was taken to an army camp where loudspeakers broadcasted revolutionary songs loud. She was interrogated by an officer and after a week she was executed – a bullet in the head and another on the skull to guarantee the death sentence. That was in an afternoon and the sky was crimson with the afternoon sun shimmering through the thin cloud.

He opens the email box on live.com.au same as the hotmail sign-in button and finds a new email telling him to meet this person on the 23rd November 1999. He goes there and find a lady from Tokyo at the MacDonald in the Darlinghurst Road. The Big Mac tastes like fake beef – it is too soft and chewy a bit like a piece of soft chewing gum with salt and BBQ sauce. The lady takes him upstairs to meet O the person who wants him to meet in the email.

O says:
‘Welcome. The email is sent out to you because I have chosen you inevitably. In this game of chances, you have become our guest of INEVITABLITY.’
He is puzzled and wants to ask a question but he keeps on speaking.
‘Do you know why you are here?
‘I don’t know’ He replied anxiously, ‘Maybe because of the Email I received from you.
It was drizzling outside. The weather was gloomy and constantly threatening. His memory stops like in a comma. Again the darkness, he tries to paint, it is about the Death. The eternal theme of our poets. She has dark hair and with a frail voice, you know that she longs for the sensibilities that any men can afford. Again we went to the Monkey Bar and drank a lot together. There was a cartoonist sitting on the stool drawing me. I kept on dreaming and drink. K stood up. I approached her and dragged her to the dance floor as the DJ played a Cha-cha. We danced to the beat in the river of love. The floor was slippery. She fell. The crowds was milling around. The trumpet’s notes were high-pitched and saucy. I got her stand up. We sat at the table and looked at each other. Then we wobbled to the street, twist and turn; we walked to the back lane with some stencils
sprayed on the wall. In darkness, I stroked her bum and raised her shirt and made love to her. The night was tender and smelt of jasmine flew over the fences.

Android, Emoj and Doll


The emoj and your smileys in the moonlight shone a shadow of love

My kundalini arose from the swampland of you embrace.

The touch is a piece of rock

The Love is a piece of rock

When you scurried through the bass sound of the redemption, remorse and tears

On the rock there were statues of nymphs in the lakes of psychedelica of flowers

Mushrooms were dried up

You never went to my show at the Sloth Arts Wednesday Night

I played an abrasive and transgressive melody on my alto saxophone

Quenching your thirst for the sex-love-union


We were artificial in the Nature of Scream, Moan and Growl

I improvised the noiscape with my synth and my cry for the spoken ambience

An android would have been more than the fluids than the Real

In the Realm of our sensibilities and your smell revoked a memory that was in 91, 92, 79, 80 and 2006

Though the strumming of electric guitar on the chorus effect pedal evoked the perfume of Opium, Lulu and hilarious and crystal-clear senses.


You came sloppy and the fleur de mal  was brought to the trial in the Castle.


Pain and Longing thus were under water and the tip of iceberg was shot by the jet fighter J15

We were blasted off in cracks and shattered into nothingness


We got up alone and coughed like in the hell

Then we drank tea and coffee

No. you drank instant coffee and I drank a bowl of black tea soaked in the boiling water boiled by your kettle


So we will see again and drank Scotch no – the Scottish whiskey bought by you on Ebay and delivered from overseas


You drank more spirits than me.

I was in the cloud and you were in the cloud

We came together twice or three times.


