gangster movie

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

- Mary Oliver

photo by Sammy-Williams at pixabay



gangster movie


The pool hall is dark except for
the lights at the beige tables.
Two very bulky military police
guys push open the doors
and saunter into the hall
their eyes sharpened
for army deserters
their polished helmets
gleaming in the dim lights
their .45s automatics
in their holsters.

Boys, keep drinking your beers
don't get us into trouble.
The chatter dropped to a whisper
the clatter of ivory balls stopped
as they walked across the hall
steely eyes fixing on every face
every twitch of taut muscle
every curl of cigarette smoke
and there and then
i felt like a useless extra
in a gangster movie.



written 29/04/2009
revised 30/11/2012
revised 06/07/2021
***************


Note the revisions. A very longish poem came to this...

---

SiM - The Sound of Breath

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

what are their names

We are drinking our beer and eating hotpot under the stars. The street looks vaguely familiar. We know we had never been here before. But we knew we had been there before.

photo by dimitrisvetsikas1969 at pixabay



what are their names


how many towns did we missed
some up in the hills?
What are their names?
these towns, these streets
that we passed through
like a whirlwind?
why do the children cheered
when our armored vehicles
stop at their shops?
because we pay in greenbacks
but the cities
the big ones
we know their names
because well,
R&R
and where we catch
our jetliners home

we don't care
how paddy grows,
this way
or that
why hogs roll in the mud
as we marched through
poor villages
rifles drawn
old grandmas look at us
with fire in their eyes
spooning plain porridge
into their mouths
home is a hut plastered
with red paper
with golden words asking
for blessings
and
everyone is glad
to be alive

I wondered how those kids
have grown
munching on giant fish balls
and wild boar meat.
how they will miss
our greenbacks

and I still do not know
some of their names.



02/06/2022
**********


We trace a line across the map and it leads us home...

---

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Déjà Vu

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

ROC '76

We train for war, so that we may live in peace.

photo by Pexels at pixabay.



ROC '76


In stony silence,
in fits of exhaustion,
we hunched & huddled
in the blood-red mud
& watched the 81s opened up
punishing the hills beyond the ridge.
Not for us the adage of glory and country
but faraway images of home,
a beer, a shower, & a woman to cuddle.

We hunched together
waiting, in a fine drizzle
that coiled around the blue hills,
the final manoeuvre of the battle,
as a haze of gun-smoke and diesel
washed over our tired bodies.
Somewhere to the east,
defiant GPMGs chattered.

As rivulets of rain
flowed down dented helmets
to sweat stained brows,
we struggled with a last smoke.
(have you tried lighting a wet cigarette ?)
We heaved ourselves up
laden with packs and
weapons and fatigue
and coaxed tired limbs
in mud-caked boots
to trudge a final kilometre to base.



written 09/04/1988
revised 05/10/2011
******************

Rosemary at Poets & Storytellers United wanted us to share our musings on war and/or peace.

---

U2 - Bullet The Blue Sky

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

routine jungle training

Keep calm. Carry on.

artwork by saydung89 at pixabay


routine jungle training


it is still raining
in the jungle
not heavy
but the dink dink dink
on the helmets
drives you crazy
and it's damn cold
even with the ponchos
and the rifle's gonna
get very screwed
and we can't light
a cigarette
even if we wanted to,
trash the rules
should have just
abort this patrol,
haul us back to base
or to the orchard
we passed yesterday
where we stole papayas
off the trees
and the irate farmer
came rushing at us
with a machete
and we ran
like kids caught stealing
(we were)
past a laughing village lass
a very well-endowed one
and if we had time
we would probably
exchange name cards
but we are taking no chances
with a farmer swinging a blade
so you see
it's one bad shit
after another.


15/11/2010
**********

This looks like a one sentence poem, hey?

---

Dire Straits - Ride Across The River

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

photo#1975

“Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door."

― Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

photo by The British Museum at Unsplash



photo#1975


what fishes?
there are no fishes

the big boys with the nets
have trawled them

and what remains
are miserly opportunities

that are slipping by
slippery beyond grasp

me, i get by
with small fry.


undated. prob. 80's
***************

Found this old piece in an old (read angry) journal, sighed, and let it loose on the internet.

Rosemary at Poets and Storytellers United tells us "to bear witness to these times we are living in, and how it feels to be living in them." I am posting one that is not about these present times but about a certain year, and a rather pivotal one.

