tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34501800863943309222009-07-14T16:00:03.821+08:00Leon Wingnoreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-37066108652125701492009-06-19T11:27:00.003+08:002009-06-19T11:42:34.410+08:00

impressionsby N3koself-inducedconsternation - lazinessas usual, diversions surroundmy shell of smoked glasshaplesslywandering the labyrinth daysi search for prismatic remnantsof her animated memoriestranscribed in numbersreflected shadows strikelong-forgotten chordson these toneless strings,slackand dull, still resonatein anticipation of sunrisesleeplessstruggling at dawnto shake off those

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-67694870631643929502009-06-16T08:02:00.005+08:002009-06-17T08:27:40.291+08:00

every night she waitedby Maslina Arshadevery night she waiteduntil dawn camefor caressesfor his breath on her neckglimpses of faded intimaciesshe waitedhopinghe remembered,those days far agowhen all they had was one anotherwaiting in vainfor someone else's heart had him now© Maslina Arshad 2009Listen to this poem:Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is also a lawyer by day. She loves reading and

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-87818626843160697952009-06-15T13:25:00.003+08:002009-06-15T15:57:40.533+08:00

things my grandmother doesn't understandby Liyana YShe can't pull history out of graveyardsand squeeze them into this century's tiny housethis grey city she doesn't recognise.She could never count the daysso they run circles around herthe years tease her like a washingmachine tearing her old clothes to shreds.All she can do is call out for her past butthe tombstones never tumble, never shake an

Leon Wingnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-67209739201597105882009-06-13T09:43:00.006+08:002009-06-13T09:48:10.679+08:00

There is in the longingby Yusuf MartinThere is in the longingSomething profoundFull and compellingUrgingIncitingWilling the wantingObliging the havingAndIn the denyingSatisfiesFulfils.The observerLeft to yearnGazesAppreciatesLearns cognitionIs gratifiedWarmedWithin that glowOfnon-possession.The desiredPulls backFrom objectificationFreedPermanently otherUntaintedGlowingUniqueButTouchedBy adoration

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-27298029030045563282009-06-03T08:30:00.001+08:002009-06-03T08:34:24.198+08:00

Children Of The DarkBy Mmakgari Dabutha  We are behind when we visit the village. We are reminded by those that stayed of how things are supposed to be. They say things have changed. Yet you know they remain the same. So you have changed. You admire their lives filled with harmony and rich in spirituality. We come with the big cars and

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-77316363747189258122009-06-01T08:30:00.000+08:002009-06-01T08:44:25.874+08:00

Arcana II: The Question of controlby Pey Pey OhMagic’s about taking that stuff of the universe,Molding it like putty. Here I am again,Free of self-sacrifice but not the painof balance, doomed to traverse the fine line;With or without the blindfold, it still hurts.The lady with the scales, she has to beMy dark sister, can you see our arms shake, tensewith the ache of responsibility,The right angle

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-80993194449649159482009-05-30T09:03:00.007+08:002009-05-30T09:37:28.536+08:00

LeavingBy Damyanti GhoshLeaving. Such a lonely word, you say.Leave some thing, some place, some body.Walking away from somethingis sometimes a walk towards something else.But it can also be a letting go and not stopping.Letting the breath take you,carry you with itfor you to float nameless and without address,without friends or foes,without relatives, acquaintances.Just fall, fall, free fall

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-8248478645422193062009-05-23T09:10:00.000+08:002009-05-23T09:24:44.617+08:00

Arcana Iby Pey Pey OhToday the cards say,I used to be a woman wrestling with lions.Tangling with my shadow self day after day.Who was she?That smug empress under the pink blossom,The mother of the world, harmonious harbinger.I am amazed they have the same face and the same hair.The lady with the lion has got a good grip.Razor teeth, silky mane packing some solid muscle,I, too, live in this lion’s

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24136133768922116332009-05-22T12:00:00.001+08:002009-05-22T12:50:11.798+08:00

