EDWARD ENG


Having recently given up his corporate career plans, Edward Eng is an aspiring
playwright-filmmaker currently excited by ideas of backsliding hedonism, funky
metaphysics and moral ambiguity. Edward is in his second year reading Philosophy,
Politics and Economics at the University of Warwick, where his upcoming adaptation
of The Merchant of Venice set in a local prison is being staged. Will write for food.






10841 (or 6736 miles)
for Francis and others

sunrise, sunset,
and sunrise again.

perhaps what it means to be kept
away on national day is to not
know what it means

to raise in your own summer apartment
a windless flag, an unfriendly laksa mix
only to put them back down.

they say it is to let your hair grow long
in the pillows of a thick winter's sleep
but wrong is not for you to decide

it is a high functioning father
typing away as the corridor procession
aligns to another red, white formation.

6736 miles, or 10841 you are
where the thames lounges and reclines
and where the clouds seed out the heartbreaks

because when you talk about an
impossible visa it sounds half crazy
and when you say home is an unsewn place

you do not really mean anywhere in london.
you mean the gaping wound that brought you here.






Afterparty
for May

at morning, I
dreamt upon
the blue danube.

its gravity
comes (slowly,
slowly at first)

as The Sigh

then an ego
malnourished

splintering

between euston
and serangoon

between 'no'
and 'I cannot'.

you say this bed
is a photograph
better not taken

an ode to
some lawyer
and your family

a summer excursion by train

has won
against me

and whittled
permanence

to beneath a token nod.
This is as
you wrote it

and is as
I accept it

because if
I had an editor's body
this book would not end

with a toothbrush split
between your house
and mine.

but since I do not

I take in my mouth
mr shelley, his pen
and the royal spa town.

And the toothbrush you left me
I now keep in this house for good.






Last Visitors to the ICU
for Mr. N

dad says to wait outside for a second
too long, and in that supine ICU second

you are more than another island
yet uncharted, and in that white chalk island

dad is again your stethoscoped friend
fiddling with a breather bedside. and in that friend

you are more than occupation stories,
even laju of 1974, and in those leftover stories

dad caligraphs and signs a conscious plea for normal,
but what hard ideas these things can be. and in that normal

you are more than a stadium's worth to a celebration,
a landfill of platitudes to a tamil's nation, and in that celebration

dad chants in circles the pocketbook of prescriptions
and pauses now so deliberately, a prayer his last prescription






August 9
for D.B.

itineraries. loners. night sky. things you
laughed about. parademen. expectations.
a tiptoe. rulebooks. cigarettes. green desires.

abandoning post. painters. corridor jazz.
aquellos ojos verdes. long term plans. water.
inert voices. uniform. a loner. we couldn't care less.

thermos flask. the national anthem. drop of
wine. conscript breaths. counterpoint. eyes.
exes. her six neat cuts. your unmethodical eight.

tapestry. starline. japanese blossoms. field of
vision. conceded. a shallow sea. an unfinished sea.
another man. slight worry. flares. don't quite know how to.



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