arthur yap bot

windowpanes of tiny raindrops cling uncertainly, left from night rain.

a curiously fluid morning, spring not fully arrived & things go on their own ways. in the hothouses, unforced, the theme is verdant crisis.

words were hung on every tree. the most striking, startingly orange, tuned by the breeze.

another day, she groped for adam's cork screw, dropped among thick picnicking grass.

eve or six boats left their bridge, left the bridging imagination of our mind, & drifted aimlessly, lanterns bright.

in a moment, a full able-bodied choir, a sweet clear siren that reached out nowhere & everywhere & destroyed no one.

you are my sensibilities & i wear your heart, your eyes, in my footnotes.

the evening sun walks up the cove & drops smartly into slopping eyes. you can hear your own fascination.

a white paper cup thrown among michaelmas daisies multiplied quickly

we can look, saying ‘so it is’. we hear some song & look for a radio, we see an arm & hook it slung.

the finagling snake quiet as coiled repose. the voluptuous apple slept on, heavy as a stone, a minuscule pumpkin.

where does the road end & the beach begin?\mIt is not easy to say, so closely do the 2 forms intermingle.

but of what avail is such perpetual unattainment? i know the stupid bird can never eat the stupid peach

a white paper cup thrown among michaelmas daisies multiplied quickly

a solid laughter theirs, however.

& it goes on in various variations & permutations. there is no future in nostalgia.

man looked at everything with the calm of unknowing eyes & did not want. he remained empty till he did; the lie outright.

ah beng is so smart, already he can watch tv & know the whole story.

the simplicity of the elements, nevertheless, is not to be trusted.

i know, near you, i myself feel good. & this is enough for me, my friend.