Secondsby Salasiah RadzaliOne, two, three.Three seconds. That's the most she could go without thinking about him.She was like that every time; her lips would quiver, her hands would shake and her body would shiver as thoughts of him entered her head."He is special," she told her friends.He is her obsession. Her one and only.Four, five, six.Six days have passed, and all of her friends were

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-55312976619442532009-05-21T14:46:00.001+08:002009-05-21T16:31:12.576+08:00

Jauhari wakes up in a lock-up ...Chapter 11 – Dang Wangiby George Paul WielgusWhen he woke up, it took him a long few minutes to remember who he was, and what he had been doing. All he could hear was metal scraping against metal, shrieking and screeching as it complained.   The ceiling was white, a burning sword of iridescent striplight blinding his eyes. His body was numb, completely,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-88647439396032333242009-05-20T09:00:00.000+08:002009-05-20T09:35:09.857+08:00

Back in Chow Kit, Jauhari confronts Azim ...Chapter 10 – Chow Kitby George Paul WielgusThey took a bottle of whiskey and left without much goodbyes. Tia was upset when Jauhari wouldn’t let her take her car, insisting that they all go in Iman’s, and the three of them made a surly drive over to Chow Kit, passing the whiskey and staring sullenly out the window. By the time the high buildings of KL

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-7005817414248685912009-05-19T16:00:00.001+08:002009-05-19T16:01:15.194+08:00

Jauhari gets off scott-free from the police, for now. Then, he joins a sex party ...Chapter 9 – Klangby George Paul WielgusThey let him go. They had to. The drugs test and the instant HIV test came back negative. All they had was suspicion, and since he hadn’t done anything, they let him back out with a warning to keep his nose clean. Jauhari took the SKL carton with him, and was smoking even

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-25102668201940331362009-05-18T09:10:00.000+08:002009-05-18T09:11:23.182+08:00

At the police station Jauhari gets more than he bargains for ...Chapter 8 – Dang Wangiby George Paul WielgusDang Wangi Balai Polis was painted white and ultramarine, and the floors of the balconies and car-park were gradually being filled with disused computer monitors and terminals. Piles and piles of them, stacked one upon the other, were accumulating like giant grey acorns from a cyber-tree in

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-3372201384789910462009-05-14T13:23:00.009+08:002009-05-17T09:28:56.777+08:00

Jauhari tries to draw Iman out ...Chapter 7 – Brickfieldsby George Paul WielgusOn Jalan Tun Sambathan, the bustle of Saturday commerce was already in full swing by the time Jauhari got there from Bangi. Banghra music flooded the street and the stench of incense was thick in the air as he killed time walking menacingly up and down the streets, clenching his fists and angrily sniping at people who

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-68577864784318635702009-05-14T13:06:00.009+08:002009-05-16T09:30:20.217+08:00

Jauhari sneaks back home , looks through pictures and videos, to find some clues ...Chapter 6 – Bangiby George Paul WielgusThe next morning, it was still dark when the Wira, shattered windshield and all, pulled up outside the Bangi bungalow. Frogs were honking quietly, rhythmically in the dark, as Alia met him conspiratorially at the gate, silently sneaking him inside.   Sneaking into his family

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-64386895326594765492009-05-13T13:54:00.011+08:002009-05-15T09:49:45.589+08:00

Jauhari returns to his place, and ruminates, about his past, his sister ...Chapter 5 – Titiwangsaby George Paul WielgusAll the way back, the orange street lights flashed over the crack in the windshield, casting a webwork of shadow over Jauhari’s face. He drove under the looming monoliths of condominiums, half-empty apartment blocks, each tipped with gaudy neon emblems that declared to all in a

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-13477902074829771102009-05-13T08:31:00.007+08:002009-05-14T09:36:03.874+08:00

Jauhari gets in with the dyke crowd ...4 – Petaling Jayaby George Paul WielgusSluicing through flood waters cluttering the drains, the Wira stammered to a halt outside the PJ shophouse. The sun hung like an orange bulb in the darkening clouds, plunging the neon city into luminescent twilight. Jauhari sat in the car, feeling his lungs labouring after even one puff on the shisha, still tasting

