much ado about mugging

it starts with A

like a wheel that turns with the predictability
of a singpost- postman,
our turn comes, again, at the end of a revolution,
face- first into gravel; groaning under newtons,

slipping through cracks of white, emblazoned
with words; dates; numbers; terms; logic
that jump at you from every page that greets
like a humbled doorman, then
cling to slivers of brain matter, like
an abandoned mistress;
too old to fuck

yet not old enough to win this race of
alphabets, too important in signifying
nothing at all-

as necks crane and bathe in arthritis, we question
the questions that stream like tears
from nowhere; as leisure slowly wilts like a wintery
flower
in singapore’s botanical misery.

i crave laminated and embalmed glory. don’t we all?