---

The Vietnam War ends with the fall of Saigon. One of the lasting images of the war is that of a helicopter lifting off from the roof of the American Embassy, evacuating. Over in nearby Cambodia, the Communist Khmer Rouge had captured Phnom Penh earlier and begins a genocide of anyone who looks smart. In the space of slightly more than two weeks, US President Gerald Ford survives two assassination attempts by two women wielding handguns, both times in California. Perhaps the girls have been in the sun for too long. Bill Gates and Paul Allen founded Microsoft and Jaws opens in cinemas, frightening us off the summer beaches. Back home, amendments to the law are made to introduce the mandatory death penalty for some drug trafficking cases, and the Area Licensing Scheme is launched in a bid to control traffic into the city core, the world's first such scheme. And I complete my conscription service in the army. All these in 1975.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

this is not the right time to think about dinner

Fear is not evil. It tells you what weakness is. And once you know your weakness, you can become stronger as well as kinder.”
– Gildarts Clive (Fairy Tail)

photo by Marjan Blan from Unsplash



  this is not the right time      to think about dinner


my boots sank into the mud     (space enough for one more )
  a carcass of a dog nearby     one more war number          
       half sunk in the mire     some fur or hair broke free
purplish belly, bloated     sloshing in the slush    
and the flies, the flies     more flies, squadrons  
buzzing buzzing     circling, looking  
like orbiting choppers     to drop their eggs      
       the rain still falling     little droplets glisten cold
on man, trees and grass     the weeds thick on boots
       this jungle trail     slick and treacherous
of crushed ferns and twigs     spears of dead bamboo      
this is an orchard with      jaws of razor teeth      
     no promises of life     silence & quick breaths
then the point man yelled     and was then silent          
         we froze     someone curses
   guns hugging bodies     we try to stay silent     
        raindrops dripping     fear dripping off helmets
    off the muzzles of rifles     clicks off safety catches     
       we lift our wet rifles     aim into the half darkness
   arms numbed with cold     and prepare to fire           


25/10/2021
**********


Are you enjoying your war movie?
I am afraid that the poem will not display well on smaller screens.

Twin cinema, which this poem is written in, is a poetic form written in two discrete columns. Each column can be read individually from top to bottom. It can present correlating or differing images. It can also be able to be read across the two columns. When doing so, each poem (Column 1, Column 2, and across the 2 columns) may tell a different story. The first twin cinema poem was created by Singaporean poet Yeow Kai Chai.

---

The Smashing Pumpkins - Bullet With Butterfly Wings

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

an oasis in a desert of ennui

pick an ace, man, pick an ace...

photo by mrganso  at pixabay



an oasis in a desert of ennui


as i am sitting in this bar waiting for the world to end
a gecko is crawling on the opposite wall
checking out the posters of happy people drinking beer.

if you are thinking of pretty girls look for another joint
there are just us, a dozen or so of ugly slobs
that people want to punch and cops like to pull in.

there's really nothing much we can do, a desert of ennui
lift some bottles, light a fag, people die in wars
and accidents and that gecko would still be on the wall.

the bar-keep stares at me, looks at my army crew cut,
goes pour himself a drink, he probably
has a parang under the counter to ward off evil.

i stub out the cigarette, drink the last of the beer,
the last bus to my camp is due soon, can't miss it,
though the bus-stop is conveniently outside

i wave a salute to the barkeep, the fucker smiles,
as i push out the old-west saloon doors,
and walk out to a loud, unforgiving night.


07/01/2021
**********

---

Pink Floyd - Have A Cigar

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

R.O.D.

That was a really long time ago, but it seems like it was only yesterday...

photo by yapo-zhou at Unsplash



R.O.D.


just a tired wave to the guard at the gate,
no words, not one needed
those days of running in the sun, humping hills,
cold rain in dark jungles
half forgotten, gruff sergeants, muddy tracks,
sweat, curses and comrades'
faces and names i thought i really remembered,
goodbye godforsaken camp!

their bitching still clear, in hokkien, mangled
english, honest, unapologetic,
fuck the army, as the sergeant screamed of big
elephants in rifle barrels,
and now on this bus ride home to a change of clothes
from fatigues to polyester
the sounds and smells of the streets vaguely familiar
like home to an old place.


06/06/2021
**********


The title refers to the last day of conscription service, when you return to civilian life. On that day, some laugh, some cry, some spit, some are indifferent. I am not sure what's the acronym these days.

Posting this on the eve of our National Day.

