July 11 broadcast

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broadcast*cauldron4

mother’s mourning clothes
float lightly at night on hangers
like a flag, waving

words like ‘widow’, appear out of nowhere
then
’till death do us part’
and ‘our father in heaven”
such phrases, such gravity

unexpectedly, I think of my brother, still born
who may now be closer to father
and I think of grandfather,
who may now be closer to son

oh…and here comes the father’s day ads….

aftermth

“”Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,”
corinthians 15:51

 

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the body of my father is delivered
like mama shop stock from a van

 

the body of my father is stored in the parlour after hours
with the trolley of unopened yeo’s cartons

 

blow out the candles, turn off the lights, roll the shutter down
shop / life / closed

 

we sit at home at night in my mother’s room
wondering what is happening.
we sit in the dark before sleep, talking.
talking about it helps us believe.
talking about the absence makes it real.

 

in my downtime
i refer to my memory of his body
his youth, remade with make up
his lips, waxy and slightly curled into a subtle smile
his eyes, restful
hair sleek and tucked in
hands gripping black rosary
resting on the tattered, worn out prayer books he read from every night

 

 

In the morning I pack peanuts and red strings and mentos sweets in neat containers on each table
there are polar water cups, packets of lychee and green tea and chrysanthemum.
cheese crackers for a weeping mother.

 

I remember to go buy his 4D one day after his death
He’s busy in the western lands
He’s busy acclimatising to spirit

 

 

there’s this butch from my neighbourhood
loud mouth and drowsy at the front row of nightly prayers
she wears slippers that look like fish
mouth gaping, struggling for air

 

“he did not struggle for breath.” the doctor had said.
“he just stopped breathing.”

 

“I’m sorry.”
”my condolences.”
”I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

well meaning
repetitive
“thank you.”
”thank you.”
my heart breaks a little during every hug
I cannot remember when I last hugged him
my eyes grow wet
my tears roll down, warm and slow

 

I will not sob until the day I carry his coffin on my shoulders

 

we all don’t really break down
we are not loud or hysterical
we grieve in silence because that is his nature
our pain rests in quietude
the sound of this loss is a pin drop

 

 

there’s vindaloo curry , home made, one day before the funeral
dry mee siam and curry chicken
classic funeral food

 

I’m making sure the wardens have drinks
I’m making sure my mother has sugar
because normal dinner time is over
normal anything is over, at least until the new norm without father

 

i buy the bak paus for breakfast on Friday
“oh shit,” i thought, “we should abstain from meat on Friday.”
but it’s ok
what is abstinence at a time like this?
today is our private little good Friday
there will be a hill of skulls
there will be a finishing
I thought the skies might open up but it did not rain

 

I had to do a eulogy.

 

I finally sob when I carry his coffin on my shoulders

 

“If silence is the language of God, then my father knows this language well.”

 

I talk about the comfortable silence of his presence
I talk about his visions of Saint Joseph and Mother Mary
I talk about him ushering us into paradise
I talk but can’t quite hear myself
I talk but can’t quite get what i’m saying
I sob a little less carrying his coffin out of the church
I’m running around handing out ang pows to choirmasters and altar boys
I scramble into the front seat of the funeral directors car
because we have to make it on time to send my father to the flames

 

it’s a strange machine
the robot that carries the coffin at mandai
It looks like an arcade gaming console
that doesn’t quite console
it looks like that remote claw game that picks up stuffed toys for two dollars.

 

minutes before that
I finally see the full length of his suited body
when the coffin cover comes off
we place roses and symbolic flowers inside his wooden bed
Lillies for Saint Joseph, his warden sash and prayer cards from his wallet
I think i forgot to say, “bye dad.”
no one really utters anything
grief has a garbled tongue
I’m not really focussed on anything at this point

 

One of my sisters goes weak in her legs
as the arcade gaming machine slowly pushes his coffin to the mouth of the oven
we recite the Hail Mary many many times
the machine is slow as fuck
dragging the scene out as long as it can
“..and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
My mother asks, “What is happening?”
I point to his coffin seconds before the machine loads him into the fire
the door slowly closes.
There is nothing left to look at.

 

 

time for cold polar water
lychee and green tea
the bus is on a schedule. We should get moving.
i hand over the framed photo of my father to my mother
a photo taken at their wedding anniversary.