I wasn’t harsh on you; maybe you were earnest for a s/m crying game and you are always a doll in the Doll’s House

I fucked as if I were an android

Emotional, Sensitive and forever on flames

Myself and the Mushroom Pavilion and English Corner

 Myself and the Mushroom Pavilion and English Corner
- a short piece of writing on memory, time and displace and history
It was early in the morning 1980. China began to open up after thirty years isolation and
revolution. I wore a Mao's suit to go to the Mushroom Pavilion to do morning exercises. I was only
fifteen years old. Guilin, my home-town is a beautiful city for its striking attractive scenery with
bamboo grooves, rice paddies and water buffalo. It has a fairytale feel and a poet once wrote that
only immortals live in a fairytale town. With its picturesque limestone hills and caves around,
Guilin attracts tourists from all over the world. Since the national door was opened up and
revolutionary zeal died out, there were English corners appeared all over China. The Mushroom
Pavilion situated near the Li River Hotel, an hotel for overseas tourists and the English Corner
happened to be in the island in the middle of a lake called Banyan Tree Lake. After the isolation in
China for so long, people were earnest to know what's happening outside. And the best way to
know was to learn English; so English Corner is for young and old to learn English and
communicate with the foreign tourists.
I was fifteen years old and learning English in the middle school nearby. I was curious about the
people speaking a total foreign tongue. The curiosity drove me to learn English in the class. The
English we learned in the school was revolutionary and full of slogans such as 'Never forget the
class struggle!' 'Unite the people from all over the world!' ' Long live Chairman Mao!'. As usual, I
went to the Mushroom Pavilion to look at the people practising their English with the foreigners. I
was shy.
Finally, I made up my mind to speak out in English.
'Where are you from?'
'United States of America.' replied the old lay heavy in French perfume.
'Oh!...' I responded timidly.
Now I am glad that I could practise English and brave enough to engage in a conversation. My
language skill was improved better as I practised more. Once I was given a dictionary and some
Newsweek and National Geography magazines. It aroused my interests to learn the language better
and know the culture more. Eventually I passed the entrance exam into the university and majored
in English literature.
After 1989 Tianmen Square massacre, the English corners were banned by the government and now
it has become a historical relic only in our memories.
Looking backwards thirty odd years ago, I discovered that the dream I dreamed of came true and
the wish I cherished become real. We are living a Hyper-real world now with internet,
consumerism rampant in China. The nostalgia for the world without plastic bag and internet and
supermarkets and cars and free way is stronger for me. Politically China remains repressive and I
have lived in Australia for almost twenty years. This memory of myself, the nation and outside
world comes as a sudden glimpse back in time. It is poetic and gives us a sense of being lost in the
history. It makes me wonder how I have evolved through those years. I wrote this piece of poem a
while ago to document what kind of emotions I have had over the years:
In the depth of our memories
Wisteria melts its colour in the snow
Avalanche is not for the maniac
I squint from the dark
I see the rattling plastic bags in the Sky
I am not sure of your Togetherness
On the other side;
There was a Pavilion; a Corner
A view with
an Attitude that is still fledgling
As that is not a farewell because
we have not met yet.
Rainbow testifies itself in the heaven
As night approaches
What we need is a dialogue
Under the blue winter sky
In the darkness of our hearts
I am sentimental over this period. I missed the English Corners through the 80's in China. There is
this innocence about the Corners. The Mushroom Pavilion was demolished ten year ago when I
went back to my hometown to reflect upon how I came so far. Ever since China opens up more and
more, something is lost. My teenage years are gone. My understanding of myself and the world
has deepened yet this reminiscence of the bike I had and road I walked on is stronger. The need to
engage ourselves in dialogue, mutual understanding and love is always important and essential. No
matter how we will become in the future, these needs can go away.
Even though the English Corner is there any more, I have strong association with the part: learning
English, memory of the 80's China before consumerism and history in time. My teenage years, like
most of us, were tainted with angst, anger and rebellion; however, my interests in English language
and culture makes me live now in Australia. Sometimes I am homesick and nostalgia for something
lost over the years since China has undergone a total development. Feeling displaced and
disillusioned here, I sometimes long for an eternal return of my teenage years. Perhaps it is
Nostalgia; perhaps it is Narcissistic; perhaps we all call for the Eternal Return of timeless. The
techniques I used in this piece of writing is to try to revoke the senses, the pictures of the place and
the contrasts of the Now and past. I try to give the readers a sense of differences, changing in Time
and space on the planet.