---

Roger Waters - The Gunner's Dream

Shared at Writers' Pantry #82 at Poets and Storytellers United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

guns

When I was a child living in the inner city, my parents or my uncle would take us kids to an amusement park near our home. In the early days before tv or the super malls, these parks were the go-to spots of entertainment for the masses. Besides the usual ferris wheels, carousels, and bumper cars were the game stalls and joget dance halls. There were also the gun stalls where there was always a small crowd watching. Perhaps the sound of splintering glass attracts or they just liked to see a shooter fails.

image by dsnake1



guns


1962

      i wanted to try
      but i have no money
      and the gun was probably
      too heavy
      so i just watched
      as the stall lady
      pulled the lever
      of the air gun
      handed the weapon
      to a shooter
      all the while
      a lit cigarette
      dangling in her mouth
      that inch of ash
      strangely not falling
      and the shooter
      was taking his time
      undecided on his targets
      beer bottles light bulbs
      metal yellow ducks

      up above a full moon
      scattered its light
      on the fairground


1972

      i wanted to get this
      over as soon as possible
      the air was too hot
      the steel helmet too heavy
      so i just watched
      the target in front of me
      a wooden board with
      a poster of a soldier
      and as we shooters
      lay prone in the dust
      eyes peering through gun sights
      the detail sergeant
      on the bullhorn growled
      the order to fire
      and as i pulled back
      the charging handle
      of the M16
      heard the bolt clicked
      i was thinking of
      beer bottles light bulbs
      metal yellow ducks

      up above a blazing sun
      fired its rays
      on the rifle range


written on 28/05/2012
minor edit 25/02/2021
******************


This poem was published here on this blog before. Little eyeballs. Here we go again.

---

Daryl Hall & John Oates - Screaming Through December

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

21, redux

21. Why 21? Because I spent my 21 up on a dark, rain-soaked hill. No cake, no candles, but still lots of fireworks. Though it was not war, just an exercise, still it was tough luck spending your day like that.

This is a major revision of an earlier poem.

photo by pixzito at pixabay


21, redux


Orion was looking down at us
crouching on this dark hill
as a rain soaked wind
brushed leaves and weeds
we, troopers watched in awe
red tracers probing targets
as the tank guns opened up
flinched & jerked in a frenzied dance
in the brief light of muzzle flashes
pouring 75mm shells into the butte
to explode in showers of mud,
a frosted plate of dark sky
now palely illuminated
as white flares arced
in graceful parabolas
the trees and ridges
frozen in hues of black and green
we clutched our weapons,
the metal of the M16
cold on tired skin
we checked our gear again
magazines knife bullets
a wait for orders
no prep talk
no hands on heart
just an exhale of relief
the crunch of boots on wet gravel
as we trudged down the hill
our shadows gliding on trees
spooked by illum rounds.


✿
27th November 1989
revised 15/02/2006
revised 02/07/2019
****************

---

U2 - New Year's Day

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

the amulet

we need not walk alone.

photo by DavidZydd at pixabay


the amulet


she asks me, what's this thing around my neck.
it's an amulet, i say, it will protect me.
it protects me from spirits and snakes and small arms.

she works her fingers down my spine, expertly.

it's just a dirty dark metal thing, she says.
she knows all the pressure points on the body.
she kneads those knots, the pain rushes out like a cat.

an Irish saint is in there, don't be rude, i say.
but what's an Irish saint gotta do with you?
oh sweet, can you be generous and give that piece to me?

and then i go out there and stop a bullet tomorrow?

please? she works her fingers again, expertly.
she knows all the pleasure points on the body.
she kneads those knots, my hand reaches out to her waist.


21/05/2020
**********

---

Band-Maid - Choose Me

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

home

This is from an old post but I think it is worth sharing again.

Life throws you to unexpected and strange places, but you will always come home.

photo by dsnake1



home



what can be seen then
when we have returned
our arms for the night
our backs against
the weathered boards
of our barracks
as we slowly savoured
every wisp of
cigarette smoke
(and some had more
than just tobacco)
our fatigues unbuttoned
boots unlaced,
removed
as we flicked butts
towards the perimeter fence
towards the concertina
razors
that are protecting us
keeping us in

what can be seen then
an evening sky
blushing red
the colour of
muzzle flashes
red tracers
clouds stretched thin
like oily gunsmoke
and a scimitar moon
unsheathing
and then
through the thousands
of kilometres

the faces of
girl friends
wives
& children
waiting
for their loves
to return

home.



