que es esto queso2, yellow qwerty wrestle mania, grind it, mortar and armia nettle, barbed rainbow barbie queer, angular tri, un-bi assed faster than mullet train3, accessible to Tokyo took you a boxer, battle a hypnotic tosser, Imaginary home, friends Jodie monster curled, awkwardly terrifying, terryfolds4 antiquely terror manigolds untold aunties, Farquaad5 lardless, heartless gutless, mutt’n slut on, suit off suite here, site there might have fought where bright brave roughed, what hat hath brought fright freight through boroughs?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx(oh wait, we can’t take trains)
1been from a dump, moldering bouldering, unfoldering 2what is this cheese, camer a shutter, butter flies away, winged scale is too heavy to suckle 3buckle up, a safe gun there’s a snake in my chamber of Ryan – the New Year kind when the ball drop, stop and roll 4Rick (read back), a green portal is venomless, vehement Grapflorpian, too much liquor, time to drain the 5gingerbread man!
Written by Garreth Chan. Artwork by Jean-Michel Basquiat, “Self Portrait as a Heel”.
blue flame turned light blue turned orange under half-sphere metal waiting to turn milky texture into crispy shells that my grandmother’s toothless gums cannot could not chew despite how much she wanted to
ladle spooning texture onto hot metal, circling it around the sides in an upstairs, dimly lit second floor, plastic metal chairs and tables, corner behind the glass panel in an Abu Dhabi street I cannot remember in a foreign city turned home
rice flour, coconut milk, yeast mixed and left to rise for my one staple served between semesters when my feet landed on the ground I was born in
aerated bubbles popping on black surface pan creating corridors weaving through streets leading from Madinat Zayed next to luminous pink venus salon in the night because they only serve appa for dinner
sliced onions fried with miris and sugar spotted with chili seeds creating fire within my tummy the spicy seeni sambol wrapped in soft crunchy appa remind my taste buds that they are alive
white tender squishy center radiating into light crisp brownness served on 1st avenue snuggled thinly between fire escapes and basement shops selling South Asian spices
sunny side ups sitting center in bithara appa waiting for crunchy shells to slit through the orange yolk oozing over, coating memories of introducing Sri Lankan food to the habibis and habibtis on warm humid days where the spices hit their tongues into foreignness later where the spices hit their tongues into homeness