Archive for January, 2009


Ari Up!

January 31, 2009

Rasta punk legend …




On A Ragga Tip

January 31, 2009

Awesome 90s ragga – check the dance moves and fashions

the ragga tip

the ragga tip


The Thief Of Poetry

January 30, 2009

I am the thief of poetry

Sneaking into Borders

Loading up from the desolate

Poetry section

Sitting drinkless in Starbucks

And drinking deep

Of the heady liquor

Of dead poets.


Rimbaud joins me for a while

And I call him a pompous twat

A hillbilly

Shooting poor Verlaine that way

He scoffs, tells me not to rock

‘The Drunken Boat’

He has some good lines.


Next is Baudelaire

And he bangs on

About wine and hashish

And I lap it up

Intoxicated on his passion

Overwhelmed by his words.


Bukowski chases him off

Plonking down beside me

Telling me to stop

Stealing his style

Hang in there and

Just be yourself

As if I could be anyone else.


Finally, Allen Ginsberg

Mooches in

All stoop-shouldered and long bearded

Howling poems at me

I tell him I used to like Kerouac more

When I was younger

He laughs and says: ‘Me too.’

He flirts outrageously with me

Holy cocksucker that he is

And I distract him by asking

Him to describe the Café Six


When they’ve all gone

And I’m exhausted by conversing with ghosts

I stand, and look

At the closed books

To be abandoned in this

Plastic store

Unread and unnoticed

And I imagine a great prison break

Fleeing the store, barefoot

Alarums flaring

Guards pursuing

An armful of tomes

Racing for the monorail.


They would all be so proud of me

But I do not

And I leave, emptyhanded

But not emptyheaded

This chained-book chainstore

Is the real thief

Stealing our poets

Claiming them as its own

But we know

Their words are for us

And we are not thieves

But emancipators

Liberating these poor dead bastards

Escaping back into the world

Our heads full of them

Breathing life back into the

Narcoleptic streets.


A Global Industry

January 30, 2009

In Brickfields

Past the saddest petstores in the world

Where puppies dance and frolic

Pressed against glass walls

Seeking only love

Getting older

Moved from the window

To cages, then disappearing

To be replaced endlessly.


In Chow Kit

Through cheap meat markets

Ripe with stench

Where fish thrash in a glaze of water

Gasping, parched

Watching as the cleaver

Claims the head

Guts the stomach

Scrapes the carcass aside.


Five ringgit for a shirt

That looks like

A tequila sunrise

Poured into a glass

Covered in seaweed.


Then they spot me

“Hey, friend


I smile and try

To flee

I know what’s coming


He follows me


“You want yanga?

Yanga? Dadah?”


I smile, walk


He fades away.

Ten feet and

Two seconds later


“Hey. Hey.

You want girl?

Massage? Blowjob?

All young girls

Chinese. Malay.

Indonesian. Indian.

You look first.

Then decide.”


And in that instant

That’s exactly what I want

The desire is planted into

My mind

But something drives

Me away


No, no, no thankyou

Smiling and walking

The matsalleh and

His morality


Who am I kidding?

I’d fuck anything

That offered itself

As long as it was

Free and honest.


Paying for it is a whole new game.

A different world.


The world’s oldest profession

Is exploitation.


In Amsterdam

They live in little glass boxes

A tourist site

And people form

Orderly queues

Along the canals

“Fuck and suck,

50 Euro.”


Then you slide with the crowd

Down into an impossibly narrow alley

To find the otherside

The swollen, bloated, old whores

Shaking their meat

“I’ll suck your titties,

Lemme lick your pussy”

The Irish guys went crazy

For it.


In Barcelona

There’s a street for the transvestites

Who grab your balls

And steal your phone

At the same time

A free service


“Ey, ey, let’s go,


Next to that

The Russian street

Where I once watched a man

In a wheelchair

Driving from one girl to the next

Back and forth

Waving his money

Being angrily denied

A horny Stephen Hawking

Everyone has their limits

“30 Euro for me,

10 for the room.”


Down from there

The Barrio Chino

Right out of the tourist zone

Where the girls carry

Hidden knives

And coffee shops swarm

With Arabs

“20 Euro for me,

10 for the room.”


In Thailand

I wandered into a bar

An innocent

And was beset by a legion

Of moon-faced girls

Who all wanted


To play games

And something unspoken

“1500 baht

For the night.”


All these girls

Had the same look in their eye

A hardness

Like nothing

Or nobody

Could touch them

In the same way




January 18, 2009

She came back and said she had told her dad about me

And he had replied

“So now you are dating that funny looking matsalleh?”

That word again I had heard so often

Accompanied by laughter and soft derision

I am far from home, and this word I don’t own

Fits uncomfortably into my personal composition.


(They even call her coconut; brown on the outside, white in the middle).


Are we really defined by race?

By the colours of our face?

But they feel the same; soft-smooth skin

And our hearts beat the same rhythm.


Her father was unhappy

And now daily tells her not to marry; not to embarrass the family

For I will never be considered their kin

Even if I convert and sacrifice my foreskin

Even circumcised I’ll always be circumspect

Given some respect but always a reject

Simply because of my melanin-defect

For both my race and religion are from the wrong set.


It is HARAM. I am HARAM. We are HARAM.


So maybe I’ll never get my Bumiputra discounted education and housing

And I might remain a heathen and a sinner

In their eyes

But at least I try to transcend skin colour

At best I look beyond the appearances and the differences

At least I seek the humanity within us all

They are trapped by their definitions

We break free and forge new ones

And when she puts her hand brown in my white

And the two become one

I’ll say to all those name-callers and curtain-twitchers

This matsalleh has his own words for you

And that is

That some sons of the Earth are real sons of bitches.






Please Don’t Arrest Me Under The ISA

January 11, 2009

Please Don’t Arrest Me Under The ISA


This is not a poem about Malaysia

This is not a poem about Malaysia

This is not a poem about Malaysia


This is not a poem about institutionalised racism

Not about fear, division, hatred

Not about conformity, self-censorship and blindness

This is not a poem about mindless construction and destruction

And slash and burn economics


This is not about a one party state


Nor is it about theocracy, autocracy, hypocrasy and a complete lack of democracy

About dead Mongolians, sodomy or segregation

About apartheid, 13% discounts or sons of the earth


This is not a poem about propaganda, fascism, consumerism or detention

About the disappeared, the Orang Asli

This is not a poem about Malaysia.


This is a poem

About the poem

I cannot read out

The words I cannot say

The things I cannot think, or feel

The person I cannot be

Even though this poem is not about Malaysia


Tell the hakim

Tell the jury

Tell my lawyers

Tell the people when I disappear

When I am detained

When I am revoked

When witnesses testify I sodomized them

Or drugs are found in my house

Or a bullet in my head

That it should not be so


This is not a poem about Malaysia.