 

I’m thinking of sambal kang kong and prawn paste chicken
fried rice and yam dessert for lunch.
The same meal we had for my father’s birthday lunch.

 

I spend the bus ride back talking about headphones
I don’t even think of his body burning somewhere back there near the zoo, near the bird park
he used to draw birds
i don’t think he ever brought me to the zoo,
I spend the quieter moments looking at the passing scenery
and how i had imagined myself on such and such a bus at such and such a funeral
how quickly these imaginings become reality
how quickly the day of admission had turned into time of death
9.26am. 08 may 2018.
Three minutes after the doctor had called me to say,
“Your fathers breathing is slowing down. You should come down. I’m sorry, but I think your father will pass today.”
We didn’t feel an urgency.
Wasn’t annoyed at all the red lights we were caught at on the way down.
I used to fear not being there at the moment of his death.
then it didn’t matter
Three minutes.
I didn’t even feel him pass.
But I knew that he would
that day, hours before ICU
when he said to his nurse, “This is my Son.”
and when he had said to me, “It’s O.K. It’s O.K.”

 

He took his time
to give us time.
He slipped slowly and easily into the great night,
un-rushed, just like he was in life.
His was an easy death to me.
No fuss. No noise. No real struggle.
“Are you ok?” i would ask.
“Okaaaay.” He would emphasise.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“We will see you tomorrow OK?”
“Ok.”

 

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#irvingpaulpereira

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tespunett

 

Tespunnet

 

_

 

Tespu, bare chested and macrocosmic, the poignant asana of dangerous pools versus pastures of immolalation’s rest.

Tespu, of the spreadeagled, languid and profound, shall welcome the arrival of Devi San, who brings cherry blossoms and inquisitions.

She will cry out, O’ magnificent Eidolon of Tespu, many tongued so foul and full of widows, surrogate!

I am an aspect of your protelysing and prompting of psychopomps!

Potent is the way path of your maddening , the clarion call of our new sanctum!

As it was in Helios, so it is in Harbinger!

Connive your precious girders from the blueprint of my wet womb’s web

Live forever in these aeonic heavens and be consistent with your roaming tongue of fire and ferociousness

O’Mystical comic being from the absurd gene pool of the jester

Let your objective be the splaying of my eggs upon the fields of your panopticon!

Spit forth the septic seeds from your storming Septunian tower!

Concentrating foci to unify honeycomb and venom and virile tachyon sweat streams into an inevitable cauldron of desire!

Penetrate my mystery, O’ Grand Thief Of Tespu, that splits my fruit before your nonchalant face!

Be the Yang of my Soul, of my Species and Star lineage, merge into me O ridiculous Tespu and let us coalesce into an eternia worth feeding on!

DOOR

You put your ear to the door
to hear the fire inside

I offer you sushi but it’s not your offering

I put my ear to the door, to hear you smoking outside

you offer me the flowers from your arm
but my grave is full of fruit.

we watch the red curtains burn down.

you speak of the trains you missed
I talk about palm trees and snakes in the garden.

You laugh about how heavy the black doors are
while I vaguely point to the world of the natives.

#irvingpaulpereira

septu

septu as
monolith
menagerie
amalgam of the east

 

many faced temple
orbit / attic
whore-house of
moving nervous systems

 

septu in the eyes
as
tespu in the hands

 

also nest
also garden of eda
ocean
hive
winter desert of the north

 

half mast
full sail
blue disembodied fruit
or foot in landscape
or citadel fire
clothed in southern smoke

 

calendar mutant of septu
time wells of septu
waves in pastel light rooms
waves in neon rain street
waves through hyperspatial western fronts

 

night of strangers and protocol
night of darkness swimming
pools to the other spaces
pools of chlorine lumii
animal faced sipping cocktails near pools
world pools
crescent pools

99 nights for the scenes of septu

99 binary gates or rays
99 nodes on the map of epicide
99 circuits from the colony of null

 

septu as primary
seer
synchrophant
massive hallucinatory artefact

 

septu as secondary stimuli, surrealismepaths

 

septu in the bodies of toys
septu in the flora of dinner
septu in the partial lit hall
septu in tv
septu in crests and orifices
septu as witness to the lord tespu

 

#irvingpaulpereira