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-58750304215900542352009-05-11T13:04:00.011+08:002009-05-13T08:48:18.976+08:00

Jauhari and father identify the body, and he goes on the hunt for answers ...Chapter 3 – Sri Hartamasby George Paul WielgusAfter the balai polis, Jauhari had driven his father back to Bangi and sat with him in the car whilst he wept openly. Shame and frustration burned inside of him whilst his father, ever the cold, ever the unemotional, was wracked by huge, gulping sobs of grief that he would

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-55600087960356343652009-05-11T12:31:00.010+08:002009-05-12T08:02:37.780+08:00

Jauhari goes home, to find out what happened to his sister ...Chapter 2 – Bangiby George Paul WielgusAs his Wira pulled up outside the fenced off bungalow compound, the engine stuttered and choked. The house had changed since he had last been over: black metal bars casing the windows, trapping the floral curtains inside. He’d had trouble finding it amongst the identical buildings that filled up

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-90158376043477608722009-05-10T11:23:00.020+08:002009-05-13T08:27:49.560+08:00

TMPC is proud to be serialising a novel from an Englishman living and working here in Malaysia.  For the next two weeks, you'll be gripped by the adventures of an unlikely local hero.In the first chapter, we meet security guard Jauhari Bahktiar bin Johan. Piles-ridden, fighting back more than just smoking, he is trying to right his life when he receives unexpected news . . .Chapter 1 – Taman

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-62541388014842934202009-05-02T09:05:00.008+08:002009-05-02T14:08:53.751+08:00

The battle field is yoursby Carol Marufuwho said to you arisearise and dreamwhat? arisearise and dreamwho said to you ariseyou arose with such hopearose with such passionwhat? arosearose and dreamtwho said to you arisearise and dreamdon’t you know he soon will steal your dreamWhat? ariseooh no stay dead and he will not care notdream and he will make it his plan of the dayto arise and take your

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24900617374474560302009-04-23T08:47:00.007+08:002009-04-23T10:05:49.234+08:00

In this exclusive excerpt from a novel by a local writer Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli, the main character Adrian is in love with Rina. A Malaysian with a touch of the Irish in him, Adrian is working his gig in a bar, when he meets a talent scout not exactly looking for singing talent ...Adrian's Last Songby Fadzlishah Johanabas RosliI had been singing here almost every week for the past year. More

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-53323313877320607782009-04-20T08:56:00.012+08:002009-04-20T09:25:53.506+08:00

The Sealed VoiceThe voice is sealed.Listen. Gust of airPermeates the dark room.Dust daubsThe chained windows.Dolorous eyes lookUpon the unopened windows.The wallpaper of metal walls knitted.No doors. No light.Listen. The voice is sealed.The windows could never beOpened, Unlocked, Freed.Listen to this poem:---LamppostStanding still, shivering,I could not wring the coldness.Under the unlit

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-29371269336507005212009-04-10T09:38:00.009+08:002009-04-10T10:04:45.895+08:00

18+by N3kocracksin the pavement,like those in my head -alone, I walk on:followed, turning tofollowing; their tracks(sweat-dew-soaked) dusty.morning seven-thirty:chattering, their voicesfloat: two. happy.I lift my head.endless paradoxes engulfand drown me, torrentsof melancholy :( meant to be)"accepted or rejected?" I still ammyself, alone I walk on:my shadow beside methinks i'm too dull,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-753637751309182122009-03-19T12:33:00.014+08:002009-03-19T12:49:18.626+08:00

THE DAYThere has been a beatingIt is the dayDay sinks into the shadowsLike a wife hiding bruisesTwilight offers a shoulderAnd the alcohol of dissipationNight comesAlive and coiledEverything is bornEverything demands its dueThe sun has turned awayThe moon is beamingThree am coughsOne sip, if you pleaseThe night tips overGives up the ghostThere is a rousingIt is the dayLike nothing seen

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0