NICHOLAS CHNG


Nicholas Chng is a sprinting blur every morning on his way to school. He studies
literature and english linguistics at Hwa Chong Institution, and has been awarded a
Commendation from the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award and the Alan Brownjohn
Prize for Poetry by Newstead Wood School. In his free time, he enjoys fencing and
cooking pasta. He hopes one day to be as fast as Usain Bolt.






virtual reality goggles

I could trade you the whole deal
for a graphics card -
something I won't have to try so hard
to feel;
a new erricson,
for two hours it'll run,
or a blackberry for my misery

happiness is shallow -
toss me a float, or
fresh arcade tokens, enough coke
to fix a sore throat

I found the hollow in my bones today
there won't be anyone to be proud of me
when I am a soldier;
read the panels back to forth
and itís about a boy, who finds
everything he has ever hoped for.

it doesn't matter how they fall
it's two a.m, and
thereís ten more hours to pass
I could find glow sticks to bend, or
shut the door for a high
at least I'm still half a man,
you could still be mine, as long as
I don't try

throw some arcade tokens
and go back,
you'll find me in the morning,
chips in my hand
going clickety clickety clack






the half-life of a torch light

it's late, but

could you stay and play pretend
we can make real the
purple tyrannosaurus with kitchen
knife teeth and give
mammograms with flashlights
and plastic stethoscopes

watch fluorescent toy trains
in the dark, with imitation lead paint

I used to own a box
with puzzle pieces
of broken concession passes
and gyroscopes
that keep spinning,
long after you walk away






absolutions

a desk silent after its crash

hush now:
mommy will buy you a mockingbird

she didn't really mean those words

class dismissed
my ears are still ringing

come and
help me trim the fat off
with nail clippers

uncrumple notes
from shifty big tippers






october

sometimes I find myself
between the shelves
of a bookstore
crying a bit
like I'd forgotten
something
or someone

I never
want to be wrinkled
and undersexed

I never want to be cold

I never want
to be bone-white ashes
in a porcelain bowl

sometimes I find myself
between the shelves



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