Round the Clock - Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé

pool used to be free at chong fan’s:
we knocked back tequila shots in personalised mugs
slow-cooked soup too, then sweet, creamy coffee
from sulawesi, the longhouse ceiling in teak
a sudden debussy showing up the draftsman
and a book opened to a scalar diagram
like a tonic, and unified field theory:

cut that sprawl out of my life, long-running:

josie du shon’s at bogart’s bar, her hillbilly blues
a shared equal billing: an indie rock band at piccadilly’s
yuppie brood on the look-out, for an all-in-one free-for-all

seven-eleven has the cinnamon pringles, in mini bags

the harley diehards arrive in their chrome
poses and ponytails: there goes all the ad execs
in a black slink, arbitrary curl out to monroe’s

another dramatic clatter, and ice on fire:

draw the arch the way you pencil your brows:
and everything shapes, gets an outline
markered like almonds:

more aloof bouncers: such a tint of a gaze
before next-morning sobriety, whatever gets us
through the day: this deep rush:
y’know, sex – and puppetry and animal skin –
is behind the console, deejay and his yaki perm
suspended in a leather harness: and hammock
where the droll seems rife, just wrung.

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Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé (born 1980)
Source: Best Poems