Few things are as inviting as an opened MRT door,
Preluded by a hurtling wind that sends your hair to the heavens.
It is an air-conditioned existence in an island of heat,
Of draught light in the darkening dusk.
I was reading Dawkins’ God Delusion:
Those blistering covers that incite ridicule
and my blaspheming fundamentalism.
An auntie glares at me, with her glistening pearls of eyes.
She pierces my godless, soulless shell,
With festering agony and indignation in her offended heart.
I gaze back with mere heretical nonchalance.
My ears too have blasphemed: it is the voice of Leslie Low.
Every crooned word is a hollering protest, is an anguished lament,
Of guitar chords smashed by ellen keys
And drums plastered by bleeding fingers
They tranquillise the dark nights of the human soul,
And all its consuming vices of alcohol and sorrow.
Somewhere in this world of grey,
A museum curator is dragged through his heathen streets,
Where blood streams from the emptiness between his thighs,
The emptiness of iconoclastic castration.