23/09/2012
**********

---

Tracy Chapman - Stand By Me

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

valkyrie

Boredom needs a distraction.

pencil sketch by dsnake1



valkyrie
lim chu kang, mid '70's



they said she could floor you with a punch
if you make her just this mad.
so we were expecting her to leap
and somersault over the tables
like some wuxia swordswoman
or slash her way across the coffee shop
an unstoppable medieval amazon.
but she just sits quietly at the counter
looking at us like a wary hawk

we wave for another beer
she saunters over
bottle of cold beer in one hand
bottle opener in another.
she counts out the cash
pops the bottle expertly
we watch her walking back to that counter
her hips too wide for that pair of shorts
have to watch out for her dad though
he is the local triad enforcer

so we just look quietly at this valkyrie
she in her long black hair and tiny t-shirt
measuring her, trying small talk with her
drink our beer eat our carrot cakes
and prawn noodles smoke our cigarettes
sometimes sweating out the night
thick with rumours and gnats
waiting for our night transport
to take us back to the shithole
a couple of clicks away
that is our camp.



03/06/2016
**********

To the tough lady (sorry, i missed your name) who manned the counter at that coffee shop near our base at lim chu kang, thanks for the beer and coffee and conversations, wherever you may be.

---

"I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

--John Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

the pub singer

In a pub of a foreign country while on R&R, we came across a lady singer who I thought her voice was heavenly. (or maybe we were just too happy to see any lady).

Anyway, years later, that event inspired this poem.

pencil sketch by dsnake1



the pub singer
unnamed pub, taipei



in the noisy pub
the babble dropped
to a whisper
as the first strains
of the
plucked strings
drifted through
the fog
and neon
of the hall

and then that
crystal voice
like a plea
out of a void
a shooting star
on a dark sky

the pub singer,
she was there,
in the centre
of the stage,
lit up like a store display
under pools of pink
and orange lights

she sat on a high stool
plucking away on a guitar,
plucking our heartstrings
as she sang of love
and wanderings
and olive trees at home,
her oval face and
bob cut hair haloed in neon,
rounded hips tight in denim jeans

i asked a waitress
what was the singer's name
she said these girls are like
blooms from trees
and i thought
in my country
she would be a star.



written 06/03/2006
revised 23/01/2010
******************

---

"I have wandered so far, so far
for the olive tree of my dreams"

-- The Olive Tree, sung by Chyi Yu

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

moths

I wrote this, intending to submit it (and a few others) for the Golden Point Awards 2015, a national writing competition. So I thought I would polish it up a bit, office work took its toll and the deadline breezed by (can you imagine it was three years already?). So yeah, forget it, I will just post it here (and the rest of the lot, if ..) Wonder how it will perform in the competition though. :)

drawing by dsnake1 done with Sketchpad 4.0




moths


i

When I was a small boy, my father would talk to me in hallowed tones about Dien Bien Phu, showed me from some Chinese magazines, the monochrome prints of tired soldiers, a landscape so scarred by shells it could well be the moon and parachutes in the air like thin black mushrooms. I do not understand why a battlefield in Vietnam could excite him so.


ii

My father had come to South East Asia, looking for their Ellis Islands, their torches bringing them to a new land, as insects attracted to light, growing roots, hear the fledgling politicians pounding their socialist rhetoric, taking sides, staking a claim on an opportunity, building a home from scratch.


iii

In time, i served this new land, i bit a cigarette too, dug foxholes in hills, filled sand-bags just like some French troopers, biting on their Gauloises, in some hell hole in South East Asia. Only difference was, i need not fire a shot in anger, our Anne-Maries, Beatrices and Isabelles were not trampled upon, and died.


iv.

Later I retraced my father's words, understood why Dien Bien Phu made him proud of his skin, why we may forgive, but never forget, even among our own creed. And why my parents made sure that their children do have an opportunity that they were denied. In time I understood all these, there was so much learning even in a house without electricity and running water...


v.

bright pressure lamp
moths come in from the night
to die


written 08/04/2007
revised 13/06/2007
revised 25/01/2013
******************

---

“Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door.”

― Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems


And a song if you are thinking of home : CSNY - Our House

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

the wind hears us

This was a response to a prompt at Midweek Motif at Poets United. Wind Power. Some response. It was many super moons ago. Better late than never, okay?

vector drawing by illustrade at pixabay





the wind hears us



the night is falling
the wind is coming home
it carries with it
the smoke of burning weeds
from the fields
the sweet scent of a lit cigarette
the shrill squabbling of birds
in the trees coming home to roost
the sergeant's angry yell at a guard
hokkien profanities
the thud of helmets on soil
the clicks of emptying weapons.
a song wafts from a pocket radio
the lady singer crooning
love is a river that won't flow back.

someone says he misses home
the wind hears us, sighs
and nods in agreement.


15/06/2016
**********

---

“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”
― William Faulkner

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

There must be wars being fought out there

This is a poem that was accepted and published in an online poetry magazine, The Sidewalk's End, a decade back. It was one of the first few poems I submitted for ezines. I am quite fond of this poem, maybe it speaks to me in a certain way.

photo by mzacha at morguefile.com



There must be wars being fought out there


After dinner, we sat on the verandah outside our bunks
smoking, soaking the breeze
watching the day going down over our camp.

