31st October 2022

Oh, goody, here comes the rain;
The neighbors can't complain
About the smell of cat piss
Permeating the air.

Oh, goody, here comes the rain;
The neighbors can't complain
About the smell of cat poop
Trapped inside the hair
You'll find inside the nose
Of the one complaining.
(Relax, folks, it is raining.)

A floor littered with cats
Waiting to be fed
Fish and chicken rice,
Boiled but very nice,
Tasteless if you ask me,
But that's what soy sauce is for,
So pass the soy sauce, honey,
Think I'll have some more.

5th October 2022

The smell of exhaust fumes fills the morning air

Which a short while back smelt of last night's drizzle

Which cleansed the air of the day's smog and dust

Whilst the world was asleep,

Nauseously intoxicating, the smell of exhaust fumes,

Whose composition of burnt and unburnt fossil fuels

Entered the bloodstream of every living creature in sight

That breathed in the exhaust fumes-filled morning air.

Excuse me while I cough up a little blood,

No, nothing to be concerned about, 

Not yet at least.

28th April 2022

Not even a single drop

Of the milk of human kindness

Flowed from thy dried-up breasts, 

O Singapore, 

Nor was even a single ounce of compassion to be found

In the hollow chambers of thy shrivelled-up heart

For you condemned a man to death 

For 42.7 grams, or three tablespoons, of a prohibited substance

That, unlike the damage, say, 

42.7 kilograms of a similar substance 

Was potentially capable of, 

42.7 grams, or three tablespoons, of it will in no way 

i) bring down the government,

ii) plunge the entire country into a recession,

iii) incite a rebellion of the masses,

iv) etc.,

And hung him by the neck from a hook

Until he was dead

And his lifeless body twitched no more,

A man you could have pardoned

By presidential decree or otherwise,

A man who could have lived a long and fruitful life

As a redeemed and contributing member of society

A man who could have potentially sired

A future Nobel Physics Prize recipient

Or a future prime minister of the country of his or her birth,

A man whose mother came begging on her knees
For her son's life
But whose futile pleas fell on deaf ears,
Ears deafened no doubt by years and years
Of dealing with distressed and frantic family members
Pleading for the lives of their loved ones
On Death Row

A man you sent to the gallows 

Not for having killed scores of innocent bystanders

By means of a strategically-placed car bomb

Or for having raped and killed dozens of children

Or for having murdered both an unfaithful partner and her lover

And afterwards disposed of their dismembered body parts

In a tub of highly corrosive acid

But for 42.7 grams, or three tablespoons, of a prohibited substance 

With a street value of less than a thousand bucks

But worthy of death nonetheless

In accordance with your draconian laws

And compassionless hearts.

Will you be pardoned for your sins

When the books are opened on Judgement Day

And your name is called,

O Singapore?

I think not,

Thou heartless murderer,

I think not.

Did you not know,

Thou self-righteous fool,

That all judgement passed down on Judgement Day

Will be based on laws written on stone tablets

By the hand of God on Mount Sinai,

Something, except for Judaism,

None of the other great religions of the world

Can boast of, incidentally,

However great the number of their devotees

Or powerful their armies might be, 

In terms of a holy book having being written,

Even if only in part, by the hand of God,

One of which says, 'Thou shall not kill,' period,

Not,

'Thou shall not kill

Except

In cases deemed worthy of the death penalty

In accordance with the laws of Singapore,'

And did you not know,

Thou self-righteous fool,

That when the books are opened on Judgement Day,

Singapore or Somalia,

Everyone will be judged equally without bias or prejudice

According to the contents of his or her own personal file?

 

So, I ask you again,

Will you be pardoned for your sins

When the books are opened on Judgement Day

And your name is called.

O Singapore?

 

I think not,

Thou self-righteous fool of a heartless murderer,

I think not.

 

 

14th March 2022

What have you done, Ruskovich, my son?

Why have you banded together with Belaruskovich, my other son,

To bring death and destruction upon your own brother, Ukranovich,

Upon his children, his wives, his livestock, his farms, 

His grazing fields, his share of the inheritance?

Were you so jealous of him that you coveted his children, 

His wives, his livestock, his farms, his grazing fields,
His share of the inheritance 

Apart from having your own children, your own wives, 

Your own livestock, your own farms, 

Your own grazing fields, your own share of the inheritance?

You have inherited this murderous gene from your ancestors,
Your forefather, Cain,
Who killed in cold blood his own brother, Abel,
Out of sheer jealousy, 
When he saw the offerings his brother brought from his flock
Were more favored in the eyes of God

Than the offerings he brought from his fields.

Should he not have pondered on how he might find favor 

In the eyes of God

By following his brother's example
With burnt offerings of choice cuts of meat dripping with fat
And whose aroma was pleasing to the Lord
Instead of killing him in cold blood
And denying his murderous deed afterwards?

You are making your ancestors proud, Ruskovich, my son,
By following in their murderous footsteps.

Here, Ruskovich, my son, here is a length of rope.
Hopefully, it will be long enough for you
To hang yourself with it.

10th March 2022

So blessed was my Malaysia
From shore to sandy shore,
Serene and postcard perfect,
Untouched by Putin's war.

May curses by the truckload
For every Slavic dead
By Putin's bloodied hand
Fall onto Putin's head.
 

 

30th January 2022

Mrs. Selvaraj (not her real name), 

My Indian neighbor a stone's throw away,

Was like a mother to me, 

Always concerned about my ever-increasing household cat population

Which by the way was welcomed in a household 

Where Death was not only not a stranger 

But also only eight months ago

Claimed the lives of six babies, 

Two children and four grandchildren,

Six-to-seven-month-old teenagers,

In the space of one week,

Resulting in their adoptive momma cat,

A senior momma cat without babies of its own,

Suffering a stroke on the third day of searching for them in vain

And eventually dying within a month

From a broken heart

Mostly

As did I

In a less fatal manner

Perhaps as she knew I was temporarily out of a job by choice, 

And hence was concerned from the financial point of view

More than anything else,

Just as she was very concerned, 

And always took an interest,

In pointing out to me,

The cat poop spots I sometimes accidentally overlooked

By the side of the road,

And always opposite her house,

Every time I went around this part of the neighborhood,

Cat poop scoop equipment in hand,

In search of cat poop to scoop up from wherever it might be

found,

Usually on a sandy spot in front of someone's house

Or along the side of the road,

Or someone's cement-work-in-progress sand pile nearby,

If one was available,

As was the case at present.


Poor Mrs. Selvaraj (not her real name),

My Indian neighbor a stone's throw away, 

For she would surely suffer a heart attack,

If she knew, 

Apart from my existing household cat population boom,

The earlier-batch babies of two momma cats,

Two children and three grandchildren,

Who should be in their teens by now

And missing the whole day today too,

Were probably out there somewhere looking for mates,

The boys looking for girls, the girls looking for boys,

To mate with,

Or, in other words,

And on a lighter note,

Babies making babies.