Woman fights with people. Man
gossips (they do gossip, appear to) over uprisings in rotten
topography, while woman discusses (they do discuss, not
appear to, actually adhere to) rotten bones chemically-mixed
with sour peels somewhere in the rubbish mix. “That’s it,”
they all round up at the end; or
when they cannot round up the number to the exact digit
required by, like their spouse or their boss (why not
children if they have?), and they think
“that’s it—” what they mean is
not the end or the number but (perhaps, certainly to an extent)
a fight of the in-between. A much-aspired pause to signal the least
enthusiasm, which has the minimal ability to last; In between
is a clear demarcation. Difference speaks louder than
silence. “Listen,” continues man, “monkeys like us hardly
get the digit right as long as we do not misplace the order of
numbers.” Woman says, “Hey,” then with a twisted
angle of something, that should be lips or teeth, or the creased
dent between the lips and teeth, “that hits the deepest core
of the seem-to-be most frivolous but the most matter-of-fact
sophistication--
I don’t even want to see a cockroach’s antennae no matter
how less millimetre it appears. I mix up two with three”--
(does she?) She still has to flatten away the two sided
linen-cones rounded up after last night’s on-bed fight. No iron
should be used, she thinks—“Iron belongs to man, I have
my own hands—two plus ten.”
Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing from the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favorite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.
gossips (they do gossip, appear to) over uprisings in rotten
topography, while woman discusses (they do discuss, not
appear to, actually adhere to) rotten bones chemically-mixed
with sour peels somewhere in the rubbish mix. “That’s it,”
they all round up at the end; or
when they cannot round up the number to the exact digit
required by, like their spouse or their boss (why not
children if they have?), and they think
“that’s it—” what they mean is
not the end or the number but (perhaps, certainly to an extent)
a fight of the in-between. A much-aspired pause to signal the least
enthusiasm, which has the minimal ability to last; In between
is a clear demarcation. Difference speaks louder than
silence. “Listen,” continues man, “monkeys like us hardly
get the digit right as long as we do not misplace the order of
numbers.” Woman says, “Hey,” then with a twisted
angle of something, that should be lips or teeth, or the creased
dent between the lips and teeth, “that hits the deepest core
of the seem-to-be most frivolous but the most matter-of-fact
sophistication--
I don’t even want to see a cockroach’s antennae no matter
how less millimetre it appears. I mix up two with three”--
(does she?) She still has to flatten away the two sided
linen-cones rounded up after last night’s on-bed fight. No iron
should be used, she thinks—“Iron belongs to man, I have
my own hands—two plus ten.”
Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing from the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favorite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.
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