Remus Ang (b. Singapore) is a new student at the University of Melbourne undertaking a Bachelor of Arts. His favourite forms of literature include drama and contemporary poetry, with his favourite authors being Richard Siken, David Hare, Margaret Atwood, Virginia Woolf, and Andrea Gibson. He believes that all types of literature should be able to evoke the myriad of emotions as well as unravel the many facets of the human condition, to which he hopes to one day be able to create a piece that would be able to do so.

 

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GROWING UP

No one knows where we are:
we could disappear and no one would notice unless you tell
because I wouldn’t, why would I? The fairytale of running away
was what I’ve always wanted I never signed up to be a hermit
amidst a chaos of broken beliefs we could go somewhere,
anywhere where you could be yourself and I could be myself
and we could cherish each other even when it’s bright outside
instead of waiting ashamedly till we fade into invisibility
and you will never have to leave because we are no longer eager
boys itching to learn more about our bodies and the bodies of others
we are no longer children thirsty for the experience
from whomever wanting to try us out we will no longer be lost
and irretrievable to people who see us as anomalies
I am saying there is more to love at this age I am saying it is more
than a rendezvous skittering around hidden and unknown alleys
or skating past steely taboos I am talking about love, not infatuation
I am talking about relentlessness instead of an eternal summer
I am talking about being whole and complete I am talking about happiness.

 

ANYWAY WE ARE PORNSTARS

Glossy eyes glazing across a room of bodies: potential
pornstars, I know what you’re thinking of, you’re thinking of sex,
not me, I am thinking of love yes you: the room is almost blue,
but not yet, because I am still green and you are pink
with lust – or is that red? I am the colour of love but I am purple,
not royal but the burden people you and I and everyone here bear
for knowing ourselves because boys who love boys are dead
boys unless “it’s just a phase,” then that’s fine, that’s liberal,
that is “keeping our options open,” but not really because we hide
behind closed doors waiting for others to pry us open and tear
our secrets apart – tear everything apart, before we disjoint
into pieces of our separate pallid and peace-less selves.
Anyway I am a pornstar and you are a pornstar but you are the famous kind
people pay to watch and buy rubberised merchandises of you
know what for you know what while I am the amateur edition
no one notices because pornstars like me fall in love and forget
to distance our bodies from our hearts and our hearts from someone else’s heart.
Anyway people watch porn for the aesthetics, lets face it:
no pretence or fairytale, just plain raunchiness; a bit of sweat,
a lot of swearing, absent of sweetness – the kind that does the job
not the kind that stabs you in the chest and wrangle your bones forcing
you to admit that love – love does the job. Anyway I am still in the corner
of the room with the flashing blue lights watching you
do your thing watching you move the way you move the way
you draw people in with your smile the way you look
at them glistening not in love but wanting their love – anyway
it is like collecting, what you do: a collector filling a vase
with more vodka than cranberry juice, letting the ice water it pink
before taking it whole like a drowning man gulping
for air it is a collector’s world and you stand proudly in your unblemished
box with the pristine plastic sheet conscientiously highlighting your special
functions and features while I am used goods with the marred packaging loitering
haphazardly in blue and my mouth taped shut looking at you glazy-eyed
still thinking how nice a shade of purple we would make anyway.

 

SPELUNKING IN THE DARK

Untangling ourselves around this mesh of darkness
surrounding us my body caving into you spiral into me
it pierces and tunnels craters into my heart
there are expeditions I wish we could give ourselves
to this cave airless with guilt but empty
of what you’re searching for you won’t find crystals
of redemption in here nor burrowed gems assuring your identity
but you can find diamonds of love, unpolished and genuine
the glimmer from the fridge and a grape from your mouth
into my mouth we lock our limbs rigid in this nightfall
our chests pressing and parting in continuous motions
for desire and air: which is more important to you, survival
or enlightenment? Validation or a presence?
I would like to say have both but I don’t want you
to leave. I would ask you to choose one but I don’t
want you to leave we are only this close to being ourselves
and you just have to say “let’s go and be free.”

 

MORNING LIGHT

I want to be a flicker the last wisp
of a candle before it empties itself dry
and complete into the air I want to be many things
maybe a fish
I could swim! A bird, I could fly
away I want to be a history book with my
name inscribed with many other names
people remember I want to be light
coexisting with you; a spectrum of colours
illuminating the world a Matisse hanging dead
centre in a stifling museum
people flock to admire I want to fight
dragons with you I want to be an unending
fairytale or something else something more
than the darkness we dissolve into
or dusky theatres with stale popcorn and blank
faces fixed onto blurry lights I don’t want to be
a guilty pleasure you indulge yourself with I
don’t want to be your secret I thought we
could start a fire together and burn and sear
our names for everyone to see.

 

DREAMING

You’re on the pavement of a place
you’re ashamed to be: nothingness
in motion, the kid’s on the road stumbling
in the rain with a cigarette in his mouth
demanding to know why you’re not there
with him, says he wants to know why
you broke his heart and came back so many
times so many damn times – pleads with you
to stop, tells you you can’t hurt him anymore
when he’s completely numb to your schemes
tells you he’s got a strategy, that it’s the only way
to tread through the boundaries of love—
the only way to make it past the night without
aching for a body – your body, tells you everything:
about the dream where he watches you undress
while he stood in the corner of the room with his
unclothed self his skin prickled cold by more than
the stillness of the air he tells you everything:
how you approached him indignant and wanting
to drive more than your mouth into his mouth;
how he felt your love so hard and raw your fists
thundering bruises into his chest and hands
trying to pry deeper than the skin on his face
tells you everything. Confesses: that it’s over
and he’s through says he feels nothing for us
says something more than silence he’s tired
of dancing or playing the dummy in your crash
test drive loving you isn’t enough it is never enough
with you he means words he means himself
some things cannot be complete they lose
themselves mid-circle the night settles his
smoke smothers and he drifts away into limbo.

 

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