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.
‘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.