like seedless grapes are never
satisfied       I sieve the body erotic.
mash up our potato wounds like no one
deserves you / deserts you     you’re
the lone eclair on the sushi conveyor.
so what / if I’m allergic to this and this and
you’re environmentally-aloof and
sometimes I still think of getting you
matching cutlery
not for the earth just your ocd
your watchless wands,
your wasted hands
a measured fix of foolery
so what if I’m / afraid of hurting
?          mandarin doesn’t constrain
of the referent
I can say anything unselfish
I really want to say
like surreptitious grape hands
over skin pulp peelin frappe
teabagged the qoo mascot
to show it ideas of ‘good’
are mutable



three times we pressed the rose quartz
back      you twice I just the once
because you did              the cheap adhesive the only stone
what wouldn’t stay

nighttime she drops       a final click
and I leave her be
off the charts
like she wants

D says letting it be
means to work at it

in this you and I
cease to disagree


you said last night you think I am magic.
& you have that inescapable purple in your aura,
pivoting like vonnegut’s wampeter, which is why
the animals are magnetically-drawn to you,
unlikely cult carp whisperer.we all eventually have to do psychic maintenance
so half-hour to midnight means walking
on elevated concrete roadside benches,
holding in hand that feeling of being sure
like lollipops in the mouth or stone bracelets,
like sitting crosslegged under the esplanade bridge.

someone but not me needs to paint
your bullock shoulders your nimble wrists
your inability to unplug from Real Life:
maybe it is because you want to be
a different height that you refuse to
allow short-circuits.
is this what they mean by industry?

binding your own wrists in neoprene cuffs,
you permit leather blindfolds that can’t cover the
quirk of your smirking mouth & your insistence
that your hard-on is good for at least something,

even if it is hanging dirty towels like
a criminal execution. your kisses are

a study in botany,
like things to be taken apart and examined
under bright lights and steel tweezers.
like the ball of your thumb is a thing
to be taken to heart.

even afterthoughts of you feel like
the uniform fuzz of carefully-shaved head,
firm touches, scented turquoise pineapple
crystalline and now I know

the sound of a three-hour telephone voice
is a tall glass of citrine, sea kelapa syrup
spread excruciating over the railwork system,
like a lapdance, like the fatigue carried in the
arched feet of someone who inhabits heels, like
trails of formic acid, like
busy, busy, busy.

I miss you
even when I am next to you,
you said,

and I took this as thundercloud omen,
storms wielding wet bargaining chips
but you’ve always loved finding the sublime
in the mundane and I’ve written so many
poems about marrying the divine and the
profane that we know we can find
both pedestrian and arcane in the

you said, I am afraid
we are only really good for each other in bed
but some good advice is do what you love.
stretch before dancing. and eat more broccoli
even if you don’t particularly like it. wax
lyrical about your mussels one more time.
buddy wakefield famous slam poet says
when you feel like stepping back from the mic,
step forward.

I am backing away very slowly now so
I don’t startle you. I am whispering to the carp
instead of teaching them foucault that it is
perfect to be afraid. that it is permitted to know
you are breathtaking in spite of yourself.
buddy says, stop fucking with the moon,
so I tell you, I’ll meet you on the green platform,
on the third floor, on the astral dimension
just above this one.


love, the first time I watched << all about lily • chou-chou >>, we spent half a year referencing indie japanese cinema and getting angry about 2% skim milk, ke$ha’s name (pronounced kay-dollarsign-HA!), & people who eat tapioca unironically. the next faceless boy with whom I appended my name on the other side of an &mpersand had eyelashes like even-toed ungulates and convinced me through his set-square ways that I should probably be more poly(nomial) in the next equation. he called me a sl*t when I shaved my head, but not my slit. I once wrote a poem about chinese men 🚮 and how I could never date one because it would feel too much like the penetrative act of bamboo torture. but you said this morning, 1/4 chinese can or not? so these days I pretend all the people in my tarot deck have disappeared to convince myself you’re still the right direction^. ^with your own post-nuptial contract conditions

#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day08 ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay08 ‪#‎marylyntan The @#)(*) Prompt – write a poem including the following symbols: ! $ &* ( ) . , ‪#‎bonus – include @ # % ^ < /

DAY 07 – she who runs out of date ideas loses

barely-restrained subtweets, stolen house keys, the back of my car boot
all the trouble in the world pales to the halfmutt STEPHDOGFOOT

will climb rambutan trees half-naked will paint chinchillas for food
all for the love and approval of the cutebutt STEPHDOGFOOT

sits in tubs of fresh steaming ramen (will season it myself) suspiciously mute
dodgy craigslist ads answered in the hope of meeting STEPHDOGFOOT

dangles legs over lips of canals insists eggplant is not a fruit
(those are slightly edible like heart/guts, FYI STEPHDOGFOOT)

would rather avoid mint for life than admit to fawning tribute;
cover me in lesbians and throw me to the STEPHDOGFOOT.

‪#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day07 ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay07 ‪#‎marylyntan
‪#‎Prompt1: Woo your favourite poet with a poem.
‪#‎Prompt2: Write a ghazal.


it’s a flesh wound, they say,
and purse
their thick cleaved lips
at the prone twitch-yiffing
of my wetly gleaming form,
which is

nearly as masturbatory
as wordpress.

we are tiny manimals calcite
and mineralised in amber
monument to the day
we came so hard
we fossilised ourselves.

there is a symmetry to the golden ratio of the
the cleaved foot of the goat with
a thousand young,
the raw milky glass-white of
translucent anal beads.

you fuck my flesh wound
with your polydactyl thumb
and a horde of sugar gliders bursts out
swimming for their lives.

I wilt like a corsage,
or most hard-ons.

it is not just because they are my
cosmic progenitor parents
that they are called
The Elder Ones.

we are hatching wordlessly
under the earth
and still

dead cthulhu
lies wet dreaming.

#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day03 ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay03 ‪#‎SG50ShadesOfGrey
Write an erotic poem
Bonus 1: …with no people in it.
Bonus 2: Pun.



led zeppelin never told you this but
the ascent is its own reward.
stairwells here too should be scrawled with
bawal umihi dito

but no one ever says
anything about the side effects
of being more fisted than fistula
in the midday,
unless it is grainy photos of moral decay
depicting yet another carpark roof coupling

is it being sick of being transient
that makes you hide all inclination
to hitchhike?

maybe Thumbelina
hid in lotuses
for a reason

#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day02 | ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay02 | #marylyntan
Write a poem that responds to this image
* Bonus 1: Include a title that serves to caption the image
* Bonus 2: Incorporate some words from a different language