The perimeter was just metres away
and through the chain-link fence, the rusted concertina
sometimes we see iguanas, monitors and wild dogs.

Today we saw the snipers on night exercise again
getting down from their unimogs
cradling their night gear & sniping rifles.

We waved at them, they sulked at us,
poor bastards, they are going to feed mosquitoes
and then they were gone, into the jungle, like ghosts.

My buddy leaned off the weathered planks
stretched his limbs like a yoga master
shouted fuck it! & lit another cigarette.

I wasn't sure what pissed him off
maybe the snipers, maybe the insects buzzing around us
or he was just thinking about his run-out date.

As if to offer moral support i said yeah fuck it
leaned back and took another cigarette from him
thinking it will be another humid night again.

The frogs and crickets are up and singing their songs
as the darkness descended over us
like a mailed fist.

I looked past the faint slice of moon
past the constellations, through the light years and
thought surely there must be wars being fought out there.


22.03.2006
**********

---

"What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers. I believe that, too.
And even if wars didn't keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death.”

― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


Shared on Poetry Pantry #328 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

returning

Another from my SingPoWriMo archives, which seldom have many eyeballs. Reminiscing about my army days. This is one of those poems that "wrote itself". The muse kindly took my hand and glided it over the paper. Sigh.

photo by dsnake1




returning




returning back
to camp
from the hills,
no one noticed
that
daylight had broken,
the toads
had stopped croaking,
only
our muddy boots,
our rifles rusting
from last night's rain
and
the grass,
green and
slick with dew.


09/04/2016
**********

---

"as the black shell of a sky fell on us
my comrades, my brothers
my thoughts, their thoughts we tumbled towards
home."

-- dsnake1, excerpts from lonely when away from home



Shared on Poetry Pantry #323 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

on waiting to be enlisted

It was a time of brick walls and bloodshot eyes...

photo by dsnake1




on waiting to be enlisted
early freaking 70's




so this is it
this is the mousetrap
sprung
i have been listening
to Uriah Heep's 'The Park'
speaking of loss
and needless wars
looping looping
till the track is
scratched thin on the vinyl.

outside just a floor below
the noon traffic lumbers by
horns angry, tyres screeching,
men swearing in dialects
strange that i did not
noticed it before
those noises
or the stand-fan
in the corner of the room
blades turning
stirring stale air
dust motes settling
on the linoleum
again

i am slouched on the
battered sofa
my mother yells at me
to move my ass
nothing interest me now
maybe just the music
or the static
in the head
i am not even
angry anymore
and that's dangerous.

in a couple of days
the army will come for me.


30/04/2016
**********

guys, i wrote this for SingPoWriMo 2016.

---

"..the sun rose each morning to stare into my face with the blank but touching gaze of a lovely retarded child.”

― James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss


Shared on Poetry Pantry #300 at Poets United.


The Park by Uriah Heep.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

perimeter

when you are tired and on edge, and it is the middle of the night...

photo by hotblack
image from morguefile.com



perimeter






there was no warning
no sound,
a chill
slithered down
the spine

though
the night was warm
shadows flirted
with the
gibbous moon

outside
the perimeter
fence was

definitely

something.

the metallic click
of the bolt
locking home
was reassuring
as i armed the rifle.

HALT! WHO GOES THERE?

the eyes trying to
decipher
the shadows

HALT WHO GOES THERE!!!?

the fingers snapped
off the safety catch
of the gun

MUTHERFUCKER COME OUT!!

the breathing went laboured
the fingers damp
with sweat

and then
and then

with the moon
laughing
a soft breeze
breathing scorn

i knew

the ghosts were not
out there
the demons
were right here

inside the brain

about to breach
the perimeter.


28.01.2008
**********

---

“It's sad when you learn you're not much of a hero.”

― Tim O'Brien, If I Die in a Combat Zone: Box Me Up and Ship Me Home



I am not sure if it is okay to post a military themed work so soon after the tragic events in Paris on Friday. But damn it! The attacks prove one thing. It is getting more difficult to protect urban centres of major cities from terrorist attacks. The enemy do not play by conventional rules. They chose any target they like, they do not directly engage the military but attack so called soft targets, like clubs, restaurants, entertainment venues to extract maximum casualties. Security will increasingly be getting more expensive. We will lose a bit more of our privacy. We will get a bit more suspicious and paranoid and vocal. That is the harsh reality we will be forced into. But we will live life as normally as we could.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015