A Submission to the National Day Special Edition

It rains national identity cards.
The talking puppets from a circus
Perform a scene from ‘The Jarool Stub.’
First they get gratified. Then they go lunatic.
(I keep dreaming.) The corpse who had
Stolen the data from my lungs has been cut into  
Eight pieces, & dumped in the sea.
            On the way back from a treasure hunt
I take to the street in fixed dark clouds.
The helping hands form a mixture; instigation & police.
At eight sharp, my brain jelly is delivered.
Speaker: Democracy is the goal of our goal,
The flower bearer from the floral forest.
Non-speaker: Don’t . . . let . . . them . . . in . . .
Speaker: My speech is people.
Non-speaker: Don’t . . . let . . . them . . . out . . .
The hand that shakes is of the fist’s,  
Three little magenta pupa worlds,
The work of neurosis experts.
They say, ‘Grow white flags on that hill to feed yourself.’
They say, ‘Go!’ They say, ‘Die!’
Words are gratis for guests.
Upon close examination,
Decorative letters on an old signboard
Turn out to be a revised translation.
‘Love your own lineage.’ (On an abandoned
Apartment building or on a decommissioned factory.)
Blooming by design comes in
A late labor, & it’s mute.  
            Children poke my head
With bamboo spears.
As the helicopters pass overhead, the whole story
Is reduced to a fifteen-second radio article.
Just like bones thrown into a lion’s den,
            ‘Someday
I will let the dragonflies off that bottle.’
He promises.

A SUBMISSION TO THE NATIONAL DAY SPECIAL EDITION